Overture (North Security, #1)

We’re standing in a room with three hundred chairs and a makeshift stage while we wait for the students to emerge in their caps and gowns. The room is abuzz with proud parents, with boasts of honors and Ivy League colleges.

“The business about the coach from the public school,” he explains. “It’s a shame what happens for the regular kids in this country.”

“A shame,” I echo, keeping my tone bland. “If only there were people in a position to give their time and money to improve them.”

He gives me an uncertain look. “It falls to their parents, of course.”

“Of course.” The working parents of the kids at Kingston High are barely keeping food on the table, much less personally vetting every new hire at the school. And most of them don’t have the money or clout to expose a predator like that, even if they suspect something.

No, I’m well aware that it falls to men like us to protect the children in our communities. My shame comes from how long it took me to understand that.

I needed Samantha to convince me.

My phone buzzes. “Excuse me,” I tell him, stepping away.

Found him, it says from an undisclosed number.

I type in the reply quickly. Alive?

Unfortunately.

Relief fills me. That would be Josh’s sense of humor. He wouldn’t be making jokes if our brother Elijah were seriously injured.

Josh thinks he’s being clever and incisive—and damn him for being right. What he said about the baby bird at the wedding? I’m still thinking about that, when I had almost forgotten. If not forgotten, at least buried deep enough to slowly poison me from the inside. Close enough.

My stomach clenches hard.

On the first day we’d been locked inside, I had run my fingers through the pile on the carpet, into the seams of my pockets, searching for crumbs to feed her.

On the second day I had wrapped the baby bird in an old sweater so it would stay in the corner, safe and unharmed, while I rammed my shoulder into the door again and again, until the wood splintered—but did not break—and my shoulder throbbed.

On the third day I’d simply held her, whispering things about blue skies and a ground full of delicious worms. I told her how soft she was, what a good baby bird, as she grew more and more quiet. Until she finally stilled, falling asleep for the last time.

I have tickets for a box at Samantha’s opening show. At the next one and the next one. Maybe it’s fucked up that I could have followed her whole goddamn tour, but I realize now that I can’t. It would be like trapping her in the closet with me.

She would never survive, and I would have to watch her slowly die.


SAMANTHA

The graduation ceremony at St. Agnes takes twice as long as the one at Kingston High, even though we have a fraction of the number of students. There are speeches by the principal and the counselor. Laney gives a moving speech as the valedictorian, one about loss and the intractability of hope—all the more meaningful because her mother isn’t home for this.

The commencement speech comes from a former senator, who speaks to the small room as if we were gathered on the lawn of Princeton.

The senator’s pale eyes flicker with recognition when my name is called. Samantha Alistair Brooks. Despite the smattering of fan mail I get every week, I’m not really famous outside the music world. I doubt he read the in-depth article in Classical Notes.

He probably knew my father.

Tension knots in my stomach as I climb the short steps.

My gaze crosses the room, past the rows of proud parents in bamboo chairs, to the man in the back. Liam North stands with a sense of resolve, as if facing some dangerous enemy, resolute in the face of death. His eyes have turned dark emerald, unreadable as I cross the stage.

Principal Keller gives me a grim smile and the same murmured praise in Latin that every other student receives. I’m sure he’s glad that I’ll be gone from the school. Doesn’t matter that I graduated in the top one percent. Liam made it clear that I would not perform on behalf of the music department during the interview, which means that despite having a semi-famous student, they could never use me.

At least I didn’t get expelled shortly before graduation.

The senator also greets every student, a practiced political smile on his face. He clasps my hand but doesn’t let go. “Samantha Alistair Brooks. Daughter of the diplomat?”

I don’t like his clammy grip, but I can’t break free. Not without causing a fuss in front of the entire graduating class and their parents. “Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my eyes averted. Don’t hold up the line, I urge him silently, hoping that his sense of propriety won’t prolong the conversation.

“A good man,” he says, keeping hold on me. “A patriot. It was a great loss to the country when he passed away. A heart attack, was it?”

“Yes, sir.” I don’t mention that his death was seen as suspicious at the time. Secret Service conducted an investigation, but nothing was conclusive. Or at least, nothing they told his twelve-year-old daughter.

“Didn’t he have a son, as well?”

I glance back at Liam. He’s taken two steps forward, and I know I only have to give him the signal and he’ll barge onto the stage to remove the senator’s hand from me. A short shake of my head. I can handle this myself. As he pointed out, I’ll be on my own during the tour—and for the years to follow. My chest feels impossibly full at the thought.

Graduation should feel like a time of possibility, a time of hope. It makes me ache that my independence will come at such a steep price, distance from the man who’s my only home.

“We aren’t close,” I say, which is an understatement. I haven’t seen my brother since the last time he fought with my father and left. He’s been in the military, though I suppose I wouldn’t know if he got out. He declined to take custody of me when my father died. And he never reached out to me after that.

“A shame,” the man says, still studying me.

I yank my hand back, the action sudden enough that he lets go of me. There’s a residue of slickness left on my palm from the encounter, and I wipe my hand surreptitiously on my black gown. Perhaps my actions would be rude, but I think the senator was rude to detain me against my will.

There’s another hour before the ceremony ends, during which time I can only play with the edges of the rolled diploma and the heavy satin ribbon that holds it.

When the principal finally calls an end to the proceedings, the parents surge forward in an enthusiastic rush. There are flowers and cards and balloons for the new graduates.

It’s hard to see anything through the crowd of people. When I finally scoot my way to the back of the room, it’s empty. I glance toward the stage, uncertain. Did he push inside the mass toward me? No, because if he had done that, he would have found me.

Which can only mean one thing—he left.

My stomach turns over. There are hundreds of people in the small auditorium, but I’ve never felt so alone. I can see Cody congratulating Laney across the room, but I don’t want to answer questions about why Liam left early. And the last thing I want to do is be caught by the senator for more questions. I step into the hallway, which is abruptly empty, no one slamming lockers or dashing toward their classes.

That part of my life is over now.

I wander down the hallway, wondering if he’s waiting for me by the car. For all I know he already left to go back to the house. It was Cody who dropped me and Laney off this morning. I’m sure he’s willing to drive us back home, but the thought of Liam leaving without me makes my eyes burn.

Something slows my steps in front of the library, an unnatural awareness.

That’s where I find him, amid the dusty shelves and walnut study tables. He stands by the large globe that serves as the library’s centerpiece. It has three ornate iron feet to carry its weight, and two circumferences of wood that hold it in place. The surface of the water is smooth, and I know from memory, cool to the touch—made of stone, ironically. The land rises in uneven terrain, made from dark metal. He studies the staggering mass of North America, hands behind his back.