“Maybe you know this then. Why is there no record of anyone named Harvey Sellers anywhere? No personnel files, no bank accounts, no driver’s licenses, no addresses, no credit reports, nothing. It’s almost…as if he does not exist.” He speaks in a steady, measured tone—the way a chess player moves the pawns before playing the queen.

“In fact, Elisa, the dearth of information on Harvey Sellers is even more absolute than information about you. Then I remembered you said that CIS keeps immigration records sealed. So I became suspicious, Elisa. Very suspicious.”

He lowers his head and his eyes come level with mine. Moth and flame. I can’t even blink. When I don’t say anything, he goes on.

“But then last night, I found my clue in the most unexpected place.” He pauses again, and I sense he just played his queen. My breathing grows shallow and I think wildly of a hummingbird with broken wings. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

I shake my head.

“Don’t you? Well, let me see if I can help you. I remembered what Kasia Moss told me the very first time I laid eyes on you. Do you remember?”

“I remember seeing you.” I say the only truthful thing I have spoken for a while.

If he heard the softness of my voice, he shows no sign. “Kasia Moss said that the artist uses only black, white and gray in his paintings. Is that ringing any bells?”

I nod.

“Imagine my surprise when I saw those very same colors staining the T-shirt of your tango partner, Javier Solis, last night.”

Checkmate! Javier’s paint stains—I never thought they would be the telltale clues.

“Can you explain the coincidence, Elisa?”

“No, I cannot.” I speak the truth because I really can’t explain. It is not my secret to tell.

He nods as if he already anticipated my answer. “Why is it that a woman with a four-point-oh GPA, who has invented a highly complex protein, and who has an IQ score of one-sixty, is unable to connect these dots?”

“How do you know my IQ score?”

“Arthur Denton gushed about you. Impressive, indeed. It explains your invention, your GPA, your ability to calculate dichotomous keys on the spot and your contribution at age sixteen to a paper called ‘The Hunger Genome’ authored by Peter Andrew Snow for the Cambridge University Press.”

At the sound of my father’s name, I gain some strength. “You take a lot of liberties with other people’s privacy, Mr. Hale, yet you seem to guard yours so closely. I’m sure you have your reasons. I’m really curious about them but I won’t probe. Maybe you should afford the same courtesy to others?” My voice is strong but my stomach is churning. Beads of sweats tickle my spine.

The change in his face is drastic. It goes from cautious to impassive in a nanosecond. He regards me intently, but the tension in his eyes slackens a little.

“His privacy, I can allow. But not yours. I have every intention of learning everything about you, Elisa.” He says my name very softly.

Under his gaze, I change. It’s not just the flash of heat and the flexing thighs. It’s something warm that pulsates between my lungs, perhaps a new organ that comes to life only in response to the likes of Mr. Hale.

For the first time this evening, I allow myself to look below his neck at all his finery—cashmere navy sweater, expensive dark jeans—money and power screaming from every inch. Instinctively, my eyes flit to my sneakers. How many hours do they have left in them? I shiver when I think of what he would say if my toe finally broke through the worn fabric. Next to him, I look like Cinderella at midnight but with no glass slipper left behind for him to find me. As if we weren’t already two worlds and thirty-one days apart. I risk a peek at him and see that same tender face as he regards my sneakers too.

He looks like he is about to say something but right then, the door of my apartment building opens and Reagan barges toward us, scarlet fascinator askew.

“Isa!” she roars. “Where the hell have you been?”

Before I can begin to explain, she’s off. “I’ve been worried sick. Your note said you’d be back forty-five minutes ago. No phone calls! No car! No money! What if they came—” She stops abruptly when she finally notices my Mr. Hale. I peek at him. He is watching her carefully, his eyebrows knitted. I try to act as if nothing happened.

“Reg, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll explain when we get in.” I beg her with my eyes to stop. She nods and smiles at him.

“What’s up, Hale?” she throws at him. He looks like he has never been greeted with the words what’s up before. He nods once, which apparently means “fine, how are you?” and turns to me.

“How soon are you available for your first session in my home?” His voice is warm but firm, as if he wants to leave no doubt that the painting is definitely happening.

“Tomorrow.” Ugh, I sound like I swallowed helium.

“You don’t have plans to celebrate your graduation?” His voice softens.

These are my plans to celebrate. “I did that last night.”

He frowns as though recalling something unpleasant. “Are you sure? It’s a big achievement in life,” he persists.

“The Solises are throwing me a party next weekend,” I answer, hoping to get him off this subject. And also wondering if it would be weird to invite him.

He nods as if pleased with my answer. “Then, I’ll meet you in front of the Reed Library right after your graduation ceremony.”

Uh-oh. That might throw a wrench in my plans. “Umm, Mr. Hale, could you give me about half an hour after that? And you don’t have to pick me up. I can come to you.”

He shakes his head. “I said I’m picking you up. But you can have your half hour. I will meet you here at one thirty.” He sounds like an army general. If I weren’t so depleted from our conversation, it would be funny.

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

Suddenly, I realize I’m out of things to say and he is about to leave. I’m not sure what we accomplished here today, but I have the feeling that we just got a little closer. And despite all my wishes to stop time, tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

“Well, now that that’s all sorted out, you, inside with me.” Reagan has had it. “Your Cornish clotted cream is waiting and Colin Firth is not getting any younger.”

Hale watches her with a raised eyebrow. She grips my hand and hauls me away.

“Good night, Mr. Hale.” I smile at him over my shoulder, wondering why Colin Firth no longer looks handsome to me.

“Oh, Elisa?” he calls as we reach the steps.

I turn, too eager, and my breath catches in my throat. His otherworldly face—now free of anger or tension or accusations—has gentled with a glow from his eyes.

“Yes?” I breathe. Or maybe I sigh.

“Next time, please don’t write down your address on materials you give to strangers. It’s not very safe.”

He wants me safe, like he said yesterday. My heart picks up a frantic rhythm. As though he can hear it, his lips lift into my favorite dimpled smile. I barely nod; I’m staring at his face, trying to commit every pore to memory.

Chapter Fourteen

Valedictorian

After watching the full BBC series of Pride and Prejudice, I finally go to bed. Even though I should be exhausted, I’m so wired thinking of tomorrow that I start on the periodic table, this time in Spanish. Reagan grilled me through dinner and it took one hour to calm Javier down over the phone. Apparently, Benson will pick him up at the gallery two hours after Hale picks me up here. I wonder why he staggered our appointments, and my stomach does backflips.

For the first time, I experiment with whispering his name out loud. Aiden. Aiden. Aiden. It’s getting easier to say it. Easier to let him in. When I finally fall sleep, his name echoes in my head.