***
JAMES BISHOP HADLEY sits in the driver's seat of his car, hands and forehead on the wheel.
He feels despondent. He feels stupid. He feels like in the one minute he's been sitting in his garage his soul has been sucked dry of all energy and hope. He feels overdramatic.
He bangs his forehead on the wheel. The car lets out a honk that startles some birds outside.
"Stupid," he says out loud. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
Because he's forgotten his phone at the diner—probably on the table—and he can only hope that one of them notices and doesn't leave it because, hey, it's his fucking phone and hey, he fucking needs it and hey, it's fucking expensive and hey, if someone just takes it for themselves—
Stop being dramatic, he thinks. Stop whining.
He gets out of the car. If he's lucky, one of them will notice. Gregory, most probably. He's the best at these sort of things. The only question is whether Gregory will drive all the way to Hadley's house or if he'll just hold onto Hadley's phone until he returns.
The day just keeps getting better and better. First his shirt. Now his phone. What next?
Hadley hears a piano note. Faint, barely there, but there nonetheless.
It's Philippa. She's the only one at home who plays the piano for fun on a Saturday. And if she's home, maybe Hadley can use her phone to call his phone and he'll talk to Gregory who (probably) has his phone and everything will be fine. He can change clothes while he's at it, with a pristine new shirt that doesn't stink of Hershey's chocolate syrup.
He takes the shorter and scenic route, through the garden. It's a wonderful garden where half of it is in perfect condition with pretty little flower beds and grass shooting through the spaces in between the pathway, and where the other half is all vines and creepers climbing up the walls of the house and overgrown hedges that look slightly terrifying. When Hadley was younger, he'd spend hours and hours in the garden, chasing after imaginary friends and getting tangled in the bushes, getting his knees scraped and his clothes torn and the mansion loomed right in front of him, like something straight out of a gothic novel.
Maybe staying back here won't be so bad. He's too big to get lost in the hedges now, but it's quiet and peaceful. He could just sit here, near the stone fountain, read a book and drink something prepared for him by Marzia while Philippa plays the piano.
And that's when Hadley sees him.
A boy with a pair of binoculars to his face, peering up at the sky until Hadley realizes it isn't the sky he's looking at, but at an open window from where piano notes float out into the garden, where Philippa plays away at her instrument, unaware that someone is gazing at her through the lens of a binoculars.
Hadley stands there, unmoving. The boy hasn't noticed him. A large part of Hadley's mind has stopped working, unable to process the situation in front of him. Here's a voyeur peeping on his sister and here he is, unsure of whether to use his words or his fists. Should he tell the boy "No Trespassing" or should he convey his point through the subtle use of a punch to the throat?
Hadley doesn't have enough time to choose because the boy turns his head to look at him.
"Oh, jeez," says the boy. His tone is bordering on the edge of blasé. "What happened to your shirt?"
Hadley refuses to glance down. "Milkshake. What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Spying on your sister." The boy smiles, his round lips stretching into a fine line.
