Page 42 of The Escape Plan

And that’s when I found myself inexplicably drawn to this room.

I thought I’d explored the building thoroughly—over the past few days, I’ve taken a swim in the pool, had my morning coffee in the courtyard (since I deemed all of the tea I bought at Spring Foods undrinkable, particularly one brand of something called ‘Orange Pekoe Black Tea’ that should have been a criminal offense), and spent an afternoon reading in the rooftop garden that’s bursting with color in full summer bloom. Until this morning, I’d never noticed the room just off the building’s lobby.

It’s an old library or study of some sort, with dark wood paneling on the walls and aged volumes lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves. The furniture is dated, matching the rest of the room, but it’s clean and comfortable. Sunlight streams through the windows, painting shadow patterns all around the comfortable wingback chair I’m sitting in.

I came in here with the intention of rehearsing my cover for the big night, but instead, my own music is flowing once again.

As my fingers move over my guitar, my chest tightens with emotion.

I’m shocked by the physical sensation of it—heavy as it settles over my ribs, but not unpleasant. Just… there.

It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt anything.

And then, I hear the creak of a door closing.

I abruptly stop playing, slamming my hand down on the strings.

“Sorry,” a small voice whispers. I look up to see Keeley standing just inside the doorway, lit by the streaming sunlight. Her black hair glimmers where the sun kisses it, and her eyes are wide as saucers. “I didn’t mean to startle you or interrupt.”

I clear my throat, trying to force away the sensation in my chest as I paste on a cheery smile and set my guitar down. “You’re fine. I was just messing around.”

She blinks. “That wasn’t messing around. That was… incredible. What song was it?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, lifting a shoulder.

Her eyes bug even more. “You’re telling me you wrote that?”

This makes me laugh, and I lean forward in my chair. “‘Wrote’ is a strong word. It’s just a little melody that came to me.”

Keeley shakes her head. “You have that a lot? ‘Little melodies’ just ‘coming’ to you?”

The almost indignant expression on her face makes me want to laugh. “No. Not really, not anymore.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

I tilt my head at her. “For some reason, I didn’t take you for someone who’d be into this kind of acoustic-y stuff.”

“What? Just because I wear a lot of black and have a nose ring, you assume I’m a riot grrrl who should be rocking out to Bikini Kill or something?” she asks, placing her hands on her hips.

“I mean, that’s definitely something I’d like to witness.” I chuckle.

“Careful, McCarthy, you sound like a man who’s treading on very thin ice right now.”

“That sounds exactly like something a riot grrrl who should be rocking out to Bikini Kill would say,” I retort. Then pause. “Whatever on earth a riot grrrl is.”

She laughs. “Not important. Because for your information, I’m more of a country music girlie.”

“Intriguing. Like Dolly Parton and twangy guitars and songs about beer and heartbreak?”

She points at me. “Now who’s stereotyping?”

“Point taken and accepted,” I acquiesce. Because I kind of love the fact she’s into country music. And Dolly is a literal icon… not that I’d admit that to her right now when I’m having so much fun teasing her.

She’s still hovering inside the door, not making any moves to step further into the room, and I find that I don’t want her to go. The melody may have died on my fingertips when I realized her presence, but the air is still taut with that magical feeling, like something could happen at any moment. And while I have no idea what that something could be, I realize I want to find out.

“So, questionable musical tastes aside, how’s your week been so far?” I grin at her. “I haven’t seen you haunting the fire escape at night lately.”

She grins back. “Oh, I’ve been haunting it every night. But I prop my window open to ensure I can get back inside when I’m done.”

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