Eileen had taken several photos of Clare in typical poses, a variety of smiles, but the one they both thought was the best, and the one Clare submitted to the yearbook, was one Eileen had captured when Clare wasn’t paying attention. Clare was in profile, staring up at Prometheus, her hand resting gently on the one part of the statue she could reach, the ball of flames. Her face was relaxed, curious, and much more natural than any of the poses. But the coolest part had been how their reflections, Prometheus’s and Clare’s, had been captured in the library’s half circle of windows behind them, reflecting their image from every angle that the photo did not.

“I think that is the best picture I have ever taken of anyone or anything,” Eileen had said after they got the prints back from the One-Hour Photo.

“The best one yet, anyway,” Clare had said, staring down at the picture of herself in her hands. She felt almost the same way looking at the picture as she did looking at the art itself. It was beautiful, yes, but there was something more to it, a deeper meaning, and even though she was part of the art’s subject, being the art didn’t give her any instant insight. “Thank you,” she had said to Eileen.

In her personal opinion, it was much more special than standing on a bridge in a town you didn’t even grow up in.

Clare placed her hand on Adam’s doorknob and took a breath, preparing to humble herself before him and apologize. When she heard his voice, low and muffled on the other side of the door, she paused, then leaned in closer and strained to hear better through the hollow core wooden door.

He was on the phone—and he was obviously trying to be quiet.

She stood there, her heart beating hard, adrenaline leaking into her bloodstream as her mind raced. Something was going on. She could feel it—her body knew, even if her brain couldn’t formulate a logical reason for the storm of panic brewing in her chest. She should open the door, walk in, see how he reacted—but her body wouldn’t move. What would she say if he looked even a little bit guilty? Guilty of what? she wondered. Speaking with someone privately on the phone? Yes…but why? And more importantly, who? Who would Adam have called right now, because she hadn’t heard the kitchen phone ring, so he was the one who made the call from the extension in his room.

Clare took a breath and opened the door.