“You can sleep now, you know,” I tell Henry.

“What?” Bemusement draws his eyebrows together, and he juts his chin out—a familiar movement I’d once mistaken for arrogance, but have come to recognize as only a trick to mask his confusion.

“I mean it—you should get some rest,” I say. “You’re obviously exhausted, and who knows when we’ll be able to sleep at the hotel?” If we can fall asleep at all, I add silently, a bolt of guilt striking through me.

Henry searches my face for a beat, his eyes narrowed. “You’re being too nice,” he says finally. “It’s suspicious.”

“I’m being practical. I need you alert and awake for the job tonight.”

Still, he hesitates. “You’re absolutely certain this is not part of some elaborate scheme to take unflattering photos of me sleeping and blackmail me with them?”

“If I wanted to do that,” I point out, “I could literally just sneak into your bedroom when I’m invisible and snap as many photos of you as I want.”

“That’s very comforting.”

But he does close his eyes, though his head remains propped up in such an uncomfortable position I offer him my shoulder as a pillow. Within only a few minutes, his breathing slows. The muscles in his body relax.

I smile and look up. Streaks of dark, wet pink and glistening blue seep through the sky like spilled watercolor, while floating lanterns rise gently over the horizon like ghosts. A soft breeze drifts over my skin, carrying with it the fragrance of chrysanthemums and fresh-baked pastries from the snack stalls below.

Then there’s Henry.

Henry, whose head is resting against my shoulder, the soft curls of his hair brushing my cheek, his features smooth and unguarded in sleep. And everything about this moment is so lovely and so fragile in its loveliness that I’m almost afraid to hold it. Afraid that the spell will break.

If not for the kidnapping, I think to myself, today might’ve been a perfect day.

15

We reach the hotel by 10:30 p.m.

By 10:48 p.m., I’ve unpacked all my luggage and told Chanel I’ll be going over to Henry’s. She winks at me and makes a not-so-subtle remark about protection. I let her believe what she likes; besides, in the worst-case scenario, at least I’ll have a decent alibi.

By 11:00 p.m., I’ve visited both the twentieth and ninth floor, taking the stairs to double-check for any hidden security cameras and measuring precisely how long it takes to get from one place to the other.

By 11:15 p.m., I’ve sought out Henry’s room, still fully visible, and slipped through the door when no one’s around.

By 11:21 p.m., I’ve officially started panicking.

“Am I invisible yet?” I demand as I pace in front of Henry, even though I know it’s unlikely. I haven’t suffered through that telltale rush of cold yet, and if anything, I feel too hot, my skin burning, the room stuffy and suffocating despite its vast size.

“You are most decidedly not,” Henry says, crossing his legs over the plush bedside sofa, the gesture so casual I want to scream. How does he manage to maintain such calm in a time like this?