Cecelia Ahern - Perfect

“You knew about Art becoming a Whistleblower, didn’t you?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, concentrates on the winding road inclining up the steep hill.

“I thought you knew,” he explains. “It’s been in the news.”

My granddad must have known and kept it from me.

“When we were in bed,” he continues, “and I mentioned him, I thought that you knew he was a Whistleblower. But then you defended him. I realized you had no idea.”

And I’d accused Carrick of sleeping with me to get to Art. Why can’t anybody trust anybody? I sigh.

“Sorry if I should have told you then,” he says gently. “I’d timed mentioning him so badly in the first place, I didn’t want to do any more damage.”

“It’s okay. I’m not angry.” I pause. “Actually I don’t think I’ve ever felt more angry, but I’m not angry with you .”

Now that I’ve opened the doors, the anger suddenly pulsates through me. The image of Art wearing the Whistleblower uniform makes me feel ill. It was never a career Art would have pursued; he wanted to study science. A job in the labs of the very facility he just raided would have been his dream. Becoming some eccentric scientist with his big mop of hair, he who would try to find a cure for the cancer that took his mom away. We had a plan. A very specific, much-talked-about plan. Humming University for his science degree and my mathematics degree. Art and I were supposed to be together. But instead, I’m Flawed and he’s a Whistleblower. The hunted and the hunter.

His decision to become a Whistleblower is personal. It’s a slap in the face, a kick in the stomach; it’s telling me that he supports his dad, that he agrees with the Guild’s decision. It’s him saying, I believe that you’re Flawed, Celestine. Flawed to the backbone, just like my dad believes. I support the pain he put you through, you deserve everything you got. And when I find you … What then? What’s he going to do to me?

Carrick is looking at me anxiously.

But as angry as I feel, I just can’t suddenly hate the person I once cared for so much. I can’t switch it off that quickly. I’m not a robot; I want to try to understand. What is Art thinking? Why is he doing this?

“Maybe he’s pretending,” I say suddenly. “Maybe he became a Whistleblower to help me.”

“How would he do that?” Carrick’s voice is flat.

“I don’t know.” I rack my brain. “Maybe he’s just using it as a way to find me. Maybe he’s like Marcus and Kate, one of the good guys.”

As soon as I say it, I believe it. I sit up in my seat, full of hope. I look at Carrick, though, and his soldier face is back. He’s angry, closed off.

Juniper and I got mood rings as gifts one year from our parents. They worked through the measurement of your temperature. If you were hot, they were red; if you were cold, they turned purple or blue. When they were sitting on our bedside tables at night, they were black. Carrick’s eyes remind me of those mood rings. I’ve spent so long trying to figure out what color they are, and now I know why. Their color seems to represent whatever mood he’s in, which is why they appeared black when we were in the Highland Castle cells, why they were hazel with green speckles when we slept together, and now … well, now he won’t even look at me.

He pulls the car over, stops it right on a dangerous curve, as if he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Anyone coming around the corner won’t have enough time to see us, will hit us. He gives me a fright. He looks at me angrily, dark brown eyes now, no green, no light.

“You’re deluding yourself if you think he’s pretending. Today we watched him take Evelyn away from her mother. Your granddad is still sitting in a cell in Highland Castle; don’t you think Art knows someone who could pull a few strings? He was part of a team that was searching for you in a state-sponsored facility. You want him to rescue you, Celestine? Is that what it is?”

“No!” I snap.

“Because I’m right here, actually putting my life on the line, helping you.”

“So am I!” I yell back.

He glares at me, anger steaming from him, and I match his stare, feeling the heat rising inside me and burning. He looks like he’s going to say something else, but he thinks better of it, pulls the car off the curve, and continues to drive up the mountain. We don’t say a word to each other for the remaining forty-five minutes. In fact my neck gets sore just from looking out my window, away from him.

I’m fuming. It takes a long time for the rage to slowly simmer, and when it does, it’s not him that the anger is directed at—it’s myself. Because I know he’s right. Art isn’t trying to help me. If he was trying to he would have by now.

PART TWO

THIRTY-FOUR

THE ENTRANCE TO Raphael Angelo’s house is a good five-minute drive from the front gate. With an engraved wooden plaque announcing it as THE GRAVEYARD, my hopes aren’t exactly high. The house suddenly comes into view. It’s an enormous wood cabin with large panes of glass that reflect the forest behind us. It’s almost as if the few bricks we can see are a mirage, floating in the center of the forest, as though the house is trying to camouflage itself. I get out of the car and stretch my legs, feeling anxious. I don’t know what to say; I need help, but after the argument with Carrick, I can’t ask.

“So who’s going to talk?” I ask quietly. “We need to make a plan.”

“Bit late for that now,” he snaps, avoiding my gaze. He walks straight to the door and presses the doorbell. Stubborn as anything. I rush to catch up and the door opens before I get there.

The man who answers is a little over four feet tall.

He looks from me to Carrick and back to me again. “Well, my life just got interesting. Come in.”

He opens the door wider and leads the way farther into his house.

We walk through a large entry with a wooden staircase to an open-plan kitchen with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a rambling garden and the forest beyond. The interiors—walls, floors—are timber, all of varying types, colors, and grains. The cabin is light and bright, modern and classy. It is also manic. Everywhere I look I see children. From teenagers all the way down to a baby in a high chair, some with dwarfism, some not. They scatter when we walk in and gather at a long timber table beside more floor-to-ceiling tinted windows. They’re covered in paint.

“Ash, I told you not to eat the paint,” Raphael says. “Aspen, share the brushes with Elm. Hazel, the paint water is not for drinking. Little Myrtle is working on a masterpiece.” To us, “Myrtle makes everything look brown. I think it’s a skill.”

I look to the wall he’s pointing at, a section for each child. Ash, Aspen, Elm, Hazel, Cedar, and Myrtle. Myrtle’s are entirely brown.

“They’re all named after trees,” I say.

“Ding!” He makes the sound of a game show bell.

A woman laughs and makes her way past us and to the table to restore order.

“This is my wife, Susan. She is a saint.” She bends down to give him a long kiss as she passes. “A genius and the reason for my success. Susan, kids, this is Celestine and Carrick. Say hi.”

“Hi,” they say in unison.

Carrick and I glance at each other, noting he knows both our names.

Susan grins and waves us off.

We follow Raphael. Carrick’s eyes are more green than brown now, his innocence shining through as he studies the place with curiosity. We enter a room with a desk, and we both look around in awe. It’s no regular home office. Everything has been built for Raphael’s height, apart from the couch for us. Raphael sits in his chair; we sit on a couch opposite him.