Chapter 1: The Boy on the Corner
Every morning since September, I had split my lunch with Milo on the corner bench.
I never asked why he lived there.
I never asked where his parents were.
And, for a while, I thought that was what made our friendship safe.
The bench sat outside a closed bookstore on Franklin Avenue, beneath a crooked maple tree that dropped yellow leaves onto the sidewalk. Milo always arrived before me, usually wrapped in the same oversized gray hoodie, his sneakers soaked through when it rained.
He was maybe thirteen.
Fourteen at most.
The first day I saw him, he was staring at a sandwich through the glass of the deli window.
I had walked past him three times before I finally stopped.
“Are you hungry?”” I asked.
Milo looked at me like I had asked him something complicated.
“Depends,” he said.
“On what?””
“Whether you're about to tell me I should get a job.””
I laughed despite myself.
“You're a kid.””
“So?””
“So kids are supposed to eat.””
I bought two turkey sandwiches.
He ate his so quickly that I pretended not to notice.
After that, we developed a routine.
Every morning, I left my private school and walked three blocks to the corner. Milo would be waiting.
Sometimes I brought sandwiches.
Sometimes fruit.
Once, I brought hot chocolate because the temperature had dropped below freezing.
He had looked at the cup for almost a full minute before taking it.
“You're going to make me spoiled,” he said.
“You already have expensive taste?””
“No.”” He took a careful sip.
“I'm just not used to people being nice for free.””
That sentence stayed with me.
My mother, Eleanor Hayes, owned half the buildings people walked past on their way to work. At least, that's what I had heard from other people.
She never talked about money at home.
She didn't have to.
Our penthouse had a private elevator, a housekeeper, two drivers, and a kitchen bigger than my entire freshman-year apartment. My closet had clothes I'd forgotten buying.
But my mother was always busy.
Breakfast meetings.
Charity galas.
Business dinners.
Private flights.
She could spend thousands of dollars on a handbag without blinking, but she rarely sat down long enough to ask me how school was.
So Milo became the person I talked to instead.
On a gray Thursday morning, I handed him half my sandwich.
“Your history test?”” he asked.
“I failed.””
“You're lying.””
“I got a seventy-two.””
He shook his head.
“That's not failing.””
“It is in my mother's house.””
Milo smiled.
“What would you do if you got a seventy-two?””
“Celebrate.””
“With what?””
He pointed at my sandwich.
“This.””
I rolled my eyes.
“You're impossible.””
He took another bite.
Then his expression changed.
He looked past me toward the street.
“Kate,” he said quietly.
“What?””
“Who's that?””
I turned.
A black luxury sedan had pulled up directly beside the curb.
My stomach tightened.
I knew that car.
The rear door opened.
My mother stepped out.
She wasn't dressed for one of her casual business lunches. She wore a cream coat, black gloves, and an expression I had never seen directed at me before.
Pure fury.
She crossed the sidewalk in sharp, deliberate steps.
“Kate,” she said.
I stood.
“Mom?””
Her eyes snapped toward Milo.
For one second, she froze.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Terrified.
Then she grabbed my wrist.
“Step away from him immediately.””
I pulled my arm back.
“What?””
“You heard me.””
“He's my friend.””
“He is not your friend.””
Milo slowly stood.
My mother stared at him.
The color drained from her face.
“Mom, what's wrong?””
She didn't answer me.
Instead, she whispered, “Where did you get that?””
Milo looked down at the silver necklace around his neck.
“What?””
“The necklace.””
His fingers closed around it.
“This?””
My mother took one step backward.
Milo's face suddenly went pale.
He stared at her.
Really stared.
His lips parted.
“Mom?””
The word barely made a sound.
But I heard it.
My mother heard it.
And the driver heard it.
Nobody moved.
Then my mother turned sharply toward the driver.
“Get the girl in the car,” she hissed.
“Before someone sees us.””
I stared at her.
“Mom…”
She looked at Milo again.
And this time, I saw something that scared me more than anger.
Recognition.
She knew him.
She had always known him.
And somehow, Milo knew her too.
Before I could ask another question, a man stepped out of the driver's seat and reached for my arm.
I jerked away.
“Don't touch me!””
Milo suddenly shouted, “Kate, don't get in that car!””
My mother spun around.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Milo, you shouldn't have come back.””
May you like
And then Milo said something that made my entire world tilt.
“You're the one who left me.””
