She sniffles and doesn’t say it back. Doesn’t look at me, either, as I turn and walk to the door.
Rick’s voice follows me out. “Hey, Eliana! Lemme know what you think about doing some reno work around here, yeah? I got some great ideas!”
I give him a weak nod and thumbs up. Then I pull the door closed behind me.
I’m halfway down the block, waddling in my many layers toward the bus station, when I see it again: the black sedan with the blacked-out windows, parked half a block down. Same one from outside Dr. Haggerty’s office, I’m almost certain.
But again, I tell myself I’m being stupid. It’s a city of three million people—there are probably hundreds of black sedans with tinted windows. I’m just paranoid. It’s been a nightmarish day and my brain is manufacturing threats that don’t exist.
I shake my head and keep walking. By the time the bus arrives, the sedan is gone. If it was ever really there to begin with.
I climb aboard, collapse into a seat near the back, and close my eyes, trying not to think about anything at all.
I keep up that same meditative-slash-vegetative state when I get home. I make a measly dinner of cucumber and hummus with a side of grapes. I eat in silence. Then I shower, brush my teeth, brush my hair, put on pajamas. After a beat of hesitation, I shrug Bastian’s pullover on top of my sleep shirt.
I burrow under the covers and fall asleep almost instantly. No dreams come—just deep, heavy nothingness.
I welcome it gratefully.
The pounding yanks me back to consciousness.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Someone’s hammering on my door like they’re trying to break it down.
I pitch out of bed, brain still foggy, and shuffle toward the noise. The clock on the microwave reads 3:48 A.M.
Who the hell…?
I rise up on tip-toes and look through the peephole. I see a distorted fish-eye view of whichever wannabe SWAT guy is putting his fist through my door.
When I realize who it is, I unlock the deadbolt and yank the door open. “What the fuck?”
Bastian’s eyes drop to the pullover I’m wearing—hispullover—then snap back to my face. “We need to talk.”
30
ELIANA
baked alas·ka: /bakt ?'lask?/: noun
1: a dessert of ice cream and cake covered in meringue, then briefly torched.
2: a study in contrasts; a.k.a., when you end up in the back of your boss’s Range Rover with his hand down your pants while Lake Michigan freezes your ass off but his touch sets you on fire, proving that the best moments in life make no logical sense whatsoever.
“You need to install a clock in your coffin,” I inform him acidly.
“I—” Bastian frowns. “Wait, what?”
I shake my head. I’ve got creases from my pillows lining half my face, my hair is a bedraggled mess, and I am unwilling to open my eyes more than a quarter of the way.
But compared to Bastian, I’m ready for my debutante ball. He’s way more worn-looking than I am. His hair is standing on end, like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly for hours.His shirt cuffs are messily rolled up, and the hollows beneath his eyes are dark and gaunt.
“A clock,” I explain. “In your coffin. To tell the time. Because it’s three-fucking-forty-fucking-eight in the motherfucking morning, Bastian. People tend to sleep at this hour!”
He just stares at me.
There’s no way he’s not hearing my volume, and I’m pretty sure he’s familiar with all the words I just used. His attention, however, seems directed a bit south of my mouth.
