“Stick to ground. No commercial air. The satellites are on hair-trigger right now.”
“Anything else?”
Another pause. “Landon’s flagged as secondary. If you ditch him, you might make it out alive. If you don’t…”
“I’m not ditching him.”
“I figured. Brooks says you’re getting soft.”
“Brooks is a sadist who likes watching me sweat.”
She snorts. “He likes watching everyone sweat, even himself.”
I let the silence hang. There’s something else she wants to say, but she’s waiting for me to dig for it.
I oblige. “Why are you calling me, Eve?”
This time, her laugh is softer. Almost sad. “Consider it payment for Westpoint. For not excommunicating me after I killed my dad. Some debts can’t be settled with money.”
I remember that night—her soul covered in blood, the calm in her voice as she called in her own crime. I covered for her, rewrote the file, buried the body deep in the system.
“I thought you’d forgotten,” I say.
“I never forget a debt, cousin. You should know that.”
Despite the fact her father didn’t raise her, and favored Vivienne, her half-sister, Eve was more of a Harrington than either of them ever were.
She drops the act. “Don’t waste your time with hope. Six months is a death sentence or a gift, depending on how you play it. They’ll come, eventually. They always do.”
I stare at the wall, at the thin silver crack running down the paint. “Thanks for the call.”
“Don’t thank me. Survive. Call me if you need help. Colt and I will figure something out.”
She hangs up.
I stand in the dark, the weight of the phone an anchor in my hand.
Six months. Maybe seven.
That’s more time than anyone ever gave me.
I slide the phone back into its hiding place, then sit on the cold tile until the pins and needles in my legs go away.
When I come out, Landon is still on the couch, a book open in his hands. He doesn’t look up. “You get the boiler sorted?”
I nod. “Just a loose wire.”
He hums, then sets the book down. “Food’s gonna burn if you don’t get back to it.”
I return to the kitchen, finish up the plates, and bring them to the living room. He sits cross-legged on the couch, takes the plate, and digs in without waiting for me to sit.
We eat in comfortable silence. After a while, he glances up, catches my eye.
“Are you okay?”
I want to lie, but he’s too good at reading me now.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just a weird day.”
