The stench of death was in everything he owned.
“Go away,” he said crossly. “I’m taking care of it.”
That terrible dark smiled a terrible smile. When it spoke, its voice was full of cold, slithering things. “It’s you and it’s me,” it said. “It’s me and it’s you.”
“You keep saying that,” the Apostle said, “but I’m the only one doing all the work.”
“All is as you wanted,” sang the dark, which couldn’t be, he thought, further from the truth. Nothing was as he wanted. That was precisely the problem. Something thumped across the far side of the room. It sounded heavy. He briefly considered turning on the lights and then thought better of it. It was far worse, he’d learned, to look upon that terrible face. To see it bashed in and broken. To see it laughing at him.
“The boy will follow where she goes,” crooned the dark, dragging itself close. “He will follow her and follow her. And then,” it said, all packed with glee, “and then, my dear, my darling, my Dickie, she will be your undoing.”
The first time Liam let Colton tag along to a scrimmage, he’d been six years old. Too small to participate, he’d been happy enough to warm the bench and watch his brother play. Beside him sat the silver stereo Liam had carried with them from home. An old mixtape of their father’s played through the oval speakers. Cupping a hot cocoa between mittened hands, he’d done his best to play DJ for Liam and his band of friends.
“We need something epic,” Liam had shouted over at him, his breath turning to crystals. The day was gray and wet. The snow blew in sideways in flurries that landed like rain. On the ice, the blue of Liam’s ski jacket turned black with slush. “Something we can win to. An anthem.”
At six years old, Colton hadn’t known what an anthem was, but he knew epic when he heard it. Their father’s tape was full of songs from the ’80s—heavy metal hits and hard rock ballads that made the whole bench shake. He stopped when he reached the opening notes of a clean guitar riff. There was something sinister in the sound. Something thrilling. The percussion of tom-tom drums beat in his chest. Sank into him like claws. On the ice, Liam’s head picked up, and he flashed Colton a thumbs-up, stick in the air.
“That’s it, C.J.! Leave it there!”
***
Whitehall’s office was dark, lit only by the green glass shell of the banker’s lamp. It threw the shadows into stark relief along the broad oak paneling, casting Colton and his open laptop in a sphere of yellow. His phone sat faceup on the desk, his earbuds in a tangle where he’d discarded them. The opening riff of a guitar solo echoed tinnily through the speakers. An E-minor chord, branded into his subconscious.
Say your prayers, little one, don’t forget, my son.
He switched off his phone. Silence strung through the space. It felt spindled and cold. It left him uneasy. He glanced down at his watch to see only two minutes had passed since he’d checked it last. Two minutes, where it felt like ten. He didn’t like when time dragged this way. When it slowed to a near still. It felt like being stuck inside a dream where his legs were made of lead. Unable to run. Unable to swim. Dark closing in. His mouth full of water.
When he looked up, a figure filled the doorway.
“It’s creepy that you prefer sitting in the dark like this, you know.” Eric Hayes didn’t bother with a hello as he pushed into the office, flicking the overhead light on as the door clicked shut behind him. Instantly, the little space was flooded with a too-bright light. Colton fought the urge to shield his eyes. Their muddled reflections swam into the mirror dark of the great bay window, their outlines malformed. “Have you heard from the Apostle?”
“Unfortunately.” Colton shut his laptop. “Have you?”
“Not since Guzman turned up dead. I don’t like it. What are we listening to?” He scooped up Colton’s earbuds and stuffed one in his ear. “Sick, Metallica? I didn’t peg you as a metal fan.”
“I’m not,” Colton said. It wasn’t a lie.
Hayes fixed him in a look. Colton ignored it and returned his attention to the laptop, scrolling through the discussion board for the previous night’s assignment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes pluck the earbud from his ear and spin it round between his thumb and forefinger. He could sense him chewing on his next words, preparing to spit them out.
“Look,” he said, tapping the earbud against the desk, “my kid sister’s big into musicals. Not my scene, but she eats it up. She’s been a theater and dance kid her whole life.”
“And this applies to me, because,” Colton said, without looking up from his computer.
“I’m just saying. If she ever died, I don’t think I could stomach it—listening to her show tunes day in and day out.”
Colton fell quiet. His finger hovered over the touchpad of his laptop. Taking his silence as invitation, Hayes dragged out a chair and dropped into it, legs sprawled. “You’re more tormented than usual today. It’s bumming me out.”
Colton shut his computer and leaned back far enough to creak the springs of Whitehall’s chair. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
Hayes’s jaw tightened. “Can’t a guy want to hang out?”
Colton’s only response was an unwavering stare. Hayes relented with a groan. “Fine. I went for a run after classes yesterday. When I hit the wooded trails out back, I saw the lights on at the Sanctum and I thought I’d swing by and check it out.”
“And?” Colton sat perfectly still. “What did you find?”
Hayes kneaded his knuckles until they cracked. “Pretty sure I saw your girl kicking it with Nate Schiller.”
On the shelf behind Colton, the heavy bracket clock counted down the seconds. The epochaltick,tick,tickof it made him want to crawl out of his skin. “That’s not possible.”
