Colton Price had a carefully curated routine. It looked like this: It was 6:33. It was morning. It was Wednesday. He stood in the basement of his empty family town house, weight bar in hand, and finished his last set. In the flat silver of the wall mirror, his features were stark and pale. He blinked away swimmers and set the weights neatly on the dumbbell rack, rolling out a kink in his shoulder.
He woke each dawn at 5:30, without need for an alarm, though he set one anyway just to be sure. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he lifted. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he jogged. Down along the Charles. Beneath the sagging boughs of honey locusts fat with fruit. Following his workout, he prepared a shake. After, he showered beneath the rainwater showerhead in the third-story bathroom, water beating down his back, the radio blaring classical music from its place on the marble vanity.
Classical, not rock or country or top forty, because he’d been raised on Handel and Tchaikovsky and because sometimes, when he was very tightly wound, the instrumentals were the only things that eased the tension in his chest. When that was done, he dressed, made his bed—tucking his corners in with the militaristic precision his nanny had demanded of him when he was still small and belligerent—and went downstairs to make eggs. Over easy, paired with whole-grain toast and a glass of orange juice.
He had his routine down to a science, and he did the same thing every morning.
Which was why he knew this particular morning was different.
He didn’t knowhowhe knew, only that he understood, with an uneasy sort of clarity, that something was about to happen. He could sense time slipping out from under him, wobbling slightly, as if it, too, wasn’t sure what to make of the change. The thermostat shut off and the basement went cold, chilling the sweat against his skin. He didn’t glance at his watch. He knew it was 6:37.
He’d always had an uncanny sense of time. When Colton moved between worlds, it felt like he was taking on water. His lungs went full and hard, his body cold. Pins and needles shot through his legs, rendering him useless until he’d pushed to the other side. Counting the seconds. Dreading each infinitesimal tick. Hyperaware of how long he’d gone without breathing.
It was an unfortunate by-product of drowning.
He sank into his hoodie and slapped his hands together once, twice, three times for warmth. His blood was ice in his veins. A lactic acid sting needled his calves. It was 6:38.
Upstairs, the doorbell rang.
Too early for visitors. Something in him threaded tight. Turning out the light, he took the stairs two at a time, rounding into the foyer and prying open the door to admit an unwelcome sight.
Mark Meeker stood on the threshold, sweaty beneath his canvas jacket. Meeker was small and wiry, prone to nervous tics and excessive hand-wringing. The Godbole dropout reminded Colton of a rat, all twitches and whiskers. Generally harmless, but the kind of creature that would happily gorge itself on your remains the instant an opportunity presented itself. Scraping his feet on the welcome mat, Meeker stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.
“Sure,” Colton said flatly, hands in his pockets, “come on in.”
Meeker sniffled in response. “Sky smells funny today.” He tugged at the brim of his newsboy cap. “Like change. D’you smell it?”
“No,” said Colton, though he felt it.
Running a finger under his nose, Meeker said, “Apostle’s got a bone to pick with you.”
Colton braced a shoulder against the wall. “I don’t care.”
Meeker blustered, hands spread wide in an are-you-kidding-me-with-this-shit pose. This was a routine they did. Meeker stammering. Colton dutifully playing the part of a rock, recalcitrant and cold.
“You should care,” Meeker said. “Since he’s got your balls in a vise.”
Again, Colton felt that pull at his core, the feel of the earth slipping out from under him. If Lane were here, he’d ask what she heard, whispering in the corners. As it was, the shadows in the room fell in particularly menacing patterns, made stark by the rising sun, and Lane was somewhere on campus, possibly shoving pins into a poppet with his name on it.
The thought made him frown, and his frown made Meeker wring his hands harder.
The watch at Colton’s wrist beeped—a needless reminder; he knew it was 6:45—and he said, “It’s time for my shake.”
Meeker goggled at him. “What? Right now?”
“Come on.” Colton headed down the hall, socks scuffling marble. “Or don’t. I don’t care either way.”
The kitchen was wide and vaulted, tiled all in black and white. He pulled a sweating carton of milk from the fridge and measured out three cups into the blender. Next came the rest, deposited in careful order: a half scoop of protein powder; frozen strawberries with the tops scooped off; a banana cut into thin, round coins; a spoonful of kale. Meeker procured a rolled manila file from the inside of his coat and flattened it on the counter. Colton eyeballed it sideways.
“What’s this?”
“It’s—” Meeker was drowned out by the sound of the blender whirring to life. The two of them sized each other up across the kitchen as the liquidizer pummeled frozen fruit into fluid. Colton pulled his finger off the button. The sound winnowed out.
“Sorry,” Colton said, not sounding sorry at all.
“It’s Peretti’s autopsy report,” Meeker finished, indignant. “Little homework for you.”
Colton’s phone beeped, signaling the arrival of a text. “Not interested,” he said, ignoring the file in favor of glancing down at his cell.
