She turns, taking in the state of the room and the desperation on all our faces before her back straightens and she declares, “Tell me what you need me to do.”
Chapter32
Too Late
IRIS
“C-covington.”
My voice cracks as I stumble backward, tripping over the edge of the rug.
I exaggerate the movement, calling his attention to my feet as I quickly pocket the phone.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I wanted to see you,” he says. As if finding him hiding in the shadows of my apartment is a completely normal occurrence. “It’s remarkably difficult to catch you alone these days, and you never answer my calls.”
He runs a hand through his lily-white hair, tugging at the roots as he smiles.
It looks darker than usual, slick with grease as if he hasn’t showered in days, which the smell rolling off of him all but confirms.
“I was starting to run out of ideas,” he whispers.
I don’t back away as he hovers in front of me. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed, starkly inset in his narrow face, and I get the sense he is expecting me to flee. Maybe even hoping for it.
I would, if I had anywhere to go. But unless I manifest the gift of flight in the next thirty seconds, Covington is standing between me and the only exit.
“I tried everything,” he says. “But he just wouldn’t quit.”
He laughs, but it comes out choppy, like he doesn’t find it funny at all.
“Who? Elliot?” I ask.
“Don’t!” Covington shouts, forming a fist in front of my face. “Don’t say his name.”
His knuckles pale, and his hand clenches as I nod, silent in the face of his rage.
I’ve seen this before, the kind of entitlement that makes men angry. I know better than to antagonize him.
“Gods!” Covington curses. “He’s so persistent. As if he needs you. But I know how to fix it now.”
The room plunges into darkness, leaving me blindly stumbling around the living room until I can no longer feel the plush carpet beneath my feet, and the smell of wet grass and mud clouds around me.
“Covington!” I shout, arms flailing as I try to find my way.
The sound of crunching leaves floats up from underfoot, and I bend, planting my hand to the ground and finding only dirt.
“Covington! What is this? Where are we?”
I blink rapidly, as if it will somehow bring me sight. But the darkness enveloping me is no ordinary darkness.
It feels thick and slimy, like oil on my skin, clinging to me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was moving.
“Back where it all started,” he says, voice coming from inches in front of me.
I scramble back a step, tripping over a rock, but Covington’s voice only follows.
“I figured we deserved a do-over,” he says, this time from just over my shoulder. “Since Grey ruined my plans the first time.”
