At a friend’s birthday!She shouted above the din.
Have you heard the news about the book?He’d asked, the dread settling in.
What book?
Someone is releasing an unauthorized tell-all book about me. Rumors say it’s you. I figured I should check in.
Me?His mother had laughed, and in it, Winter could hear the origins of his own voice—warm, melodic.Why would I write a tell-all about you?
Remember that interview, Mom? The one you thought was “off the record.”
Oh, that.He could almost see her waving her hand flippantly.Am I not allowed to talk about you?
That interview had dogged Winter for months—based on the answers his mother had given, reporters were suddenly digging for more about his private life growing up, about Artie’s death, about his absent father, about his struggles with depression.
Did anyone approach you with a book deal?Winter pressed.Did you agree to anything? Sign anything, maybe without reading it?
Of course not,his mother had scoffed.
Winter didn’t believe her, not entirely—ever since Artie’s death, she’d had a tendency to absentmindedly agree to things and then promptly forget about them. It went hand in hand with her habit of constantly mixing up memories of him and his brother—who liked what, who went to what school in which year, who lived where—just as she constantly forgot her keys, her wallet, her money.
Winter had gotten used to her state after his brother’s death. But with the book news, he felt the tension between them come roaring back.
Ma,he said over the phone.You promise you didn’t do the deal?
I have to go, Winter,she called back, and it was clear that she hadn’t heard him.We’ll talk later!
Then she’d hung up.
Winter had spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, trying to guess whether his mother had just forgotten, or whether she had nothing to do with the book at all. Those restless thoughts quickly bled into dreams of being a small child in his old home, trying to hide from the horrible stench of cigar smoke. A foul smell that only meant one thing: his father was visiting. He’d woken up disoriented and bleary-eyed, head pounding, with the phantom odor of cigar smoke still stinging his nose.
An attendant opened the car door for Winter and he stepped out,rubbing his temples. He hurried in through a door held open for him by another attendant dressed all in black.
The second attendant gave him a respectful nod as he passed by. “Welcome, Mr. Young,” he said as he closed the glass door behind them. “Ms. Cossette is already waiting for you. Please follow me.”
Last time, Winter had arrived on a warm day into the sun-dappled dome of the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant, the crystal chandelier dominating the ceiling casting a million sparks of light against the walls. Today, that interior looked different with the dark skies overhead, the chandelier dull and unlit, the grayness permeating the space and turning the pastoral European scenes painted on the round walls ominous.
He followed the associate, noting the restaurant’s name etched into the stone columns.
FOOD FOR THE GODS
There, at the end of the hallway, right in front of the security check, was Sydney, her blond bob messy with waves, dressed in her usual black bomber jacket and a pair of black and gray striped trousers.
“On time, for once,” she said archly before waving for security to let him through.
“I’m always on time,” he replied. “Everyone else is just early.”
She didn’t answer, nor did she give him a second glance as they walked.
Now that he had a chance to steal looks at her without her staring back, Winter noticed that therewerea few things different about her compared to when they last worked together. Her hair had grown longer, the tips of her strands ending in a slight wave that curved right against the tops of her shoulders. There was a faint, inch-long scar near where her jaw connected with her ear, as if she’d gotten nicked in a fight. He wanted to tuck her hair back and get a better look at it, ask her what had happened.
It took Winter a second to realize that his body language wasmimicking Sydney’s—hands in pockets, stride in sync. Their bodies still seemed attuned to each other, the way they were during Winter’s training. What a strange pas de deux between them; he instinctively tilted his head whenever she did, and she always seemed to turn exactly when he did. But now there was also an almost awkward distance between them, something he’d felt when they’d exited the caféin Honolulu.
Sydney led them through a set of double doors and into the restaurant’s kitchen, where they walked through a veil of steam and smoke. The rich scent of garlic and bay leaves filled the air, and Winter breathed in deeply as restaurant staff hurried past them. Now and then, one of them would recognize his face and their eyes would settle on him momentarily. But no one stopped him, no one gasped or screamed in delight. The lack of attention felt unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. Unpleasant.
They’re all Panacea staff,Winter reminded himself. Still, it was a strange sensation, walking among so many people as a nobody. People who weren’t what they seemed.
They stopped in front of a line of refrigerators. Sydney pulled the second one open—but instead of revealing chilled compartments of food, it gave way to a long, secret corridor, the carpet thick and dark gray.
