My brain won’t stop.
“What is it?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Konnor?”
“The news article,” I say. “Hand it to me.”
She does.
The date: August 22, 1999.
No, no, no.
Please fucking be a joke.
Green jelly crystal…
My happy new life…
My body shakes with rage before I even know for sure. And I’m across the room snatching my phone, dialling, while Blesk is still staring up at me from the floor.
Wrong number.
I pull the phone away from my face and stare at the digits. I find the right contact and wait, pressing the phone so hard against my ear that it hurts. He answers.
“Adolf. It’s Slater. Don’t talk. Just listen. My bedside table—top drawer. There is an invoice in there. I need a photo of it sent to my phone. Right now.”
He pauses, then, “Sir, I’m not sure I?—”
“Adolf.” Something in my voice stops him, stops the hesitation. “Please.”
“Right away, Mr Slater.”
I lower the phone. Blesk hasn’t moved, but she looks timid, like glass, somehow, her knees pulled up, the documents fanned around her on the floor. She is watching me as if I might explode, as if I might fall apart.
“Konnor?”
Bourbon.
“Give me one second, Duch.” I need fucking bourbon.I know, know.Blesk’s dad was a drinker.I know, I know, I fucking know!“I’ll explain everything in a second, okay?”
I rush out the bedroom door, my veins screaming for intoxication. To make this stop. To make it numb.
Down the stairs.
Hit the ground floor.
I reach the bar, pour the bourbon, my hands shaking hard enough that I have to use both of them to get the damn liquid in the glass. I don’t bother with ice. I sip it.
Then I down it.
I set the glass on the bar.
I wait.
My phone dings and the photo comes through. I look at it. My brows draw in.No.I scowl at it.No.I stare long enough that the numbers stop being just numbers and become a truth that shatters everything.
