And for the first time in days, my calendar wasn’t the loudest thing in the room.
The quiet was.
And it was asking me a question I didn’t know how to answer.
How many times can you keep the shutter closed on your own life…before you forget what you were trying to protect?
From Rachel’s Diary:
Forgot this existed for four days.
That probably says everything.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
RACHEL
René’s office always smelled like coffee and consequences. His door was open when I arrived at the Daily, which was either an invitation or a trap. With René, it was usually both.
I’d left early. I’d eaten half a banana standing at the counter like it counted as self-care. I’d triple-checked my batteries. I’d done everything I could do to make sure the only variable in this morning wasme.
That was the problem.
I stepped inside anyway.
René didn’t look up right away. He was at his desk with a contact sheet spread in front of him, glasses low on his nose, pen in hand. The room was quiet except for the soft, precise scrape of ink.
“You are on time,” he said.
It wasn’t praise. It was a baseline requirement. Still, my body accepted the relief.
“Barely,” I admitted with a bit of a grumble. The métro had run a little late, even though I’d been on time. Then the crowdhad been thicker than normal. The biggest drawback, however, had been the sunny skies.
It had been a while since I’d seen it so blue and bright out there. It had definitely distracted me.
René made a small sound that might have been amusement if he were a different person.
He tapped the pen once on the edge of the contact sheet.
“Close the door.”
My stomach tightened. I did.
The click was not loud. It still feltominous.
René gestured to the chair across from him without looking at me. I sat, keeping my posture neutral, professional, like I wasn’t bracing for impact.
He finally lifted his gaze.
“You sent me alternates,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And one of them,” he continued, as if he were discussing weather, “wasnotan alternate.”
My pulse ticked hard. I kept my face still.
