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“Mary!” a woman’s voice barked. “Why aren’t you at the office?”
Oh, shit. It was Monday.
Chapter Four
MARY
Ididn’t think I’d ever have the words to describe how utterly dystopian it felt to rush to work when my brother had perhaps just killed a man.
God, I was tempted—sotempted!—to tell Arisa to take her shit and shove it back up her ass where it belonged, that I was doing something so much more important than compiling the five easiest ways to get nail polish our of your carpet?! How could she not know what was going on, when the whole world was suddenly upside down?
I almost blurted it out too. The two words, the ones every low-level employee dreams of saying: I quit.
I bit it back at the absolute last second.
The only person whose world had turned over was me, and I had to act like it hadn’t if I wanted to help keep Pietro safe. And I did want him safe.
So, I dumped the last of my room-temperature coffee into a travel mug, threw my greasy hair into some approximation of a bun, and threw on some clothes.
I had to look normal—and I was entirely certain I did not. A single glance in the mirror as I dressed proved it.
My eyes were puffy from crying and lack of sleep, my cheeks sallow, my lips pale; I looked exactly like I felt, and that was definitivelynotnormal.
But what was I supposed to do?
I had to go in. And as much as I hated to admit it, even if we weren’t being watched for our supposed normalcy and I could stay home forever, I still had to go in.
I was barely making rent, and most of the food in my fridge was either instant meals or leftovers from Saturday’s not-so-Benson-family dinner that my mom had insisted I take home.
Wait, when was the last time I ate?
I didn’t do any of my usual routine, not my skincare or makeup, not accessorizing—which was normally my favorite part of any outfit—not even double-checking that my blouse was unwrinkled before I ran out the door.
I couldn’t be bothered.
“I’m so sorry, Arisa, there was a family issue over the weekend and I’ve been too worried to sleep.”That’s what I’d said on the phone (and it was true!) and hopefully it would get me some forgiveness for my unprofessional appearance.
Then again, it wasn’t like I could spare the energy to really worry about a write-up at that moment.
Five more minutes and I’d be at my office building, an hour and half late.
Assuming I didn’t pass out on the way there, given the way my heart was pounding in my chest.
I felt uncomfortably jittery, nausea rising with every second, and I felt totally manic—which is what finally made me realize it was because of all the coffee.
I’d drunk too much on an empty stomach. My college dormmate would have hit me with her flyswatter if she’d been there to see me.
But she wasn’t there, and I couldn’t afford to sit down, so I just kept forging forward.
I pulled up home remedies on my phone, tabbing away from the police page with that damned photo.
Why was I so fucking mad? I knew I was stressed, but I could feel the scowl pulling at my face as I squinted at the too-smallwords on the screen like their illegibility was personally and purposefully a slight to me.
I was not a person who was used to anger, and for some reason that just made me angrier because I knew it wasn’t me.
The coffee, maybe, or the sleep deprivation, or blood sugar from not eating all day and night—and whatever it was pissed me off even more.
I was wondering if there was still bread in the staff room, since apparently that helped soak up coffee, when something ran into mehard.
