I nod. “Sounds about right.”
She looks away, quiet. I study her profile—her soft, round jaw, her perfect nose, plump lips…
“What would’ve happened if they didn’t accept you taking Sophie’s place?”
I shrug, instantly regretting it as I wince in pain. “Hayes would’ve sent the guys in, but a few might’ve scattered and notified higher-ups before we got access to their network. That was our biggest fear—so we needed to paralyze them. That way, no one could touch their phones. We needed them together.”
She nods, and then exhales loudly. “Sophie Larson.” She looks at me. “Why her?”
“I don’t know. But I suspect that in recent years, they’ve gotten more daring. Hungry for more pomp and circumstance, more drama. Crownley never said the sacrifices had to be anyone of notoriety—which is why I suspected my ruse would work.”
“I see.” She bends down and kisses me on the forehead. “I should go make sure Lily is okay.”
I grab her and pull her to me, though it feels like someone is ripping apart the stitches right under my ribs. But I can’t help it—can’t help the smile that forms on my lips as she pulls away.
“Hayes never told me the code word, so I didn’t know when they’d go in. It was torture.”
I smirk. “It wasEvelyn.”
You’re Doing It Wrong
Evelyn Snow
Oxford,Present
I listen to my professor drone on and on, but after this weekend, I really don’t have the bandwidth to learn about the gospel of Matthew as an allegorical myth. It’s interesting, sure, but I want to get home. I check my phone for the millionth time, wondering if Benedict is comfortable at his flat. Wondering if Zoey is home yet. Once the class is over, I power walk to my flat, checking train times to Central London as I go.
After a whirlwind weekend, I dropped Lily at the airport and drove us back to London yesterday afternoon. Benedict had been discharged, and though I suggested staying in Edinburgh while he healed, he insisted that I shouldn’t be missing any more class with midterms coming up, so we made the seven-hour trek back to England three days after the Offering. He was sore, but he seemed to be managing the pain pretty well. In fact, for someone who had to have surgery to repair a punctured lung, he was almost back to his normal self. It took every ounce of my strength and conviction to convince him to let me drive his precious Lucille, and in the end, I won out.
I broke down this morning and asked Benedict to track Zoey since I hadn’t heard a peep from her all week. Apparently, she’d gotten back this weekend and was hiding out in her room. Nervous butterflies dance through my core when I push our heavy door open. I hate confrontation—especially with one of my best friends—but she needs to air her grievances, and I need to tell her everything. I set my bag on the couch and stride over to her door. Before I can knock, she throws the door open and stares at me with an unamused smirk, her hand on her hip.
“First things first, I forgive you,” she starts, and when I open my mouth to speak, she holds a hand up. “But I want you to know that lying is unacceptable and I won’t tolerate it.”
“I understand. And I’m sorry.”
She crosses her arms. “I have trust issues and lying is one of my triggers. And yes, I’m studying to be a psychologist, so I should have been able to control my reaction better and suggest we talk it out. What I realized while I was gone was that the triggers are a product of my past that I need to deal with.”
I’m more relieved than I thought possible.
“Well, regardless, thank you for forgiving me. I can tell you everything right now, if you’re free?”
She nods curtly, and we move to the couch. With crossed arms, she sits, pulling her knees into her chest. I glance at my phone before I take a seat on the other side.
“I have a train to catch in an hour, but I’ll tell you everything I can.”
And I do—every detail, every conversation. I did the same thing with Lily. Both of them share the same look of disbelief, and when I stand to leave, she stands with me.
“I want to go,” she says, her voice resolute.
I hesitate. “I’m going to Benedict’s flat to check on him.”
She shrugs, grabbing a jacket. “I never did have the chance to approve him. If he’s going to date my best friend, I need to make sure he’s not a maniac.”
I smile and pull her into a tight hug.
“Thank you,” I utter.
* * *
