Page 30 of Echoes

I'm shoved inside by the guard, stumbling three steps before Mr. Whittingham even bothers to look up.

"Good Morning, Ms. White," he says in an annoyed tone.

"Hello," I mumble back, peeking over my shoulder to see the guard slam the door shut behind him as he exits.

"Take a seat."

Frowning, I sit down on the other side of Mr. Whittingham's desk, watching as he takes a sip of hot coffee.

"I trust your return has gone well," he asks, tone indicating that he doesn't give a shit either way.

I nod, unsure how to answer. "It's been fine."

"Your psych assessment was done by Dr. Smith. No concerns apparently," he trails off sarcastically. "And I'm sure you are aware I've been allocating special tasks for you."

Clenching my jaw, I just nod again. I'm fairly confident my nose hairs are now permanently singed from bleach.

Mr. Whittingham leans back in his chair, eyes falling to my hands resting in my lap. It takes me a moment to pick up on his curiosity, before frustration awakens me. Obviously he's been made aware of the burns, but judging by his glance, I wasn't scorched enough.

"How long do you need me to do thespecial tasksfor?" I ask a little too bluntly.

It's way too early for interrogation. After the events of theCirque des Mortsmeeting and the little sleep I managed, my filter ability is somewhat lacking today.

"As long as I please," he snarls back. "Now, do you have anything to report back to me?"

My eyes narrow. Does he know that Damon held a meeting last night?

I assume that he knows about the society, but I have no idea how much exactly.

I shake my head. "Nope."

Mr. Whittingham glares at me. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

We enter into a stare-off for a few seconds, the frustration evident on his morning face. Slowly, he looks away, grabbing a bunch of paperwork.

"I need these sorted alphabetically."

I'm caught off-guard, jerking slightly like I've been hit with a rubber band. "Oh, alright."

There's not too many in the pile—it should be relatively easy.

He pauses, pointing to the corner of his office behind me. "Those as well."

Turning my head, I glance over my shoulder, eyes widening at the seven enormous stacks of paper.

Mr. Whittingham stands up, walking over to the corner. I rise to my feet as well, watching in horror as he kicks over the first pile with his foot. The pile scatters all over the ground, in turn, knocking over the next one.

It's a sea of white, my body sagging in disbelief.

"And I need them done this morning," he muses, folding his arms.

There's no way it's possible. I know it, he knows it.

Before I can speak again, he raises an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, there's something else we need to discuss first. Anything at all."

Our eyes meet, the glint in his challenging me. He definitely knows something went down—he's testing me.

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