Page 98 of Craving Venom

“What do you meanmoved up?”

“I mean it’s due soon. Like, in a few weeks.”

Fuck.

I haven’t even scratched the surface of that assignment. I was supposed to be researching, preparing, setting up my analysis. And now? Now I can’t even bring myself to think about it, because doing the assignment means confronting Zane again. And I don’t want to.

Tria watches me carefully. “I talked to Harrington,” she says quietly. “Told him you were sick, asked if he could extend it for you.”

My throat tightens. “And?”

“He gave you an extra week.” She lifts her glass to her lips, speaking around the rim. “But after that, it’s out of his hands.”

I swallow, staring into my wine. The deep red liquid shifts when I tilt the bottle, and for a second, my mind goes somewhere else.

I set the bottle down so hard some of the wine spills over the edge.

“I can’t do this assignment.”

Tria sighs, setting her glass down. “Look, I know you’re behind, but I can help. We can go through everything together, break it down—”

“No,” I say too quickly.

She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. “Faith, you don’t have time to be stubborn.”

I know.

If this were any other situation, I might have taken her up on it. Might have let her help me pull something together in record time. But I can’t because this is my mess.

Tria leaves an hour later. She hugs me before she goes, and for a second, I want to tell her everything. I want to let it pour out of me, want her to fix me, but I don’t.

Instead, I wait for her to be completely out of sight before I grab my phone and dial the number I shouldn’t be calling.

The petitionary.

The line rings twice before a voice filters through the speaker.

“Veridian State Penitentiary, how can I direct your call?”

“I need to schedule a video visit with an inmate. Zane Valehart.”

There’s a pause. I hear the receptionist clicking through something on her computer. “Are you his lawyer?”

The last time when I called, there was no lawyer listed for him. I could say no. I should say no. But my lips part before my thoughts can catch up, and instead of doing the right thing, I commit another crime.

“Yes,” I lie smoothly. “I’m his lawyer.”

“Alright. I’ll need to verify a few details before scheduling the call.”

“Go ahead.”

“Alright. I’ll need your full name and bar number for verification.”

Fuck.

I don’t have those. I never took the bar, never got any kind of legal certification. If I answer, I’ll get caught, and I won’t just be committing a crime, I’ll be committing a felony. My thumb moves to disconnect the call, but before I can, my phone pings and the screen lights up with a new message.

Unknown Number: Faith Collins. Bar #917428.

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