Page 17 of Dead Set on You
Even though it physically pains me, I force myself to say it. “Please.”
His jaw clenches. I see the telltale flutter of muscles in his right cheek—his tell, the one that means he’s angry or frustrated. My go-to instinct is to press his buttons, poke the bear. But I need answers more than I need to get under his skin.
“Please,” I repeat, this time harder.
He rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath, like this conversation is physically paininghim. “You can’t be here, because you were in an accident.” His voice is strained, each word deliberate. “You’re unconscious. In a coma … at Northwestern Memorial,” he continues, raking a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s why you can’t be here, and that’s why I shouldn’t be talking to a hallucination.”
CHAPTER FOUR(IMPOSSIBLY STILL) THE DAY AFTER
A strangled laugh bubbles out of me. “Okay, I see what you’re doing here,” I say, any illusion of him wanting to do this the easy way gone. “But I’m not in the mood for your games today.”
It’s one thing for him to reorganize my desk every time I’m out on a work trip or to send a sympathy bouquet to Jane-from-HR on her wedding day on my behalf. But this? Orchestrating this entire situation where he acts like he’s lost his mind? Makesmefeel like I’ve lost my mind? This is a new level of low in Evie vs. Rafael, and I’m not going there right now.
Having had enough, I march past him, shoulders thrown back, toward the door.
“I hope your résuméis up-to-date,” I toss over my shoulder, already envisioning a considerably more stress-free, Rafael-less Media Lab—and it puts a pep in my step to know I’m almost there.
But … I can’t just walk out. Not yet.
Because the pounding in my head is nothing compared to the chaos whirring in my brain—the weird things my hands aredoing, the maybe-pills, the utterly ridiculous story about me being in a coma. This entire morning feels like one long fever dream wrapped in a bad prank, and walking out without answers feels a lot like letting him win. And Rafael doesn’t get to win anything. Not on my watch.
Despite my need to be far,faraway from him, I slow my pace to give him a chance to come to his senses, to beg me for forgiveness, to bribe me with a month’s worth of coffee runs, to grovel at the toes of my leather pumps, and to admit that yes, in fact, he has backstabbed me to get ahead, and yes, he’s now staging some unhinged reality-bending performances to make me question my sanity.
That and he broke the rules—and used my fainting spells against me at last night’s dinner (another hiccup in thekeep your enemies closeexperiment).
I halt, shy of reaching the door, and give him another second to fix things.
He’s as silent as a corpse.
No excuses. No explanations. No apologies.
Frustration curls my hands into fists, and my throat clogs with all the things I want to say—haveto say—before I go.
If this is the end of Rafael Vela’s tenure at Media Lab—if this is the moment our war comes to an end—I need something resembling closure. I need him to admit he’s spent the last two years making things harder for me. That he manipulated me into friendship only to weaponize everything he’s ever learned about me, from scheduling team-building events that involved hand-eye coordination (knowing I break into hives at the phrase “trust fall”) to submitting petty facility requests under my name until they stopped responding to real ones. And let’s not forget the time he sweet-talked Dana into assigning my best friend Gemma to his team (though there have been perks to having someone on the inside).
I know it’s wishful thinking to want him to admit it.
Still, I turn on my heel and level him a look that’s withered account execs and vendors who couldn’t hold up their end of a project.
He doesn’t so much as flinch.
In fact, some would say he looks sad. But I know better than to fall for those puppy-dog eyes. He’s trying to Vela me.As if.
“This is all your fault,” I point out.
His throat bobs. “Don’t you think I know—”
A loud rap shakes the door.
I nearly jump out of my skin.
Rafael looks past me to the door but doesn’t move.
Three more impatient knocks.
I’m close enough I could reach over and pull open the door. But what if I miss? What if my hand grasps the air again?
Anxiety prickles up my spine.
