Page 28 of Dead Set on You
My earlier theory might still be true, but I need to check one more item off the checklist. “Tell me about last night. About the accident,” I say, turning back to Rafael.
The shadow of a smile vanishes.
CHAPTER SEVENSEVEN DAYS AFTER (BECAUSE IT’S TAKING A MINUTE FOR IT TO SINK IN)
A car knocked me into a coma.
“After the meeting with Cyril, we left the restaurant,” Rafael says, his eyes distant and his voice almost a whisper. “A car veered onto the sidewalk near the intersection and clipped you. The impact threw you across the street.” His throat bobs. “You sustained a head injury. Trauma.”
It takes effort to keep my face blank. To not crumble. Hearing the details—how I wound uphere—isn’t easy, not even the second time around. I don’t typically need things repeated to me like I’m a toddler, but this isn’t typical. Far from it.
“And the driver kept going?” My voice is tight, strained with the effort of keeping my emotions in check.
“Yes. Until the cops caught him. He’d been drinking.”
I swallow past the rush of panic. Someone made a reckless choice … “And now I’m … here.”
A barely-there inhale before he says, “Yes.”
Standing in Dr. Wagner’s vacated spot, I stare down at my body and rub the base of my head, the source of my injury. Adull throb of pain, but otherwise? Nothing. Nothing except the sharp ache of having everything snatched from me. The years of running to escape my past, to provide for myself, to finally reach a point where I could ease into a different pace. All of that … fornothing?
No. Nope. I won’t accept the possibility.Ctrl-Alt-Delete.
I step away from the bed and pace my side of the room, chewing a nail—a habit I try my best to conceal but can’t bring myself to care about because I’m-in-a-coma-and-does-it-even-matter. Still, I shoot Rafael a glance, but he’s not even looking at me.
Gaze distant, he’s sitting rigidly in the pleather chair, head propped on his knuckles. I don’t dwell on whatever’s eating him because I have enough to worry about.
“And what, they couldn’t do anything when they arrived?” I gesture to my body—the one connected to machines. “Like CPR? Or aren’t there defibrillators for this exact situation?”
Rafael peers up at me through his tousled hair. “Your heart’s fine.”
I touch the place over my chest. It’s thunderous and erratic and not so fine at all. “So they didn’t even try?”
“They did everything they could when you got here.” His voice is low, rough. “They had the best doctors—theystill havethe best doctors—taking care of you. They acted fast. Ran tests. Stabilized you. But … the swelling in your brain—” His hands press against his thighs, rubbing absently. “They had to induce the coma. To protect your brain and give your body time to heal.”
His voice catches, barely. But I hear it. Ifeelit. And for a second, it throws me. Because Rafael doesn’t care, not about me—and if he’s worried now …
I look away, back tome—the body in the bed. It’s been an entire week with little change, the doctor said. No movement. No sign of waking up. Just a terrifying, ticking silence.
“Wake up,” I whisper to myself—half plea, half command.
Panic claws up my throat, sharp and sudden, but I force it back down, where it belongs. Vulnerability is dangerous, especially in front of Rafael. I square my shoulders and turn on him, reaching for the familiar and the safe: deflection, suspicion, control. “And what about you? Where were you?” I lift my chin. “Giving my head another thunk? Making sure the deed was done?”
Rafael’s brows shoot up into his forehead. “What? You don’t think I had something to do with this?” His tone is incredulous, offended. “Believe it or not, Evie, I’m not willing to maim someone to get an account.”
“Because you can charm them to death?”
His eyes blaze. “Because I …” He clamps his lips together.
“Because you …what?” I cross my arm, expecting a Vela-esque response.I don’t need to try hard. I’m loved by all. I walk through life without a care because everyone wants to be my friend. My colleague. My client.
“Because it’s not important. It’s work,” Rafael says, pushing from his chair. “That’s all it is.”
I stare at him. I know he’s lying.
Media Lab has been almost as important to Rafael as it’s been to me, not that he could understand what it means to me.
Back when we were “friends,” Rafael didn’t even know if Media Lab was for him. He joked about starting a YouTube channel called Tacos and Tequila Tuesdays (but Every Day), launching a sports merch line, and even getting his pilot’s license. One foot in and one foot out. But the longer we worked together, the more the “one foot out” steppedin. The more he started—pretended—to care. About the work, and because I was stupid enough to believe it, about me. And then he turned his charm and ambition into a weapon, stole an account we built side by side, and cut down my trust, our friendship.
