Page 35 of Dead Set on You
“Stevie,” he says.
I whip toward him so fast, Rafael flinches. “What did you say?” I ask, blinking and breathing fast. The name—the one I haven’t used in almost a decade—makes me exchange grief for anger faster than I switch out of my pumps at the end of the workday.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?” His tone is even and unperturbed, but a familiar spark has entered his gaze, and it makes me want to hurtle myself at him.
“No, it’s not.” I narrow my eyes, daring him to continue.
A brow rises in question. “Stevie Popovici. That doesn’t jingle a bell?”
I balk. “You … couldn’t know …” No one knows my real name, the one I discarded along with my old life. Yet he’s throwing it around like it’s written on my forehead.
If I were a little more certain this isn’t all some final “heaven or hell” test, I’d give him a slice of hell. I’d tell him that he’s lucky he’s handsome and charming because if he weren’t, everyone would actually see beneath the facade to the double-crossing jerk beneath. I’d admit I’m not sorry about the laxative incident or the parking ticket or that Gemma only pretends to like him because she’s a junior associate on his team. And I’d make him wish he’d never heard my name—eitherof them.
I realize I’ve floated out of the truck, advancing on him, hands balled at my side. Rafael concedes a step, then another. We’re in a parking garage, and he cuts through two empty parking spaces before he backs into a minivan and halts.
Somewhere my heart’s slamming into my rib cage, and my breaths pump out of me, short and rapid. “I’m going to haunt you and your children and your children’s children if you ever so much as speak that name to another living soul again,” I warn, jabbing a finger at his chest.
Surprise flits across his gaze. I’m the one who’s a ghost-thing, but I can see right through him, and his soul is scared.
“Your grandmother doesn’t have enough prayers to save you from the kind of torment I can inflict.” My voice becomes deadly quiet. “I’ll be there at every turn.”
I’ve been a spirit all of twelve hours and don’t have a clue about my paranormal abilities, but I’ll find a way to pull it off. If nothing else, Rafael knows my relentless determination. I wasn’t one ofChicago Business Journal’s “Thirty Under Thirty” for nothing.
“I’ll never speak a word of it,” Rafael says, holding up three fingers.
I frown, not following. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“If you say so. But don’t test me on this,” I warn, injecting years of resentment into my gaze before I spin and walk away.
Fighting to get my breathing and emotions under control, I grind out a fewMamma Mias through anger-blurred vision.
The underground garage—painted in shades of green—comes into focus.
Emerald Heights.Home.
“How did you—” I start to ask, but bite my tongue. Literally. Asking the guy who has intimate knowledge of my birthmark and real name how he remembered my address from a single drop-off years ago feels like the least of my concerns.
I ignore his “What?” and speed-walk to the elevator, back straight and brain buzzing with questions. I ask none of them.
I slow at the elevator and reach for the buttons before curling my fingers into a fist. Right.Useless ghost hands.
I consider taking the stairs up to my floor. Eight flights. Time to think and figure this out on my own. Or—I could wait for him. For answers.
Footsteps sound behind me.
I cross my arms and fix my gaze on the elevator doors. A flyer informs residents that dues are increasing in the winter. Another mentions a Fourth of July celebration on the rooftop in a few weeks. Neither of which I might be here for.
Rafael reaches past me and jabs the up-arrow button before his hands slip into his pockets. I angle my head away so he’s no longer in my periphery.
Rafael sighs. “That first day? I passed by your desk after lunch. Your paperwork was out—a photocopy of an old ID,” he says quietly. “I figured it was easier to shove it back into the folder before I walked away. If Media Lab does anything better than marketing, it’s gossip. And since you started the job underanother name, maybe you didn’t want that out there. For the longest time, I figured you were KGB.”
I roll my eyes at that last part. But I don’t respond, because I expected something sneaky or nefarious, notthis.
That first morning—running late and battling the snowstorm—is forever seared into my core memories. My anxiety made me sloppy. I accidentally grabbedallof my paperwork, including some I hadn’t used since before college, before I legally changed my name. And I never even realized I’d left it out for public consumption.
And Rafael’s known. This entire time.
