The hospital smells like disinfectant and something organic. I find Alan in a wheelchair by the window, his leg suspended in a cast, his torso wrapped tight. Purple blooms across his cheekbone. His left eye is swollen nearly shut. When he sees me, he tries to smile. The split in his lip reopens.
"Don't," I say. "Don't smile. Don't pretend this is okay."
He looks down at his hands. "I had to, Tess."
"Had to." I pull a chair close. "You had to borrow eighty-three thousand dollars from loan sharks?"
“Mom and Dad…” he says.
"Mom and Dad?" Fury ignites in my chest. "After everything they did to us?"
"They were going to lose everything." His voice cracks. "The bank was foreclosing. I couldn't just let that happen."
Something vicious rises in me, sharp-edged and cruel. "They made you feel like you couldn't. There's a difference."
"They're our parents."
"They're people who had children they didn't want and spent two decades making sure we knew it." The words taste bitter. "You don't owe them anything."
His good eye meets mine. Twenty-one years old, and he looks like a child caught breaking something precious. "I couldn't just do nothing."
I want to shake him. I want to scream. Instead, I reach out and take his hand, forcing gentleness into my grip even as fury threatens to crack my teeth. "Five days. That's what you said."
He nods, and a tear slips down his bruised cheek. "They said they'd come back. That next time…"
"I know." I squeeze his fingers. "I'll figure something out."
The lie sits heavy on my tongue. There is no figuring this out. But I can't tell him that, can't add my failure to the weight already crushing him.
Outside the hospital, I unlock my phone. Emily’s name sits at the top of my messages like a dare.
Don’t drag her into this.
I hover over the call icon, thumb trembling, then lock the screen.
It vibrates in my hand. Emily calling. Of course she would.
I hesitate, then answer. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” she says. “You ghosted me. Again.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“The classic Knight.”
A pause; I can hear faint music behind her, a bassline steady as a heartbeat. “The club’s soft open tonight. I could use you here.”
“You know I don’t fit there.”
“Everyone fits here,” she says, playful and certain. “It’s the point. You don’t even have to play. Just come have a drink.”
“I can’t.”
“Work?”
“Something like that.”
She hums, a sound that feels like she’s looking straight through the phone.
“Call me when you decide to stop punishing yourself,” she says finally.
“Good night, Emily.”
“Tess—”
I hang up before she can finish.
The rest of the day passes in fragments. I go home, shower, fail to sleep. Eat something that tastes like cardboard. All the while my body hums with the tension of knowing I’ll see him again tonight.
***
The office is quiet when I arrive. Only a handful of people scattered across the floor, their faces lit blue by monitors. I settle at my desk, power on my computer, and try to focus on anything other than the suffocating weight of impossible problems.
"Theresa."
His voice comes through my desk phone speaker, formal and distant. "Could you come to my office, please?"
My stomach drops. "Of course, Mr. Bloxham."
The walk to his door feels endless. I knock once, and his voice calls out for me to enter.
James sits behind his desk, papers spread before him, but his attention is entirely on me. His gaze glides on me with a feeling far from professional. The atmosphere’s electric, although both of us pretend it isn’t. The office is all dark wood and leather, the kind of space that smells like money and power. He gestures to the chair across from him.
"Sit."
I sit. Cross my ankles. Fold my hands in my lap. Every movement careful, controlled, professional.
"How are you?" he asks.
The question catches me off guard. "I'm well, thank you."
"You look like you haven't slept." His gaze travels over my face with an intensity that makes my skin heat.
"I'm fine."
Something almost like amusement flickers across his features.
"I assure you, Mr. Bloxham, I'm perfectly capable of performing my duties."
"I don't doubt your capabilities, Theresa." My name in his mouth does something to my pulse. "But I make it a point to check on my team when they seem distressed."
"Do you call everyone into your office to ask about their sleep habits?"
His lips curve. Almost a smile. "Only the ones who interest me."
The air between us shifts, thickens. I should stand up. I should thank him for his concern and leave. Instead, I sit there, caught in his gaze, my body responding to something I can't name.
"I appreciate your concern," I manage. "But there's nothing to worry about."
"Isn't there?" He leans back in his chair, studying me. "You received a phone call last night that clearly upset you. You left work early, which you never do. And now you're back, looking like you're holding yourself together with nothing but willpower."
"Are you monitoring my phone calls?"
"I'm observant." His voice drops lower. "Particularly when it comes to things that matter."
My heart hammers against my ribs. Things that matter. Does he mean me? Or is this how he talks to everyone, this careful dance of words that could mean everything or nothing?
"Family issues," I say. "Nothing that affects my work."
"Everything affects your work, Theresa. That's what makes you so valuable." He pauses. "If you need time off, or if there's any way I can help…"
"There isn't." The words come out too sharp. "But thank you."
Silence stretches between us. His piercing eyes don't leave my face, and I feel stripped down to nerve endings, every defense laid bare under his scrutiny.
"You can go," he says finally.
I stand, legs unsteady, and turn toward the door. Yet, I can feel his gaze follow me, with what I gather is sympathy. Something’s left unsaid. Another moment passes.
"Theresa."
I stop, look back.
"My door is always open."
The words should be professional. Supportive. But the way he says them, the way he looks at me, makes them feel like a promise of something else entirely.
I walk back to my desk on autopilot, my body still humming with the charge of being near him. My phone buzzes as I sit down.
Unknown number.
I open the message, and my blood turns to ice.
It's a photograph. Of me. Standing beside Alan's bed, my hand on his shoulder. A nurse circling around. Someone was there. Watching.
I look up, and through the tinted glass of his office, James Bloxham is staring directly at me. His gaze pins me in place, and for one terrible moment, I'm convinced he can see everything.
Four days left.