Timony’s head throbbed as her eyelids fluttered open. Her skull and mouth felt like they were jammed with cotton. She inched herself up into a sitting position and reached for the cup on her nightstand. It was empty. Figures.
A thought cut through her hangover haze. Tobin’s words echoed in her mind.
Who benefits?
Her pounding headache did nothing to stave off the sense of dread bubbling in her stomach, at her inability to answer that question.
It’d been days since the alarm, since Tobin’s news about Adan, and she’d hoped that dread would dwindle, but it hadn’t. Osman never wrote her back, which was starting to piss her off more than she cared to admit. Maybe Sandwyn had warned him away from her. And she still couldn’t bring herself to reach out to Slade.
With no one to talk to, with the week off, without daily trips to the office to keep her in check, there wasn’t much to do but contemplate. And drink.
The drinking wasn’t helping the contemplating.
Who had benefited? Carriles, for one. He got the coveted pilot’s seat. But she knew him. He wouldn’t have had a hand in that. Would he?
Adan knew Carriles, too. They’d all spent a lot of time together. When she started dating Adan, he and Carriles became fast friends. Long video game sessions, bragging to each other about their exploits. Timony had considered it a friendly competition between two talented pilots. Could there have been more lurking beneath the surface?
Her mind drifted to an awkward dinner, just a few days before it all crumbled. Before Adan and Timony fell apart, before her demotion. Carriles was trying so damn hard, she recalled. Just laying it on so thick, desperate to not only impress her but Adan as well with his exploits. She had to pry the check out of Carriles’s hands. It’d left a weird taste in her mouth. After all, she’d known him since he was a kid. He didn’t need to impress her, and—in retrospect—it had been a warning sign of what was to come.
Adan and Carriles’s friendship ended abruptly when Carriles—and Timony—got busted. Adan didn’t want to be anywhere near that kind of thing. He had to be around it with his girlfriend, but Carriles was another story.
Timony knew Carriles was upset, but any kind of slight he might have felt didn’t rise to the level of revenge. Would he have loved to be the first choice for the Mosaic gig? Sure. But not enough to kill for it. It just didn’t click.
Then who?
Maybe it had been another jealous pilot who thought they’d get the gig? Still, that seemed unlikely. What kind of person would kill just for a promotion?
She shuffled into the bathroom, each step heavy. She leaned over the sink and splashed some water on her face. Everything ached, but this wasn’t new to Timony. She just needed to pop a few pain meds and drink a strong cup of coffee. Then she’d be good.
For what, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t have any other plans for her imposed time off. She considered her toothbrush, but decided to lie down again instead. She dry-swallowed a few pain pills before moving toward the bed, passing the framed medal she’d gotten from the Interstellar Union for breaking up an interplanetary sex-trafficking ring. She could still remember the impromptu speech she gave upon accepting the award. She remembered how she’d felt—like she could do no wrong. Like she was living the life she’d always wanted for herself. It felt so far away.
She’d spent six months digging through paperwork, communiqués, and surveillance. The kind of grunt work Timony’s peers disdained, but she loved. She found her best leads this way, just digging through the dirt and doing the work. She wove a few details together and discovered a personal cause. Kids across the known colonies were going missing under similar circumstances. Usually in districts and regions with minimal to no police presence or government infrastructure. Timony was able to trace the disappearances back to a band of Titan pirates adding another profit stream to their already illicit organization. The investigation ended with her following a tip she thought would lead her to a stash house full of young women being held against their will, but turned out to be a meeting of two dozen men at the top of the operation. With backup too far in the distance, she went in alone. She walked out with a broken rib and nose, and missing at least a pint of blood. But she was also the only one who walked out, and the ring was destroyed in the process. More than a hundred girls saved.
Timony had a lot of wins on her CV, but that one remained her proudest. She’d made a difference. She still got notes from some of the girls she’d saved, now women—thanking her, updating her on the lives they now lived, thanks to her. In her darkest moments, she reread those notes to remind herself that, once upon a time, Corin Timony hadn’t been a complete fuckup.
When she first moved into this shithole of an apartment, she’d found the medal among her things. She’d hung it in this spot with a promise to herself: this demotion was temporary. She’d climb back up to where she had been. She had done it once—she was the first in her family to go to college, supporting herself and her drunk of a father who struggled to hold down work after her mom died. She was no stranger to putting in the hours, to working harder than anyone around her to achieve the same thing. She could do this.
Most days, seeing the medal served as a reminder.
But on days like today, it felt like an accusation. A ghost haunting her from a life that was long over. She considered taking it off the wall but decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
She flopped onto the bed on her stomach and reached for the holo-display on her bedside table. She brushed the metallic side of it with her fingertip. As much as she wanted to strangle Carriles, she needed someone to talk to. And up until a year ago, he had been the only person she trusted completely aside from Adan. Funny how everything could change so quickly.
Their friendship had felt rock-solid. Even with their differences. Timony had never gotten anything easily, and Carriles had never had to struggle—but still, they connected. He’d been like a brother, starting in grade school, when they bonded on the playground over a shared love for comic books and fruit snacks. The sibling she’d always wanted but never had. That friendship grew and evolved as they did. Carriles was always quick to lend an ear. At the first sign of trouble, he’d show up at Timony’s place with a pizza and a six-pack, opening the door for her to rant for hours.
His kindness had never felt contrived, either. Timony never saw an ulterior motive, and knew he didn’t have romantic feelings toward her. He was a friend. Which was more than enough. He was there, and Timony appreciated that. Carriles rarely offered insight, because he didn’t pretend he knew things he didn’t. He just listened.
She pressed the button on the side of the holo-display and swiped through the screens, until she got to Carriles’s name. The last message she received from him.
A flickering image of Carriles appeared floating above the viewer, a shot from the sternum up.
“Hey, Corin,” he said, before taking a deep breath. “I know things are bad. I know you’re beyond upset, okay? I get it. You have every reason to hate me. The way things went down . . . it was bad. I know you always had my back, and I could have . . . I don’t know, protected you more? I was nervous—scared, to be honest. They had all this . . . all these details. But I wanted you to know, I swear, I didn’t give them your name. I’d never do that. I hope you believe me. Please. I need to know that you do. This really haunts me, because I’m sure there was something else I could’ve done . . . maybe taken the whole blame myself. I just . . . I had no idea it’d go down like that. I’m just . . . I’m sorry, Corin. Please call me.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, and then shook his head and turned off the viewer. The image disappeared.
You could have done so much, she thought. You could’ve called in a favor. Talked to your mom. Anything. You’re one of the most well-connected people on New Destiny. But you did nothing.
Of all the people who’ve let me down, I never suspected you’d be one of them.
She looked up at the ceiling and wondered where the Mosaic was and if it was safe.
She grabbed her phone. The pills were kicking in and Timony was starting to feel almost normal. Normal enough to look at her screen and think a bit. Maybe there were some interoffice emails with an update on the situation. Or, hell, maybe there was a news item. Some kind of word about what happened. She’d even take another angry screed from Sandwyn if it revealed a bit more about what was going on.
Instead, she found a notification on the main office feed that Osman was dead.
Before she could even process the information, she was calling Slade.
[ASTERISM]
Timony nursed her second cup of coffee, spinning the ceramic mug on its saucer at the flimsy outdoor table, watching the posh crowds of New London filling up the sidewalks, people coming home from work or headed out to dinner.
New London was the nicest neighborhood in New Destiny. Texas 2, where most of the Americans had settled, was a mess of shoddy, unregulated architecture—buildings stacked on buildings, different styles crashing together to give the city a hodgepodge look, giving off a neo vibe, which Timony liked when the crowds weren’t at fever pitch. Neo Odesa was the one place she avoided, aware that walking through it was dangerous if you didn’t have Russian blood. The infrastructure there was in the worst shape of the entire colony.
Not long ago, New Destiny had been seen as a rebirth—a chance to start fresh. But now it felt as broken and beaten down as Earth had been.
Humanity’s worst habits died hard.
Here on New Destiny, however, the UK thrived on appearances. Their cute little enclave was all clean lines, spotless streets, and handsome pubs that would have felt at home on the streets of actual London—or at least, how London used to be. They’d somehow managed to give this simulacrum a sense of history and ambiance.
But to Timony, even that felt fake. Choreographed and curated—like something out of an amusement park. It was probably just someone’s idea of how London should look or feel. Everything artificial. Fashionable. Dry.
Granted, they lived on a moon base, so nearly everything was actually artificial. But the people here were a little too concerned about things that didn’t matter.
She glanced at her cup, at the contrast between the white ceramic and the black liquid. She felt a pang of desire for a big splash of whiskey. She didn’t know how else to process Osman’s death.
She knew this was bad.
Because she could read between the lines.
According to the brief, internal Bazaar missive, Osman was reportedly mugged the same night the distress signal came in. He’d been stabbed and left for dead on the street. Coincidentally, the NDTV surveillance cameras watching the intersection happened to be broken. Osman wasn’t clever, but he was a bulldozer. He wasn’t an easy target and wouldn’t go down without a fight.
The message made the internal, approved narrative clear: wrong place, wrong time. But Timony knew better. She was built to know better.
She remembered Sandwyn’s warning to her as they parted a few nights before. She also remembered the piece of paper he’d handed to Osman. He’d heard the wrong thing. Sandwyn was playing chess. Timony could have value at some point. She was a bishop, at least. Maybe a rook. Not worth sacrificing right away. Osman was a pawn.
And even though their connections were brief and fleeting, they’d been nice. A bit of empathy and warmth in a desert of pain and anxiety. Osman had been sweet. And that made Timony angry. He deserved better.
She leaned back and looked at the dome sky. Since it was still “daytime,” it was washed with a blue filter and fake sunlight, but the longer she looked, the more she could see the black void of space beyond it.
Leaning back hurt, though, the remnants of a hangover still rattling around in her brain. She brought her attention back to the table, and found Miranda Slade now seated across from her, sipping from a paper coffee cup.
If it had been anyone else, Timony would think she was getting soft. She had great situational awareness, even when her brain was mud. But Slade moved like a cat. Today she was wearing a dark turtleneck and black slacks, her long hair pulled into a tight bun. Her eyes were obscured by aviator glasses. Her makeup was perfectly on point, her nails trimmed but immaculately painted and polished in a dark green.
Timony let out a little laugh. Timony herself wasn’t a bombshell, but she wasn’t unattractive. Still, when she was an active agent, she made it a point to dress down. Minimal makeup. Plain, nondescript clothing. New Destiny may have had a population of two million people, and anyone who mattered knew exactly who she was—but she figured it was better to blend in than stand out. Slade seemed to take the opposite approach.
“What’s so funny?” Slade asked.
“Just wondering why you don’t have a name tag that says ‘secret agent’ on it,” Timony said.
Slade threw up a harsh eyebrow. “I like to look nice.”
“You look like you’re auditioning to play a Bond girl.”
“A Bond girl?”
“James Bond? Classic spy movies.”
Slade shrugged. “No time for movies.”
Timony sighed. “Think of it as homework.”
Slade placed her cup of coffee—now empty—on the table. “What is this about?”
“You’re the spy, right?” Timony said. “Don’t you know?”
To her credit, Slade didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. Timony had taught her well. She remembered when the girl was all sloppy hair and big, nervous eyes. Timony had done a good job molding her. Too good a job, apparently.
“Took you long enough to get back to me.”
“I got back to you in an hour,” she said. “I’ve been busy.”
“With what?”
Slade scoffed. “Please.”
Timony sighed. She had a couple of issues on the table in front of her—Osman, Adan, whatever was happening on the Mosaic, and whatever was happening at the Bazaar—which could all be related, or unrelated. These things tended to be the latter, but she didn’t have enough information to be sure yet.
She took out her phone and clicked on the white noise app, placing it on the table so Slade could see. The app not only killed ambient noise, it jammed any nearby recording devices. This was a private conversation—as much as those existed these days.
“Here’s what I know,” Timony said, locking in on Slade. “Something happened on the Mosaic. There was a distress call that was almost immediately backtracked and then a whole lot of people at the Bazaar lost a whole lot of shit. Osman overheard and now he’s dead. I overheard and I’m on mandated leave. Who looks at a guy his size and thinks they can roll him?”
Slade didn’t budge.
“You’re tired,” Timony said. “I can see the bags under your eyes, even through the sunglasses. How many all-nighters have you pulled? You wouldn’t be so busy unless there was something big going on. I hear hoofbeats, so I think horses, not zebras. The US and China are embarking on a huge mission to advance the human race. Russia was invited but sat out. The fact that one of the big three took a pass makes me think there’s something going on with them—why else would they do that, unless they were running some kind of separate game?”
Timony was fishing a bit. The Interstellar Union was made up of the United States, China, Russia, Iran, the European-African Union, the UK, Japan, Brazil, the Latin American Federation, and Luxembourg.
But the first three controlled the most people, and therefore had the most power.
The rest were all bit players. Usually, if the Bazaar was in a tizzy, it was Russia’s doing, and given the current climate, this would make sense.
Slade was a block of stone. Timony wasn’t even sure she was breathing.
But this is what Timony needed. She needed to talk it out. Talking it out untangled the disparate pieces tied together in her head.
“What this has to do with the Mosaic, I don’t know yet. If there is anything to know,” Timony said. “Maybe sabotage? We all know President Volkov is a bit of a nut, but doing something to screw up the Mosaic’s mission . . . that’s a big play, even for him. It’s too out in the open. Volkov lives in the gray areas. There’d be major consequences, and I think he’s smart enough to know that in the long run, he’d lose. Still, this is what the chessboard looks like to me.”
Still nothing from Slade.
“Meanwhile”—Timony took a sip of her coffee—“I get word that my ex-fiancé may not have died in a training exercise. That there were other factors involved . . .”
Slade’s eyebrow twitched. There it was. Timony smiled. A tinge of humanity. Slade knew Adan. Had hung out with him. Laughed at his jokes. He wasn’t just text on a screen.
“. . . that maybe he was high, which, you knew Adan. He wouldn’t touch a drug to throw it out.” She tapped the table, the picture growing slightly clearer. “Who benefits when the US and China are divided, and China doesn’t get equal play on the field? They must’ve been pretty upset . . .”
“Who told you that?” Slade asked.
It was Timony’s turn to scoff. “Please.”
Slade picked up her empty cup, took a pretend swig, and put it back on the table. Timony was mildly disappointed. Slade was basically confirming for her that, yes, this was all somehow connected. Sometimes tics said more than actual words. Good spies—the ones who lived long enough to even fantasize about retiring—knew how to subsume those moments. Slade had just fucked up.
Timony thought she’d trained her better than that.
“I’m asking for a favor,” Timony said. Slade started to open her mouth, but Timony put her hand up. “Save me the lecture. I get it. I don’t give a fuck what China and the Russians are complaining about. But I can’t sit around and do nothing. And this thing with Adan—I want to know what happened. It’s personal. I want to know why he turned to drugs after dragging my ass across the concrete about them. Where he got them, too. From whom.”
“What does it matter?” Slade asked.
Timony shrugged. She didn’t have a good answer. She couldn’t confront Adan about it. Maybe she could confront Carriles, if he was involved, but even that felt a little empty and unlikely. Maybe she just needed to know what pushed Adan over the edge so she could feel a little less bad about herself.
To maybe get a sense that he regretted what he did to her.
“It just does,” Timony said. “It’s Adan. I want to know.”
“What are you asking me for, specifically?” Slade asked.
“When I got demoted, my security access went with it,” Timony said. “I want to borrow your key. Get to any and all files associated with Adan’s death.”
For a moment, Timony thought that Slade had gone back to statue mode, but then the woman threw her head back and laughed. A low, loud laugh that attracted a few stares from the other patrons. Slade wasn’t one for laughing. It was an unsettling thing to hear. With her laugh, she made it very clear how the rest of this conversation would go.
“Okay, okay,” Slade said, catching her breath. “Look, I get it. It sucks. I’m not being funny right now—I know this is weird for you. You trained me and now I’m in your chair. But do you really think I’m going to let you get me fired? Don’t you know better by now? Is this some sort of revenge thing? I thought better of you, honestly.”
“Wow, c’mon—are you fucking kidding me right now?” Timony asked. “You think I’m doing this to screw with you?”
“Uhh, yeah,” Slade said. “I do.”
Before Timony could respond, Slade stood up from the table and slung her purse over her shoulder. She picked up the cup and tossed it into a nearby trash can. Her movements were precise and calculated, like everything she did. Not a movement wasted.
“Do you know how excited I was when they paired me with you? The Corin Timony? You were the most important person in the room, every damn time. People who I was afraid of were afraid of you. It was inspirational. I knew I was getting the best of the best. You built me. You taught me everything I know. I will always be indebted to you for that. But this ask right here?”
Slade tapped her pointer finger on the table between them, then looked around. There was no one close enough to hear them.
“It’s weak,” she continued. “It’s insulting. It’s petty and desperate. You let me down when I found out what happened. You let us all down. But you’re still you. Deep down, under the drinking and misbehaving, under the Who gives a fuck attitude—it’s you, Corin. You always worked harder than anyone else. You worked smarter. I always figured it was just a matter of time before you climbed back up. I didn’t think you’d try to yank me down at the same time, though. I’m not having that.”
Slade turned to leave.
“Hey!” Timony called after her.
Slade paused. Stood there for a moment, like she was going to turn around, like she’d heard a buzzing noise but just couldn’t place what it was.
And then she kept walking.
Timony leaned back in her seat. Stared past the blue facsimile of the sky and into the void.
She picked up her coffee, considered it for a few moments, then shrugged. She needed a real drink. She needed to think.
[ASTERISM]
Six vodka sodas later, and Timony had a new plan: fight Slade.
It would accomplish nearly nothing, and probably make her life a whole lot harder, but in this moment, she was sure it’d make her feel better.
Because otherwise, her options were pretty much nil. She didn’t know anyone else with the same kind of security clearance that Slade had. At least, no one who was on speaking terms with her. She knew enough about the Bazaar offices to exploit its security flaws, but that was too risky.
Tadeen was bartending at Alamo again, and Timony waved her glass for a refill. She’d abandoned any hope of using him as a distraction, and let him fill her glass and go off to whatever else was more important. She took a sip and let the sting settle, trying to game things out in her head.
Russia’s agents were doing something they shouldn’t.
Whatever was happening on the Mosaic had been worth killing Osman over. Who did the killing was still foggy. But it was clear to Timony that the Bazaar didn’t want anyone to suspect anything, either.
And then there was Adan’s overdose, and his mistake on the training mission. That part didn’t click for Timony. It was too neat, and it didn’t hold water for her, someone who knew Adan intimately. Had Adan been killed? If so, by who? Did China see an opportunity to take advantage of a little chaos and try to slot in their own pilot on the Mosaic?
And . . .
And.
That’s all she had. Maybe. She wasn’t sure.
So much for thinking. As much as she wanted to pretend like it did, the vodka wasn’t helping. She paid her tab, threw back the last of her drink, and headed for the door. She needed a full night’s sleep, and then in the morning a pot of coffee and a disgustingly unhealthy egg sandwich. The caffeine and salt were sure to jump-start what was left of her brain. Sandwyn had said to take the week, and she still had two days left of her mandated vacation.
Even at her worst, Timony was no novice. She understood a suspension when she got one, and it was clear that Slade had reported back about their conversation. It was the right thing to do if you were working by the book, and Slade was in her by-the-book stage. But Timony would make that fact work to her benefit.
In the morning.
As Timony wobbled home, cutting through the cramped streets of Texas 2, she felt a grumble in her stomach. When did she eat last? She should stop in a bodega, get some chips, some ibuprofen, and maybe a beverage. Something with electrolytes, to soften the blow. That’d make the morning a little easier. Timony had it down to a science. Years of drinking taught you the little turnkey things you could do to soften the landing after a rough night. There was no hangover cure, but there were ways to manage.
She was contemplating which direction to take home—it was late, and she wasn’t sure which of the bodegas near her was twenty-four hours—when she heard a scrape behind her.
It was subtle. Like a piece of trash being kicked up by the wind.
Except they didn’t have wind on New Destiny. At least, not this far from the air recyclers.
She glanced back. She was on a residential block—apartment buildings, the ground floors lined with businesses shuttered for the night. Half of the streetlights were burnt out. But even in the darkness, Timony could see the street was empty.
It didn’t feel that way, though.
She turned the corner and walked quickly to the end of the block. It made her head swim, but she knew the layout of this area. If someone was following her, they’d have to come this way—there was no clear path to circle around her or follow alongside her.
She got to the end of the block and watched the corner where she’d just turned. She positioned herself behind a minicar so she could see if someone was following her, but they wouldn’t see her. And she felt silly. She was drunker than usual, and probably just hearing things.
Except, a figure turned the corner—male, tall, wearing a long black coat and a fedora pulled tight over his head. He was moving slowly, scanning the block, looking for someone.
Looking for her.
She considered her options. If this guy meant any kind of serious business, she had a small blade in her boot. But she probably also had lost the ability to accurately wield it two vodkas ago. Not that agents were in the habit of attacking each other in the streets of New Destiny, but it was always safer to assume the other guy wanted to kill you.
So, any kind of physical confrontation was out.
To her left was a wide expanse of street. As soon as she stepped into the open, he would see her, and he was close enough that he could probably chase her down. To the right was an apartment building. A row of them, actually, with smaller housing units currently in the process of being built on top of them. She looked at the door closest to her, and while she couldn’t be sure, it looked like it wasn’t closed all the way. Not surprising; Texas 2 was already going to shit, but that’s what happens when you adopt the same kind of anti-regulation attitude that left Earth’s Texas underwater.
But if she made it into the building, and was able to secure the door behind her . . .
Fuck it. She dove for the door, leading with her shoulder. The distance was the length of a sidewalk—not very far at all—but as soon as she cleared the safety of the car, she heard the man turn on his feet and pursue her.
The door wasn’t all the way closed, which was great, but when she tried to shut it behind her, she found the locking mechanism was broken. Oops. She ran hard to the end of the hall and found the elevator door open. She slid in and hit the button for the top floor, then mashed the door-close button.
Nothing happened.
She could clearly see the door at the front of the building open. The man strode in, and since he could see her too, he wasn’t even hurrying. Timony looked around for an out-of-order sign, something that would give her a hint about what was happening.
His face became a little more clear. She didn’t recognize him, which was significant, because she recognized most of the major players on New Destiny, which means the Russians sent someone new (insulting) or serious (scary).
Timony was considering a new set of options when the elevator doors dinged and began to close. She saw the man pick up his pace, but he was too far away to make it. That was a mercy. She was too drunk for the stairs, too drunk to fight, but the building was ten floors, so she’d be safely on the roof before this guy hit the third stairwell, and then get lost in the tangle of construction up there, maybe climb down a fire escape somewhere—
Just as the doors were about to close, they stopped and opened.
He wasn’t close enough to grab them, but apparently had been able to hit the button just in time.
The doors opened slowly and Timony faced her pursuer. He outweighed her by fifty pounds at least. His hands were empty but there was a lot of space to hide things in his long black coat. He had a nasty scar across his forehead.
“Ya prosto khochu pogovorit’.”
I just want to talk.
Right. Most conversations with Russian assets in empty buildings on quiet streets were punctuated by broken glass and ten-story falls to the concrete.
So Timony responded, “Khuy tebe.”
Fuck you.
And she aimed her shoe at the center of the guy’s chest.
Or at least, she tried. She slipped a little, her head spinning. She meant to catch him in the sternum with enough force to get him off his feet and onto his back. Instead, she missed low, hitting him more in the stomach. She wanted to create distance, but instead of knocking him back, it made him lean forward. So she improvised and put her knee into his nose. She felt it crunch, and as he crumbled back, she followed, stumbling on unsteady feet and—with all this exertion—struggling to not vomit.
She didn’t want to puke on the guy. As much as she didn’t mind hurting him, they were both just doing their jobs. Vomiting all over his head seemed like an indignity that went past the bounds of fair play.
The man went down hard, yelling obscenities in Russian. She tried to move around him, but tripped in the process; she wasn’t sure if it was over her own feet or if he managed to reach out and grab her ankle, but she went down hard. She threw her foot back and caught him again, then scrambled to her feet and burst out the front door of the building.
The street was still empty. This was not ideal. She needed crowds. People. And she couldn’t go home. Not yet. If this guy knew who she was, he knew where she lived.
So, she took off toward Sixth Street, as quick as her drunken feet would carry her. Within minutes she was coming up on the lights and the sound and the revelry of one of the few blocks in Texas 2, and on all of New Destiny, that stayed open all night. Bars and casinos and restaurants, which luckily for her, were hopping.
She weaved her way into the crowd. Once she felt some safety in numbers, she risked a look back, and could see that her new friend was down at the end of the block, entering the crowd, looking for her. He was trying to wipe the blood leaking from his ruined nose, but no one seemed to notice him. He hadn’t spotted her yet, and she could probably spend the next hour weaving in and out of restaurants and bars, trying to lose him, but she was tired, drunk, and needed to get someplace safe. Her ankle felt raw and she was worried something might be broken. She was just too wasted to notice.
She didn’t know anyone in this neighborhood. No safe houses.
No one except Adan, who had lived down the block, in one of the newer luxury apartments.
Without even really considering it, she headed in that direction.
To their former home.
It had been his, first, until he invited her to move in. A gorgeous unit with clean white surfaces, voice-controlled everything, and auto-dimming windows to keep it dark during the day so she could sleep . . .
A far cry from the shitty studio she was staying in now.
But the best amenity was the security guard they had in the front lobby. Not just some retired cop who’d gone to seed and fell asleep watching movies. The guards they hired looked like they meant business. To people like Timony and her friend, they were purely bush league, but it was better than an empty building. The guy following her wouldn’t want to make a move if someone saw his face.
But would her thumbprint still register? He’d had her move out, but did Adan have her purged from the system?
She hustled down the block, into the wider space between the last bar and the rows of apartments, her heart racing. The door was less than fifty feet away, on the corner, and with Tamati on duty. She’d liked Tamati. A big Samoan dude with thick black tribal tats and a major sweet tooth. She would often drop him cupcakes on the way home, which he always housed on the spot and yet never seemed to put on a centimeter of body fat over his rippling muscles.
She was glad to see him on duty, but he was not glad to see her, frowning hard when she reached the door. When she pressed her thumb to the door, it blinked red.
Great. Adan did have her removed. Which, momentarily, made her forget about the fact that someone was coming after her, someone whose nose she’d just broken who was probably looking to return the favor.
Adan hadn’t thought she was coming back. He hadn’t wanted her back.
Grief was complicated, and never linear.
This was the moment Timony chose to burst into tears, as she yanked fruitlessly at the handle of the front door.
To grieve the loss of her job, her fiancé, and her life.
All because she made some stupid decisions.
She looked up to see Tamati standing on the other side of the glass. He was curious, and a little confused, and after a moment seemed to see the fear in her eyes. He swiped the door open and let her in. Timony didn’t allow herself to breathe until the door closed behind her.
She looked through the glass and saw her new friend emerge from a crowd of people. He looked at her, at the building with all its security, at Tamati, and disappeared.
“You all right?” Tamati asked, reaching out to put his hand on her shoulder. Perhaps thinking it might be inappropriate, he quickly pulled it back.
The muscle memory—of just walking into the lobby—sent Timony’s mind spiraling. She was back in their apartment, hastily stuffing clothes into a half-empty box. Her hands shaking—from the anger, but also from the nasty hangover she had been battling. Head throbbing. Mouth dry. It had been a long time coming. She’d been packing all week. But the night before had destroyed whatever chance she’d had at staying.
She’d heard Adan’s throat clearing behind her. He had to leave. Couldn’t do this anymore. Would be back in a few hours. Perfunctory updates—when to messenger the keys. What he’d tell his family. Timony spun around, the motion sending the box crashing to the floor, the sound of dishes crashing as it made contact.
Adan stepped back.
“You’re choosing to do this,” she’d said, her voice hoarse and ragged. “I want to make this work. I want to be here. But you’re giving up on me.”
“Corin,” Adan said, each word slow and methodical coming out of his stupidly handsome face. She watched his mind hover over each sentence—calculating, but caring. “How can I give up on you if you already have? You’re killing yourself. I can’t watch you do that anymore.”
You’re killing yourself.
“Timony?” Tamati asked. “You okay?”
Tamati’s question pulled her back to the present, sending her memory of Adan into the ether. But everything she felt remained. The smell of the apartment. The sound of his voice echoing down the hall. The way his eyes would squint when she said something funny.
She felt a deep pain form inside her.
“I am now,” Timony said.
It was only mostly a lie.