th

nd polished mahogany, felt heavy in my lungs. Across the massive desk, Anya sat w

slid the stack of papers between us. The official Rejecti

d to sign, next to her name: Anya Kent. For seven years, it had been A

her expression calm, her posture perfect. She looked like she was re

in the face. Didn't any o

regret. I snatched the pen and scrawled my signature

age. She read every line, every clause, her violet eyes missing

ure, unlike mine, was an elegant, delibera

int severing. The last legal and ritualistic thre

back to Alistair and st

my lips before I could

o look at me. No anger, no sadnes

lance of the control I had lost. "Is that it?" I asked,

argument? Tears? Some sign that

ghtly. Then, she gave a small, almost imperceptible shak

punch to the gut. It created a chas

sting on the brass knob. She paused agai

gone, replaced by something I couldn't decipher. It was

, "for the seven years we shared a r

suspiciou

she'd used in the square. "You have a meeting in Seattle this

ay. "Specifically, between four and five o'clock. There will be an accident

he simple finality of a weathe

die," sh

. It wasn't a threat. The certainty in her voice, in her unnervin

a pro

uickly as it had appeared, replace

a shrug, as if my life or death were a

lked out, leaving me standing a

e clock on the wall. The

ho

ing in my head. A tanker truck

act of revenge? A mind g

it th

ed on the answer. And I ha