Chapter 13 · The Clock That Isn't Ours

"The red light isn't yours, Knox." Marcus's voice again, thin through the vent speaker, gentle in a way that crawled worse than shouting ever could. "So which one of you wants to guess whose it is?"

Knox's hand closed on my wrist before I could answer. He hauled me back from the hinge gap so hard my shoulder cracked into his chest. The mist hit us half a second later — sprinkler override dumping cold water straight down from a header I hadn't even clocked — and the vault temperature dropped ten degrees in about three seconds flat.

The overhead strip lights stuttered once, twice, then held on a sickly half-bright hum, like the whole room was deciding whether to give up too.

I got my free hand around the tray case at my hip and locked it there. Whatever else went dark in this room, that wasn't leaving my grip.

"Get off the door," Knox said, low, right against my ear. Not a request.

"That's your father's voice, not yours," I said. "Which one of you is actually running this room?"

"Neither. That's the problem.