Chapter 15 · Someone Else's Hand on the Clock

My name's still glowing red on that screen when Calder's hand closes over my wrist.

"Don't touch it," he says.

"It's got my name on it, Calder. LOT SEVEN. I. PELL." I yank against his grip and it doesn't move an inch. Finger-bruise pressure, four points already blooming under my skin. "You knew about this."

"I didn't know they'd post it tonight."

"That's not a no."

He doesn't answer. That's answer enough. I go for the keyboard bolted under the monitor, some stupid idea of deleting it, wiping it, making it not real, and he pulls me back so hard my shoulder catches the doorframe and something in my sleeve gives — a seam ripping at the cuff, cheap thread, cheaper coat. Cold air on my wrist where the fabric tears open.

"Sit down," he says.

"Sit down." I laugh, and it comes out wrong, cracked at the edges. "You want me to sit down while your cousins auction my lungs."

"They're not my cousins tonight. Tonight they're Dez's crew and Dez doesn't ask me first."

"Convenient."

"It's not convenient, it's a problem." His voice drops. Not softer — lower, like he's rationing it.