Page 67

We both work on our laptops. I’m mostly doing correspondence. Part of me would love to get wrapped up in coding, but I just can’t find that degree of focus. Better to get the less enjoyable tasks out of the way.

Yes, I find coding enjoyable. It’s problem solving, and I can get as immersed in it as Anton would get in his mathematical equations. We were both in the rare and enviable position of having jobs we genuinely enjoyed. That was one of many things that drew me to him. I’d been with guys who complained nonstop about their work, or who made me feel guilty for liking mine, as if I were giving in to “the man.” I wanted a healthy work-life balance, but I also didn’t want to be mocked for enjoying my job.

Within an hour, I achieve inbox zero. That sounds impressiveuntil I admit that I have a very organized email system that snoozes anything I don’t need to handle right away. Once all the important emails are answered, I move on to project management, double-checking my schedule and moving things around my task list.

I’m in the midst of switching the order of two projects when I hear my name.

“Nic…”

I glance at Jin, even as I know that’s not his voice. It’s Anton’s.

Jin doesn’t notice my pause. He’s typing something, his keystrokes far softer than mine, but his attention even more riveted on his task.

“Everything’s okay,” Anton whispers.

Jin’s head whips up, and he looks from side to side before his gaze shoots to me.

“Did you hear…?” he says.

“Yes,” I whisper, barely able to get the word out. My heart hammers so hard I have to struggle to breathe.

When Anton’s voice comes again, it slides from another corner of the room.

“I love you,” he says, barely louder than a sigh. “I’m waiting.”

“Holy shit,” Jin breathes, his eyes wide.

“You… heard that?”

“Anton’s voice? Saying he loves you, that he’s waiting?”

I nod, my entire body drum-tight, my teeth aching from clenching.

Don’t get too excited. You’ve been fooled before.

As if reading my mind, Jin glances toward the door and whispers, “We need to be sure, right? That Dr. Cirillo isn’t doing it? With speakers or something?”

Another wordless nod. Jin slides silently to his feet and eases the door shut. Then he comes back to me.

“Anton?” Jin says, looking around.

No response.

“If you’re there, can you give us a sign?” Jin says, and then whispers to me, “Is that how it’s done?”

I’m going to say something sarcastic when I see the earnestness in his eyes, and I say, neutrally, “That’s classic séance-speak.”

“Which means it’s probably Hollywood bullshit.”

“Classic spiritualism, I should say, which predates Hollywood.”

Jin looks around. “Anton?”

Nothing.

“You try,” Jin says. “If he’s come back, it’s for you.”

There’s something in those words that sets the hairs rising on my neck. Jin says it with that same earnest calm, but what I hear is almost a threat.