BORROWED TIME: THE DEVIL'S EXECUTOR

Cressida's POV

The coffee mug hits the wall two inches from my head.

I don't flinch anymore. I learned not to three years ago when Marcus Felding became my supervisor and decided I was the perfect target for his daily rage. The brown liquid drips down the white paint like blood, and everyone in the conference room pretends not to see. Twelve people stare at their laptops while my boss's face turns purple.

"You cost us the Hendersen account!" Marcus screams, spit flying from his mouth. "Twenty thousand dollars because you're too stupid to double-check numbers!"

My hands shake in my lap, but I keep them hidden under the table. The thing is, I did check the numbers. Five times. The mistake was his—I saw him change the spreadsheet yesterday after I'd finished. But nobody will believe me. They never do.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, because that's what makes him stop fastest.

"Sorry doesn't pay the bills, Halloway!" He slams his fist on the table. "You're worthless. Completely worthless. I should fire you right now."

He won't, though. He needs someone to blame for his mistakes, and I'm too afraid of losing my job to quit. The hospital bills for Landry make sure of that.

"Get out of my sight," Marcus snarls.

I stand up so fast my chair falls backward. Someone snickers. I don't look to see who. I just grab my notebook and run from the room, my cheeks burning hot. In the bathroom, I lock myself in a stall and cry silently for exactly three minutes. That's all I allow myself anymore. Three minutes, then back to work.

At five o'clock, I pack my bag and leave without saying goodbye to anyone. Nobody says goodbye to me either. I've worked here for four years and I don't have a single friend. I'm the ghost girl who sits in the corner and gets yelled at. The one everyone feels sorry for but nobody helps.

The bus to Memorial Hospital takes forty minutes. I spend the time staring out the window, watching the city get uglier. The shiny office buildings turn into rundown apartments. The clean streets become cracked sidewalks with trash in the gutters. This is the real Veridale, the part the mayor doesn't show in commercials. The part where people like me live.

I sign in at the hospital's long-term care wing. The nurse at the desk, Maria, gives me a sad smile. She's nice, but her niceness makes my chest hurt. Pity always does.

"He had a good day today," she says softly. "Very peaceful."

Every day is the same for Landry. Peaceful just means nothing bad happened. It doesn't mean anything good happened either.

Room 347 is at the end of the hall. I've walked this path so many times I could do it blind. I push open the door and there he is—my little brother, who isn't so little anymore. Sixteen years old, tall and thin, lying in a bed he hasn't left in seven years.

"Hey, Lan," I say, sitting in the plastic chair beside him. It's started to form a permanent dent from my body. "Sorry I'm late. Marcus was being Marcus again."

Landry's eyes stay closed. The machines beep steadily. In and out, in and out. Breathing for him because he can't breathe on his own anymore.

I pull out the book we're reading—The Count of Monte Cristo. We're on chapter twenty-three. It's about a man who was betrayed and locked away for years, then escaped to get revenge on everyone who hurt him. Landry would love it if he could hear me. I like to think he can.

"'There is neither happiness nor unhappiness in this world,'" I read aloud, "'there is only the comparison of one state with another. Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss.'"

My voice cracks on the last word. I set the book down and take Landry's hand. It's warm but limp. No squeeze back. Never a squeeze back.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, like I do every visit. "I'm so, so sorry."

It's my fault he's here. Seven years ago, I was the weird kid everyone bullied at school. Too quiet, too boring, too easy to hurt. Landry always defended me even though he was three years younger. He was brave in ways I never was. Then one day, my bullies got tired of just pushing me around. They wanted to do something worse.

Landry saw them cornering me by the stairs. He ran at them, yelling for them to leave me alone. They pushed him. Just one push. But we were at the top of the stairs, and Landry fell backward. He tumbled down twenty-three steps while I screamed.

The doctors said his brain swelled too much. Even after the surgery, he never woke up. My brave little brother, broken because he loved me.

I read to him for an hour, then check my phone. A new email waits in my inbox. Subject: URGENT - PAYMENT OVERDUE.

My hands go numb as I open it. The hospital wants $8,247 by Friday or they're going to "reassess Landry's care situation." That's fancy talk for kicking him out. My nonprofit job barely pays $32,000 a year. I've been drowning in debt for so long I don't remember what it feels like to breathe.

"I don't know what to do," I tell Landry. Tears drip onto his blanket. "I'm trying so hard, but I can't fix this. I can't fix anything."

The machines keep beeping. The sun sets outside the window. I sit there until visiting hours end and a different nurse gently tells me I have to leave.

I kiss Landry's forehead. "I'll figure something out. I promise."

It's a lie. We both know it, even if only one of us is awake to hear it.

The walk home takes me through the Rust Quarter, the neighborhood where rent is cheap because everything else is dangerous. Street lights flicker. Broken glass crunches under my shoes. I keep my head down and walk fast.

Then I hear screaming.

A girl's voice, young and terrified, coming from the alley ahead. My brain says keep walking, don't get involved, you can't help. But my feet stop moving. Because I remember being that scared girl, and I remember nobody helping.

I turn into the alley.

Five men in gang colors surround a teenage girl on the ground. They're kicking her, laughing while she cries and begs. A small crowd watches from the alley entrance, everyone holding up their phones to record. Nobody's calling the police. Nobody's doing anything except watching.

"Stop!" I shout, running forward. "Leave her alone!"

The biggest man turns to look at me. He's twice my size, covered in tattoos, holding a metal pipe. He grins.

"Look, another one wants to play," he says.

I open my mouth to say something brave, but before I can, he swings the pipe. I dodge—barely—and try to grab the girl's arm. Another man shoves me hard. I fall backward onto concrete, my head cracking against the ground. Stars explode in my vision.

They laugh and go back to hurting the girl. I try to get up, but my body won't work right. Someone's crying. It takes me a second to realize it's me.

I crawl out of the alley. The people recording step aside so they don't get me in their shots. Nobody asks if I'm okay. Nobody calls for help. They just keep filming.

I stumble home in a daze. My apartment is small and cold and empty. I lock the door and slide down to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest.

Everything hurts. My head, my body, my heart. I couldn't save Landry. I couldn't stop the bullies. I couldn't help that girl. I can't even stand up to Marcus at work. I'm twenty-three years old and I've never mattered, not even once.

The city outside my window buzzes with noise and light. Somewhere out there, bad people are hurting good people. Somewhere out there, my brother lies in a bed because I was too weak to protect him. Somewhere out there, a girl I failed to save is probably dying while people watch and do nothing.

I close my eyes and wish—harder than I've ever wished for anything—that I could be strong enough to matter. To help. To fix the broken pieces of this world.

A knock echoes through my apartment.

My eyes snap open. It's past midnight. Nobody ever comes here. I haven't had a visitor in two years.

Three more knocks, patient and steady.

Something cold crawls up my spine. I should look through the peephole. I should call the police. I should do a lot of things.

Instead, I stand up and walk to the door like I'm being pulled by invisible strings.

My hand touches the doorknob.

Another knock.

I turn the lock and open the door.

My father stands in the hallway, smiling at me with warm, familiar eyes. He's wearing his favorite blue sweater, the one I buried him in five years ago.

"Hello, Cressida," he says in his exact voice, the one I hear in my dreams. "I've been looking for you. We need to talk about your brother."

The world tilts sideways.

Because my father is dead, and I'm looking at a ghost, and somehow I know—with absolute, terrifying certainty—that everything is about to change.