I slip out of the room, and for about two weeks I’m high enough on the knowledge that my project will be happening that I manage to do just that: not let anyone know. I don’t even tell Mara and Sadie when we FaceTime, because . . . because to explain the degree of Ian’s betrayal, I’d have to admit to the lie I told them years ago. Because I feel like a total idiot for trusting someone who deserves nothing from me. Because being honest with them would first require me to be honest with myself, and I’m too angry, tired, disappointed for that. In my rants, Ian becomes a faceless, anonymous figure, and there is something freeing in that. In not letting myself remember that I used to think of him fondly, and by name.

Then, exactly seventeen days later, I meet Ian Floyd in the stairwell. And that’s when everything goes to shit.

I spot him before he sees me—because of the red, and the general largeness, and the fact that he’s climbing up while I’m going down. There are about five elevators here, and I’m not sure why anyone would willingly choose to subject their bodies to the stress of upward stairs, but I’m not too shocked that Ian is the one doing it. It’s the kind of glory-less overachieving I’ve come to expect from him.

My first instinct is to push him and watch him fall to his death. Except I’m almost sure it’s a felony. Plus, Ian is considerably stronger than me, which means it might not be feasible. Abort mission, I tell myself. Just squeeze by. Ignore him. Not worth your time.

The problems start when he looks up and notices me. He stops exactly two steps below, which should put him at a disadvantage but, depressingly, unfairly, tragically, doesn’t. We are at eye level when his eyes widen and his lips curve in a pleased smile. He says, “Hannah,” a touch of something in his voice that I recognize but instantly reject, and I have no choice but to acknowledge him.

The staircase is deserted, and sound carries far. His “I came looking for you” is deep and low and vibrates right through me. “Last week. Some guy in your office said you don’t work there much, but—”

“Fuck off.”

The words crash out of me. My temper has always been reckless, one hundred miles per hour, and . . . well. Still is, I guess.

Ian’s reaction is too baffled to be confused. He stares at me like he’s not sure what he just heard, and it’s the perfect chance for me to walk away before I say something I regret. But seeing his face makes me remember Merel’s words, and that . . . that is really not good.

He didn’t believe you capable of doing the work.

The worst part, the one that actually hurts, is how thoroughly I misjudged Ian. I actually thought he was a good guy. I liked him a lot, when I never let myself like anyone, and . . . how dare he? How dare he stab me in the back and then address me as though he’s my friend?