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Panopticon
Jay was sitting upright, the top half of the bed folded up to support him. He was wearing a medical binder; from what he’d told Sebastian, it was meant to keep the swelling down and encourage his chest muscles to heal properly. There were two plastic bulbs—surgical drains—clipped to the bottom of the binder, attached to long tubes that emerged from a pair of small incisions under his arms. At the sight of Sebastian, Jay’s face split into an uncharacteristically wide smile. “Hi.”
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Three Weeks Later
Another Brit. They must’ve all come in on the same flight. When Niki was a little girl in Greece, she’d thought the British were polite and sophisticated; just a few years in the hotel business had relieved her of that notion.
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Tech Support
Thanks to a series of overenthusiastic house-warming gifts, Sebastian owned two cast-iron Dutch ovens. His less favourite of the two currently contained his phone, its lid sealed in place with a generous amount of duct tape. He tucked it under his arm to free up a hand as he opened the door for Jay. “Four months?”
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Springing the Trap
Jay, in the passenger’s seat, unbuckled his seatbelt. “We’ve been over this. I’ll be fine.” He chewed his lower lip for a moment, then leaned across the centre console, reaching out to turn Sebastian’s face toward him. “We pull this off, and it’s all over. The job’s done.”
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Crisis Management
“She leaked it!” Jay snarled, without looking up from his phone. “She leaked her own fucking show!”