In the end, Logan doesn't give me answers.
Not exactly, anyway.
Or, well—he kind of does. But it's in a backward kind of way.
"Hello, Ms. d'Armand." Marcus Ashby wipes down the seat in my room, as if it's full of incurable diseases. The sharp smell of antiseptic wafting from his sanitizing wipes makes me sneeze.
"Hello, Mr. Ashby."
Marcus perches on the edge of the sanitized chair like it might bite him. His perfectly pressed suit doesn't have a single wrinkle. "It's good to see you're doing okay, Ms. d'Armand."
"Okay is a bit of an overstatement." My throat still burns a little, and my muscles ache like I've run a marathon, but my physical condition is the least of my concerns right now.
I'm honestly shocked Logan's lawyer isn't in one of those biohazard suits.
