Our Infinite Fates

WHEN I KNOCKED AT the door of the flat above the petrol station, nobody answered.

The plan was just to go and talk to Ceri. To figure out if he really was Arden. And, if so, to tell him all about Gracie and my predicament in the hope he’d agree to postpone the slaughter until after my stem cells were safely in her body. Surely he still held enough love for me to allow me two more days.

Patting the knife in my pocket to make sure it hadn’t dropped out, I rang the doorbell twice, waiting for the sound of footsteps plodding down the stairs to the small white door. And then I waited some more, unsure what to do next.

I could have just texted him. Assumed he was Arden and told him about the transplant, begged for his mercy in the hope that our time in Siberia had meant as much to him as the poetry book suggested. But I wanted to gauge his reaction, search him for pressure points, press down on them like bruises. I didn’t want him to be able to dodge the conversation. I needed him to understand how important this was to me.