Nixon’s POV
"You think you can just run back into this house and pretend you did not drop the ball?"
Uncle Ezekiel did not move from the window seat. His boots remained crossed at the ankle, heavy leather cutting into the delicate white trim of the frame. He looked out at the courtyard, his jaw working a piece of tobacco, completely unbothered by the fact that I was scrubbing blood from my fingernails at the marble sink.
"The door was locked, Ezekiel," I spat, ripping a rough paper towel from the dispenser. It shredded under my damp palms. "He knew exactly when the guards shifted. He knew the secondary lock was broken. He did not just find the cure, he took it because someone gave him the keys."
"People talk," Ezekiel said. He did not look at me. His voice had that flat, low rumble tha
