Do Your Worst(19)

Carefully, he sifted through piles of detritus and debris. Other scientists might have rushed this job, and the HES even seemed to expect him to—certainly Martin would have preferred it—but this work was about more than professional redemption for him. Clark needed to prove to himself that he could work without Patrick—that he was fine—look how fine he was—after the betrayal, the months of despondency that followed.

He would make the best of a bad situation. As it turned out, solitary work suited him. The sudden end of invitations, both personal and professional, had troubled him originally. But now he found isolation no more painful than a fading bruise, an affliction that only hurt when he pressed on it.

In the six months since the scandal broke, Clark had grown a tolerance for loneliness—had learned to fill the silence with classical music, concertos so frenetic, so transportive, he lost himself in the notes. Accompanied by Johann Sebastian Bach, he could fix this mess of an assignment. And himself. Soon—any minute now—he’d stop feeling like the only person who had ever really liked him must have lied about that too.

At first, when the second Brandenburg Concerto cut out, he assumed the batteries on his speaker had died. The castle had given him a hard time since he got here. Nothing at the caliber of a “curse,” mind you—all sites had their challenges and quirks. This one was simply more . . . tenacious. But then . . . a new song began, a sort of vaguely familiar drumbeat.

Had his phone somehow shuffled to another random playlist? Clark’s face folded in confusion. Then the lyrics started—

I’ve known a few guys who thought they were pretty smart

But you’ve got being right down to an art


What in the name of . . .


You think you’re a genius, you drive me up the wall



Marching over, Clark picked up the speaker and, sure enough, it read, Connected device: Riley’s iPhone.

He made a noise alarmingly reminiscent of a chicken. This kind of tomfoolery—this lack of respect for a professional working environment—was exactly why he hadn’t wanted that woman on his site. Hijacking his speaker was so completely juvenile. And her song choice. Some people had no taste at all.

Oh-oh, you think you’re special



Hold on . . . Surely, the lyrics weren’t specifically directed at him?

No. She wouldn’t. Would she?

Clearly Riley had chosen a song to annoy him—a cheerful girl-power ballad—but it wasn’t like she thought he was—

The song switched abruptly, the next opening with a set of unmistakable strings.

Clark stared down at the speaker with mounting dread, waiting for the singing to start.

You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht



Oh, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t even vain!

Growing up he’d been nothing special. Overlarge ears, puppy fat. He’d thinned out when his delayed growth spurt finally deigned to arrive—two years too late. Around the same time he’d finally grown into his teeth.

Clark knew what he looked like now, knew some people liked it, but he didn’t take any particular pleasure in his appearance. In fact, he often found his face an obstacle to connection—people were quick to project fantasies onto him that left little room for reality.

As Carly Simon continued to mock him, Clark seethed. He couldn’t let this indignity stand. He had no choice but to avenge himself. If her phone was in range to connect—two could play this game.

But what song to choose? He needed artillery against her invasion. Something that showed he wasn’t the pompous elitist she presumed. As he scrolled through his playlists, nothing was quite right. Thumbing to the search bar he typed in vengeful woman, but all he got were playlists full of Fiona Apple and Taylor Swift. What the fuck? A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Until, finally, he found the perfect choice. He even head bobbed a little to the intro.

American woman

Stay away from me



Clark turned up the volume.

American woman

Mama, let me be



He smirked. Let her come back from that one.

It barely took her until the third chorus, the music once again switching with an abrupt click.

Payback is a bad bitch

And baby, I’m the baddest



He rolled his eyes. Who even sang this? Some teenager?

Now you’re out here looking like regret

Ain’t too proud to beg, second chance, you’ll never get



Jesus. Clark barely stopped himself from laughing, muffling the impulse with his fist. He was almost having fun—he had to put a stop to this at once.

Urgently, he hit the off button on the speaker, plunging the room back into silence. He simply couldn’t tolerate these types of time-wasting pranks. Setting down the device, he went to find her. They were about to have a very strongly worded conversation.

“Riley,” he called, heading through the granary toward the servant’s hall. She couldn’t have gone that far and still been in range.

A few steps farther and an acrid smell hit his nose. Was that— Clark sped up, breaking into a jog when the hint of smoke grew stronger.

“RILEY.” Clark burst into the hall to find her with her back to him, standing in front of the hearth. “Tell me you’re not intentionally starting a fire.”