Free Rifter (The Survival Project Duology Book 1) by Juliet Boyd

heard the low humming sound of the door releasing through the speaker. Her face disappeared from view. He had no idea what time it was. He opened the door to the flat and waited for the lift to ping. When she arrived, she stomped past him without saying a word.
    “You did tell them you’d left?” he said. Mayra turned. Her sullen face regarded the way he was now leaning against the door frame. It probably wasn’t his best opening gambit, but she didn’t seem to notice. She didn’t notice his face, either. Her ire at her own situation was ruling her thoughts and her vision.
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I did. They weren’t pleased, but who cares? All those delightful people fussing over me.” She shivered in disgust. “I hate people fussing over me. Especially, people I don’t know.”
    Never had the word delightful been said with such distaste.
    He felt like she might be angling for an apology for leaving her there, but he didn’t oblige. None of this was actually his fault — at least, not directly. He hadn’t caused the rift to open. He hadn’t been the one who sent Mara through. It was his fault that he’d hastily arranged lunch with her in the hope that the rifter might see them and let their curiosity overtake them, but he hadn’t orchestrated Mara’s actions. Even he wasn’t that clever. He’d expected her to follow him.
    They didn’t kiss in greeting. They hadn’t done that for a long time. They had got to the point where their public face was very different to their private one.
    “I’m parched,” she said, “The tea in that place was like dishwater.”
    Of course, she’d drunk dishwater many a time. He’d seen her with her head over the washing-up bowl, lapping away at it like a dog, only that morning.
    She walked straight to the kitchen, him following close behind, and filled the kettle with far more water than she needed to boil, unless she was having a pint of tea. He rubbed at his eyes whilst berating himself for having his head in a different world. When he opened them again, she’d raised her head and was sniffing deeply. Her nose wrinkled. It didn’t look cute. “Didn’t you put the extractor on when you were cooking? Christ, you screw everything up. I can’t believe your mother never taught you this stuff. We’re not in the Dark Ages.”
    The room did smell sour. He’d tried his best to clean up the sauce that had been plastered across everything, but he’d hoped the cleaning lady would have time to give the room a once over in the morning, before Mayra came round. He’d known his efforts wouldn’t be good enough.
    “I had an accident.” He shrugged as he spoke. It would account for the smell and with any luck she wouldn’t ask what accident and how. She had far more important things to discuss.
    He was correct.
    She still hadn’t noticed his blotchy face. Even though he hadn’t looked, it had to still be red from the scalding. It felt uncomfortable.
    “So, aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” she said.
    He looked at the clock on the wall. It was five past one. He wasn’t in the mood for long, drawn-out explanations. He needed to be sharp the next morning. He needed to be rested.
    “You’ll have to talk to the police about that. They can deal with it.”
    He’d said it without really thinking. She’d probably already spoken to them.
    She turned to look at him, her eyes wide and disbelieving. “You don’t even want to know?”
    He rubbed at his eyes again, hoping she might get the hint. “Of course, I do, but it’s late.”
    A sound similar to a dog choking up grass came out of her mouth. Her hands moved to her hips. She bent over toward him, her face tarnished with a scowl.
    “So, you don’t want to know that some freak double of mine appeared behind me, no warning, and shocked the hell out of me? It was like, Christ. I nearly peed my pants.”
    He tried to look surprised, but he couldn’t manage it.
    She straightened up, her eyes even