“How long have you been feeling poorly?” Koen asks, rudely interrupting my panic tailspin. I can tell with a millisecond-long glance that he’s willing to slow roast the truth out of me. But what kind of veteran liar would I even be if I didn’t attempt a weak “I’m not. It was just—” “Serena.” He looks at me like I’m not just insulting his intelligence, but also lowering the IQ of the entire pack. Okay. Fine. No games. “I don’t know.”
