“Oh, Bev,” August murmured.
The blade kissed bone. Her scream tore the night. Bev jerked, sobbing, and the sound folded back on itself. Lucas felt the echo.
Atticus switched rags, worked quickly, then cut a packet of lidocaine and injected around the wound with a calm that wasalmost obscene. “You keep lying, you’re going to give yourself arrhythmia,” he said conversationally. “Drink.”
He tipped a bottle of water to her lips. She swallowed twice, almost choking, then coughed, spots of red blooming on the gauze. Once more Lucas caught the scent of copper, antiseptic, and wet roses hanging heavy and too sweet.
Jericho paced restlessly. “Round three. When Gage died, did you ever—at any point—wish it had been Zane instead?”
The night shifted. Somewhere, a cicada wound down mid-song.
Bev’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “No,” she said, too fast. “Never.”
Touch.
The funeral, too bright, too white, lilies and cameras. Bev clutching a handkerchief that didn’t catch any tears while she looked at Zane like he had stolen something. Zane at eighteen, crawling into his big brother’s empty bed just to try to reconnect. Bev yanking back the covers, her voice cold.
Don’t be morbid; it’s inappropriate. Get up.
A night years later, Bev drunk, mascara like claws, whispering,you should have been the one to die.
Lucas’s face didn’t move. “Lie.”
Bev’s denial collapsed into shrieking; it didn’t matter. Jericho’s hand stayed steady. The next finger went with a wet pop. A mist of blood caught the light, brief as breath before the wind carried it away.
Atticus worked again, gauze, pressure, an IV line now taped to the inside of her elbow. “We’ll keep you upright,” he said, matter-of-fact. “We’re not done.”
August tilted his head, almost tender. “Round four. Have you ever hit him?”
Bev’s nostrils flared. “I already answered this. I disciplined him. You people don’t understand boundaries. The world has gone soft.”
Lucas clenched her wrist tight.
A bathroom door locked. Zane on the other side, small fist banging while Bev counted backward from ten the way a yoga app had taught her, then realizing she could simply leave him there. A wooden spoon. The welt it left. The word she used—correction—because it sounded better thanrage.
“Lie,” Lucas said.
The knife came down again. Bev’s head fell back; her voice ripped the dark. Somewhere in the maze, a night bird shrieked in alarm and vanished into the hedges.
Atticus’s gloves were pink to the wrist now. He didn’t seem to notice. He looked at Lucas. “You getting what you need?”
Lucas didn’t answer the question. He glanced at August. “She’s saving something. There’s a pocket she hasn’t touched yet.”
“Good,” August said, delighted. “Round five. While he was a child—before Gage died—did you ever protect Zane? From anyone? Including yourself.”
Bev blinked, a weird little tremor passing through her. “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course.”
Lucas gripped her wrist once again.
A neighbor’s dog. Zane at six, laughing, hands outstretched, Bev jerking him back so hard his shoulder bruised while she smiled for the neighbor. Gage stepping between them on a later day, voice shaking, sayingstop it, Mom,and Bev slapping him for the audacity. A parent-teacher conference: the teacher, gentle as she saidZane seems tired, and possibly malnourished.Bev cutting her off, calling Zane manipulative and a picky eater while Zane folded in on himself.
Lucas let go. “Lie.”
August didn’t need the cue twice. The blade flashed; the bone yielded. The air trembled with her scream, raw, jagged. Bev slumped, almost sliding sideways, and Atticus’s hand shot out, palm flat to her sternum, pressing her upright with clinical efficiency.
Atticus spoke quietly into his mic. “Vitals holding. She’s not going into true shock yet. Hydration, sugar.” He glanced at August. “Layer your questions. Keep her talking. Rage actually helps.”
“Always does,” August said, almost fond. He tapped the knife against the table. Each metallic tap felt like a ticking clock counting down to her confession.
