No one came to save me.
Not Mark. Not the neighbors. Not anyone.
I saved myself.
I killed a man who tried to rape me.
Duvall is dead.
Three hours into this, and I still feel nothing.
The woman's picture lies on the table, her kind smile frozen in time, but for all the good it's doing me, I may as well be staring at a potato.
Meanwhile, Nathaniel sits on his bed like a cryptid who’s forgotten how human rest works, flipping through old case files and occasionally glancing at me like I’m supposed to perform a miracle.
It’s the middle of the night. He should be fast asleep. Instead, he’storturingme.
But what can I even do? I’ve been staring at this woman’s picture for hours, and all I’ve accomplished is memorizing the exact shape of her nose and deciding that it actually looks quite Roman underneath all those wrinkles.
At this point, we should just drive to her candy shop in the morning and figure it out there. Except, you see, we're going to do it anyway; it's just that Nathaniel insists I play psychic detective first.
Isigh, rubbing my temples. “This isn't working.”
His cool gaze flicks up from the file.
“Try harder,” he murmurs.
I roll my eyes. “Wow. Stunning insight. Thanks.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t quite smile—just tilts his head slightly. In the warm orange glow of the overhead light, his countless piercings gleam like copper. His hair, usually slicked back, is pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck. Like this, his usual sharp, icy demeanor seems almost soft.
Which is misleading, of course. There’s nothing soft about him. Being in the same room as him feels like a slow kind of torture.
“Just say the word,” he says casually. “I'll help you—Talon style.”
Ah. Yeah. This again.
About three hours ago, well past midnight, we made a deal—he wouldn’t lay a hand on me unless I asked him to. And I haven’t. But this is the second time he's brought it up, and I’m starting to think he wants me to.
“Touch messes with my head,” I remind him. “It doesn't make my powers any different.”
He sighs, drops his gaze to the file in his hands, and starts rolling his lip piercing with his tongue. A completely normal thing to do. Not distracting at all. Nope.
“You're really stubborn about this,” he says. “As if the perspective is so awful.”
“Itisawful.”
I turn around and lean over the table, not wanting to look at him anymore. The way he plays with that metal ring in his lip... Ugh.
I stare at the photo again.
Laura Collins.
Somewhere behind those kind eyes, a soul hides. And if Nathaniel's suspicions hold weight, it's not a pretty one. If she's aserial killer, there are stains on it. Ugly ones. But no matter how hard I stare at the picture, trying to summon my Grim Reaper mojo, I get… nothing.
I just don't think it works that way. I can't just, like, see through someone, especially not from miles away while looking at a picture.
Behind me, Nathaniel shifts on the bed. I know he’s watching me. I don’t have to check. He’s got that“I have thoughts, and they are mildly inappropriate”energy.
