chef’s knife: /SHefs nif/: noun
1: a versatile, all-purpose blade used for chopping, slicing, and dicing; the most essential tool in any kitchen.
2: the instrument that severs everything: flesh, bone, trust, love.
Bastian doesn’t see me at first. And he’s far enough away, separated by a dozen or more yards of trash-strewn alley and the thick veil of rainfall between us, that it’s hard for me to see exactly what he’s doing.
He’s kneeling on the ground, and laid out at his feet is?—
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
Oh my fucking God.
Then I’m kneeling on the ground, too, before I even realize I’ve moved. My knees hit the wet pavement hard and all my manycuts tear open anew, but the jolt of pain barely registers. All I can see through the rain and my failing vision is Bastian’s silhouette against the brick wall.
Because he’s kneeling over a dead body.
I want so badly to scream his name. I open my mouth, but the words won’t come out and the breath won’t go in. I’m choking on rain and horror. All I can do is watch.
Something flashes. A blade. In Bastian’s grasp. He grabs the dead man’s hand and splays it flat on the concrete. And as I watch, he—he?—
He fucking saws off a pinky.
My heart stops in place.
“Bastian!” The scream finally tears out of my throat.
He goes rigid. His head snaps up, and even from this distance, even through the downpour, I can see the moment he registers that it’s me. That I’m here. That I’ve found him.
He rises slowly to his feet. Blood drips from both hands and the edge of the blade. It mixes with the streaming rivulets of water that whirl around his feet. His tuxedo shirt is soaked through, turning the white fabric translucent. I can see every outline of his abs, every curve of his tattoos.
His eyes are black, so black. They’ve never been blacker.
I force myself to stand. With the help of the brick wall, I manage to struggle to my feet. I take one step forward. Then another. The alley seems to stretch impossibly long between us, like I’m walking through acres of mud, like the universe itself is trying to stop me from reaching him.
“Bastian,” I say again, quieter this time. I don’t know if he can hear me, though I don’t think it matters anymore. He and I are now standing on opposite sides of a chasm that can never, ever be crossed.
He’s still holding the severed pinky. The blood keeps dripping. The rain keeps pouring. The man stays dead, of course. I don’t know why that surprises me. I guess that, after seeing Bastian chop off someone’s finger, anything seems possible. Even coming back from beyond.
I take another step toward him, then another. Under my bare, bruised, cut-to-shit feet, I can feel every piece of gravel. In a weird way, I’m almost grateful for that. The pain keeps me tethered to reality when everything else feels like it’s spinning away.
“What have you done?” I croak over the drumming rain.
Bastian doesn’t answer. He just stands there, frozen, the knife still dangling from his right hand. His chest heaves with ragged breaths. Water streams down his face—rain or tears, I can’t tell which. That no longer matters, either.
I’m close enough now to see the body clearly. A man in his fifties, thick-necked, wearing a cheap suit. His dead eyes stare up at nothing. There’s so much blood pooling around him that it looks black in the dim light.
“Bastian.” I’m begging now, though I don’t know what I’m begging for. An explanation? A denial? For him to tell me this isn’t what it looks like? Nothing he can say will make this go away.
He drops the knife. It clatters against the concrete with a sharp, metallic sound that makes me flinch. “Eliana.” My name breaks on his lips. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”
“I wasn’t supposed to—” I cut myself off. I stare at him, at this man I thought I knew, thought I loved. “What does that mean? I wasn’t supposed to see youmurder someone?”
“It means that—” He stops, rubs his jaw, and tries again. “I did this for you.”
I feel insane. I want to scream at the top of my lungs until someone comes and wakes me up from this nightmare.
