I click my tongue. "The report, Lorna?”
A bead of sweat cuts a path between her breasts. Yet, my office is not hot. "Thirteen months since they filed it,” she finally says. “Both boys are wards of the state—nobody gave a damn. Perfunctory investigation. Case closed. Cold." She shrugs one shoulder, her eyes never leaving mine. "Thought you should know."
"Thank you for telling me."
I rise to my full height, taking my time to smooth down my tie and summon a smile, soft, charming, even.
Walking around my desk, I gently hold my hand towards her. She takes it like it’s a diamond ring, hesitantly rising to her full height. Her eyes hold mine, lips coming close enough that her breath warms my face.
What were you thinking, Lorna?
Coming here with these… questions.
Her perfume invades my senses—floral and clove. I glide my hand up from hers, whispering my fingertips up her arm, feeling goosebumps erupt beneath my touch. She moans, her eyelids fluttering closed.
I massage the side of her neck possessively, causingher head to roll and whimpers of delight to part her lips. My thumb presses against her pulse—a frantic drumbeat.
Racing.
Nervous.
Why?
I lower my lips to hers.
“Clay,” she breathes.
And as I prepare to kiss her, I drive the letter opener through her throat with such force it carves vertebrae. As her eyes snap open, I swallow her gasp, not with a kiss but as a way to muffle her—the house is busy this time of day. I suck the cries and whimpers from her. Her left carotid erupts with a hot arterial spray I encourage by pulsing my other fist around her neck. I twist the blade, widening the wound, and break away from her mouth.
My darkness feeds on the moment. I keep a hold of Lorna’s throat, containing her swaying form.
“C-Clay.” She claws at my forearm, slashing her desperation into me."Clay.”
“My mother told me to make the tough calls,” I say to her. Watching crimson bubble from her lips as she tries to form my name, I soften my gaze. “It’ll be over soon.”
Red tendrils creep into her hazel eyes, eyes that bulge with terror, pain, and—adoration. Even as her lungs fill with blood, she worships me. For the man I am to her. As if being butchered in my arms is the great love and tragedy she always craved. A grand conclusion.
Her legs give out.
I pull her to my chest, holding her flush against me, cupping the back of her hair, fingers feeding into her red hair.
I whisper to her as she fades. "Shh. Let go. That’s a good girl. It’ll be peaceful soon.”
Her body twitches againstmine—a final, intimate moment. Her blood soaks through my suit, ruining the thousand-dollar cotton. I think of the files she accessed. The questions she asked. The information she was gathering.
Too many.
Too obvious.
Madonna mia.
I carry her to the spot by the window where sunlight drills across the wine stain she eagerly drew attention to. I place her there gently, arranging her limbs with care.
The carpetwillneed replacing.
The expected knock comes precisely on time, the camera in here already giving notes to the only man with access to it—Que. Que and John enter with their equipment and cleaning supplies, faces professionally blank.
Respectful, Se.
