He hadn’t touched me, hadn’t raised his voice, but I was more rattled than I had been the night I saw that man shot in the street.
I thought about telling Halo. I even opened my mouth to say it out loud, to practice how I would tell him like that would make the decision easier. But then I imagined the look on his face, the disappointment and the frustration. TheI-told-you-soclipped into every edge of his voice.
I needed to know I could handle myself. That I wasn’t a prisoner. So I decided to say nothing. I finished the candy barand threw the wrapper in the trash. Then I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Chapter thirty-two
Halo
“Party Crasher”
Theairwasthickwith the sound of children screaming: happy, high-pitched chaos drifting across the suburban lawn where balloons bobbed and folding tables sagged under the weight of cake and soda. I didn’t look at the kids sprinting across the grass or the parents laughing together. I only had eyes for the man: Jason Rowe.
Mid-forties, greying at the temples. He had the kind of laugh that used to echo down bloodstained corridors, the man who called shots and got people killed but never pulled a trigger on his own. He was a predator in a collared shirt, holding a paper plate with store-bought cupcakes. He crouched to tie a kid’s shoe, even smiled like he meant it. I watched from across the street, perched in the window of yet another abandoned building. My black hoodie was zipped up, mask on, hands steady.
I waited. I could have shot him on the grass in front of everyone, but that wasn’t how I worked. No theatrics, no warnings, just one exhale and a gentle squeeze.
Eventually, Jason slipped away to toss a bag of trash into the dumpster at the end of the parking lot. I couldn’t hear him from the distance, but I could see his lips moving as he muttered to himself about frosting and sticky fingers. The moment he stepped off the curb, I raised the rifle. Scoped, silenced. Just one round chambered.
A clean shot. The man dropped in an awkward sprawl onto the pavement, red blooming against khaki like spilled paint. The shot was muffled by the hum of traffic and laughter from the birthday party behind the trees. He lay dead, without ceremony, beside his SUV. A family balloon drifted away in the wind, and I was gone before anyone screamed. I was already moving, rifle packed, walking calmly back to where I’d parked. No rush, no adrenaline. Just a job done, one less danger to Eden in the world.
The motel room was too quiet when I got back. Eden sat on the edge of the bed, thumbing a loose thread on the motel blanket. She didn’t say anything when I pulled out the folder, didn’t ask who. She just watched as I crossed Jason Rowe’s face out and set his file aside. When I looked up, she was still watching, her gaze unreadable but electric. Not afraid or judgmental, just tuned in. I stood to kick my boots off and put them by the door. She blinked at the movement, looking away as though she had to remind herself not to stare. She cleared her throat, reaching over to flip the switch of the little radio on the bedside table.
“Too quiet in here isn’t it?” she asked.
The music started. It was some old, bubbly track full of static and swing. Something ridiculous. She turned to look at me with a little smirk.
“Oh no,” I said automatically.
“Oh yes,” she replied.
“I’m not doing this.”
“You’re already standing,” she pointed out, not wrong.
“That was a lapse in judgment.”
She twirled away from me, spinning with a bounce in her step like we were in a grand ballroom instead of a box that smelled like mildew. She extended her arms like she was pulling me into some fever dream.
“Come on. Live a little. Bet you didn’t know I had these moves,” she said, shimmying in a way that was both terrible and endearing. I wanted to stay stone-faced but my mouth twitched, threatening to turn up into a smile.
“You are deeply unwell,” I muttered.
“I’m adelight.”
She danced like she did when she thought no one was watching. I didn’t move, not really. Just stood there while she circled around me like a moon made of chaos and warmth and a hundred things I didn’t deserve. She slid on the carpet and nearly fell, catching herself on the bed with a laugh.
I almost laughed too. Almost.
“Come onnn,” she said, grabbing my hand. Her fingers were warm. Insistent. “Just one stupid little dance.”
I let her pull me, but I didn’t dance. I stood stiffly while she moved around me, her laughter and momentum carrying the whole moment. But when she spun, I caught her waist. When she leaned, I held her hands. I was awkward as fuck, and I knew it.
“See?” she beamed. “You’re doing it.”
“God help me,” I muttered, and Ididsmile.
She noticed, her own smile only growing more.
