"So now it's just you." Soft now. "The last loose end."
"You don't have to do this. Venetti's already convicted. Killing me won't change that."
"No. But it'll tie things up nicely." He reaches into his coat with his free hand. Pulls out a folded piece of paper. "You're a writer, Eden. Writers leave notes."
He unfolds it. Holds it up so I can see.
My handwriting. My exact handwriting—the loops, the slant, everything.
"Your interview notes were very helpful. Took some practice, but I've always been good with details." He reads aloud. "'I can't live with what I've done. Detective Carver tried to help me, but I couldn't take the pressure anymore. The things he made me do to keep me safe. The way he touched me. I told him to stop and he wouldn't. So I stopped him. Now I have to stop myself.'"
"No." The word comes out strangled. "No one will believe—"
"Traumatized witness. Months of stress. Isolated. Alone." He tucks the note back in his pocket. "Carver's body will be found in his car. Your prints on the gun that killed him—this gun." He holds it up. "Same gun that kills you. Murder-suicide. Tragic. Tidy."
"I won't—"
He moves fast. Spins me around and shoves me forward into the kitchen island. My chest hits the counter edge. My left arm is crushed between my body and the granite—pinned by his weight pressing me down.
His hands are free now. Both of them.
One grabs my right wrist. Forces my arm up, bending it toward my own head. The other shoves the gun into my palm, wrapping my fingers around the grip.
I can't breathe. My heart is slamming so hard I can hear it.
Gray light is bleeding through the curtains now. Dawn. The world waking up while I die in my own apartment.
"You have to hold it." His voice is in my ear. Calm. Patient. "Fingerprints. Has to look right."
I thrash. Kick backward—my heel connects with his shin, then higher, his knee. He grunts—weight shifting for half a second—
Not enough. He slams me harder against the counter. The gun finds my temple.
"Nice try." He forces my arm higher. The metal is cold against my skin. "Barrel to the temple. That's it. Just like that."
Bile rises in my throat.
"Please—"
"It's not going to hurt, Eden." His finger finds mine on the trigger. Presses down, holding it in place. "One second you're here, suffering, drowning in guilt. The next—" He makes a soft sound in my ear. "Pow."
I flinch. A sob tears out of me.
"You can do this. I'll help you." His voice is soft now, coaxing. "Just hold the barrel right here. That's good. You're doing so good."
Diesel said that to me once. In the kitchen. When I was learning to—
The pressure on my finger increases. His finger over mine. Ready.
I'm fighting. Pulling. Screaming. None of it matters.
"You put up a good fight." His lips brush my ear. "Now it's time to die."
I close my eyes.
I'm sorry. For all of it. For not understanding why you let me go.
"Stop moving." His voice hardens. The gun digs into my temple. "Hold still and this goes quick."
