"Oh God," she whispers, one hand pressed to her mouth. "Oh God, what did you do?"
The cleanup crew looks between Hannah and me like they're not sure whether to keep going or return to the basement.
I gesture for them to keep moving. They disappear through the service exit with their grim cargo.
Hannah backs away from me, her eyes wide with horror. "You killed someone. In your own house. Where your daughter lives."
"The situation required immediate resolution," I say, keeping my voice calm despite the way she's looking at me—like I'm a monster.
"The situation—" She laughs, but there's no humor in it, just the brittle edge of hysteria. "You mean murder. You mean you murdered someone in your basement like some kind of?—"
"Like some kind of what, Hannah? What exactly did you think I was?"
The question stops her short. She stares at me, and I can see her trying to reconcile the man who held her last night with the one who just executed someone in the room below us.
"I thought—I hoped—" She shakes her head violently. "Who was he?"
"Someone who betrayed my family."
"Like my father supposedly betrayed your family?"
The connection she's making sends cold dread through my veins. "This is different."
"Is it?" She moves closer, fury overriding her fear. "Is this what happens to people who cross you? Is this what you're planning to do to my dad?” Her face goes white again. “Was that my father!”
“No,” I assure her. “It was not your father.”
I want to lie and tell her that Richard Quinn's fate will be different, but I've never been good at pretty lies, especially not to her.
"This is what happens to people who steal from us," I say instead. "This is what happens to people who betray the trust we place in them."
"I want to speak to my father."
"Hannah—"
"Right now. I want proof of life, or I'm going to assume you've already done to him what you did to that poor bastard downstairs."
The demand is reasonable, even smart. If I were in her position, I'd want the same reassurance. But the fear in her voice and the way she's backing away from me like I might grab her next, cuts deeper than it should.
"Your father is safe," I tell her. "For now."
"Prove it."
I study her face, noting the way her hands shake despite her defiant tone. She's terrified, but she's not backing down. The courage she's showing in the face of what she just witnessed is both admirable and dangerous.
"Fine," I say, pulling out my phone. "But you get one minute. And you don't say anything that might endanger him further."
I dial Richard Quinn's number, watching Hannah's face as the phone rings.
When her father's voice comes through the speaker—tired, worried, but very much alive—I see her shoulders sag with relief.
"Dad?" she says, moving closer to the phone.
"Hannah? Jesus, sweetheart, are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. I'm—" She glances at me, and I can see her measuring her words carefully. "I'm safe. Are you?"
"For now. Hannah, listen to me?—"
