“At what level can you condone murder?” I ask.
Una stops swirling the ice in her glass as Pierre puts his drink down.
Una is the first to answer. “I don’t think you can ever condone murder.”
Pierre presses his lips together. “I disagree.”
She flashes him a look. “How can you say that?”
“If someone had shot Hitler when he was younger, I’m sure history books would have been a lot nicer reads.”
“But that’s with hindsight. No one could have known what he was going to do,” Una argues. This is the type of debate she loves. Something to get her teeth into, a corner to fight in, a cause to rally for, and she will not back down.
“Okay, say someone had killed him halfway through his murderous rampage. The world would still have been a better place. And he’s not alone. There are plenty of barbaric people out there who deserve to die,” Pierre says.
Una opens her mouth, about to launch her counter defence, but then she stops and looks at me. “Wait, why are you asking us this?” She arches a heavily pencilled eyebrow, the ruby dangling from her choker wobbling with every word. Her cabaret goth look is one of my favourites.
There’s no need for me to answer this question. If I leave them long enough, they’ll work it out for themselves. Even though they weren’t working for theGazettewhen it happened, everyone knows about my brother and what went down at Fortunato Casino ten years ago, and they’ve all heard the rumours about Valdemar’s release.
“Wait, is this to do with your brother?” Una asks.
I’m tempted to congratulate her on getting there before Pierre, but it would be in poor taste.
“Is this to do with Valdemar Montresor?” she pushes.
His name doesn’t sound right coming from her mouth, and I’m suddenly possessive of it. I fight the urge to say something, to acknowledge him as mine.
Pierre leans in. “This isn’t some therapy technique, is it? Where they suggest you forgive the person who killed your brother to seek closure?”
Una glares at him. “You can’t ask her if she’s seeing a therapist. That’s none of your business.”
“I didn’t ask,” he shoots back.
“You implied,” she says.
“Hey, it’s fine.” I shake my head. “I did see a therapist when it happened—fat lot of good it did me—but I stopped going a few years ago. I think I’m beyond therapy now.”
“Then what is it?” Una urges.
After contemplating my next disclosure, I take the leap. “I’ve been to see him.”
“Valdemar Montresor?” Pierre’s hand hovers over his glass.
“Yes.”
He whistles. “Jeez, you’re braver than me, girl.”
Una squints. “Why? How?” And I can see the hurt already brewing behind her heavily made-up face that I’m only telling her this now.
“I needed to. I thought it was time.” I don’t want to tell them that he asked me to—it’ll only raise their suspicions, and I already feel like I’m telling them too much, but my mother’s empty silences have started to take their toll. It’s time to talk to the living.
“Time for what? Wait.” Una rests her hand on my arm. “You’re not planning on killing him, are you?”
She laughs, not a real laugh but one of confusion, but I don’t, and neither does Pierre.
“Shit, Evangeline, you’re not, are you?” Her eyes widen.
“No.” My eyes flit between them. Their stares are hard, their faces like stone. They don’t know what to do with this information, don’t know what to say because there’s no rule book, no guidance on what to say to a friend who’s visited theman who killed their brother. “No—don’t be daft. I just needed to understand.”
