The man who'd held her like she was air was gone.
The monster staring at the body was all that remained.
I was good at this.
And that meant Klaus was right.
This was in my blood. Violence. Death. The capacity to look at a human being and see only a problem to be solved.
I moved on autopilot.
Scattered the powder on the desk. Positioned the spoon, the lighter, the baggie. Made it look like he'd been using all night.
Adjusted his arm so the injection site was visible. Staged it like he'd done it himself—one last hit to escape the guilt.
Placed the suicide note where police would find it first thing. "I'm sorry. I can't live with what I've done."
Wiped down everything I'd touched. Syringe. Doorknobs. Desk surface.
Eleven minutes since I'd entered.
I went back the way I came. Up the stairs. Through the bathroom. Out the window. Down the fire escape.
The alley was empty. The street beyond quiet.
I walked the two blocks back to the car. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Just another guy walking home.
Got in.
The handler looked at me. Nodded once.
"Good."
We drove away.
No sirens behind us. No flashing lights. No witnesses running out of houses pointing and screaming.
Just silence.
Just another rich guy who couldn't live with his secrets.
Another body the city would swallow without blinking.
• • •
The handler drove me back to the safe house. Parked. Handed me the burner phone.
"He'll call soon. Answer."
I went inside. The guards nodded. Let me pass.
I went upstairs. Stripped off my clothes. Got in the shower.
The water ran hot—scalding—but I couldn't feel it. Just stood there, hands pressed against the tile, watching the water circle the drain.
No blood. I hadn't even gotten blood on me.
But I felt covered in it anyway.
