The two men were tied together by more than years and their country of origin. Willi might know what the problem was.
“I’d like to see Willi,” she said. “Do you think he might come to visit?”
Bernie hesitated, but then he shrugged and said, “I’ll find out.” He meant it, too—he dematerialized the next moment. One of the advantages of a single-occupancy hospital room.
But when Willi arrived a few minutes later, alone, she immediately discarded her plan of pumping him for information.
Days-old stubble shot out from his face and neck. His clothes were wrinkled, as if he’d slept in them. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept at all. His usual bustling energy was gone, the all-consuming purpose consumed.
“Hi,” she murmured. Why had she assumed he was fine? He’d killed a man. Why hadn’t she asked after him?
“Dr. Daggett,” he said, the words heavy and defeated.
She shook her head. “Emily. ‘Dr. Daggett’ is for students, and no one calls me ‘Daggett’ except—well, anyway, it’s just Emily.”
He stood there, looking at the floor and saying nothing.
“Um,” she said, oh-so-eloquently. “Why don’t you sit?”
He sat.
She rolled her blanket between her fingers, grasping for something to say. For lack of anything better, she decided to cut right to the heart of the matter. “It wasn’t what you expected, was it. With Kincaid, I mean.”
He looked up, though he didn’t quite meet her eyes. “No.”
“Whatdidyou expect?”
He was silent for so long, she thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Peace,” he whispered finally. “And—what is the word? ‘Closure’?” He made a soft, bitter sound. “It was false hope. I feel only emptiness.”
“Sometimes that happens after you’ve accomplished a goal you’ve pushed single-mindedly toward.” She caught his hand in hers—it tingled, a faint echo of magic and a sharp reminder of another convincer. She sighed, letting go. “You could make a new goal.”
He shrugged, slipping back into apathy.
She felt helpless. “Willi,” she said, pressing into more dangerous waters, “why did you want to go after Kincaid?”
“You have to ask?” he said, matching her quiet tone.
“Humor me.”
His jaw tightened. “For Anna.”
“Yes, but what did youwant?”
“Rache. Revenge,” he translated as an afterthought. He rubbed his eyes with trembling hands. “Do you know, I did not at first care you would be in danger if you helped us. I would not admit it to myself, no, never, but I was almosthappy. Yes, let Alexander know what it is like to be struck through the heart!”
Her breath caught in her throat. He looked at her, his eyes bright with tears. “Forgive me. When you were almost killed ... When I saw how much pain you both were in ...”
He trailed off, expression bleak. “This,” he said after a moment, “is what comes of revenge.”
“No—don’t think of it as revenge,” she said, gathering her scattered wits about her. “Revenge is really the desire for restitution, right? And—and that’s impossible. So think of it as justice. You stopped him. You made sure he would never hurt anyone again.”
“For years, I dreamt of killing Kincaid. Dreamt of it—night, day. Now I have done it, and what? I am a killer, nothing more.”
“You know that’s not true. You saved my life.”
“Because of me, you have a hole in your back!”
