They know what you did to the Durantes when you learned of their deceit and betrayal.
The pounding in his ears grew louder, and it took him a long moment to realize someone had knocked lightly on the door. Kane turned, wild-eyed, to see Fletcher standing on the threshold. His friend’s hair was windswept, his stance unsure.
“The door was cracked,” Fletcher said by way of greeting. “I’ve never seen anyone in here before, so I decided to—Kane, are you okay?” Belatedly, he registered Kane’s expression, his own shifting to alarm.
Kane didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure he would ever say anything again. He felt at once untethered, weightless, and infinitely heavy. He’d never devoted much energy to wondering why, exactly, Ward had killed his parents. A man like that didn’t need a reason for doing terrible deeds.
But then Kane remembered what Ward had said to him right before he’d died:You should have seen how quickly I shot your traitor parents.
Kane hadn’t thought much of it at the time. In that moment, he’d reasoned, Ward would’ve said anything to get under his skin.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Wordlessly, he lifted an arm, holding the letter out to Fletcher. His friend crossed the room with slow care, folding himself onto the floor beside Kane and taking the piece of paper. His voice was a rasp laced with concern. “You know I can’t read.”
Right. Kane let his arm fall. He didn’t know how to communicate everything he’d just learned. Shock and whiskey had turned his thoughts cloudy, intangible. He took a shuddering breath, and then, in a voice devoid of inflection, he read the letter aloud.
Fletcher frowned at the bit about Zaria’s father, then blanched when Kane got to the line about his parents. A tremulous moment of horror passed between them before Fletcher finally severed it. “Idon’t… What does this mean? Cecile infiltrated the Scriniarii on Ward’s behalf?? And they knew of your parents’ deaths?”
“I don’t know what it means.” Despite having just relayed the contents of the letter, Kane’s voice felt hoarse from disuse. “It sounds like… like Cecile had taken over for my parents, maybe. As though they’d—I don’t know—joined the Scriniarii and betrayed Ward’s trust.”
Saying it aloud made him want to be sick. How many years had he spent assuming Ward had killed his parents for no good reason? That they’d been nothing more than victims of the kingpin’s foul moods and twisted sense of justice? All this time, and they’dbetrayedhim. They’d known exactly who Ward was, what he was capable of, and they’d taken the risk regardless. Even though they’d had a child to protect.
Kane wasn’t being fair. He knew that, even as the air got stuck in his lungs. It wasn’t fair of him to judge their choices when he didn’t know their reasons. But a younger, more primal part of him screamed that it wasn’t fair tohim. If they’d only listened to Ward, done their jobs as requested, and kept their heads down, they might still be here. Kane wouldn’t be alone.
He wouldn’t be this warped, miserable excuse for a man.
“If that’s true,” Fletcher said haltingly, “then they must have had good reasons. They must have truly believed in what the Scriniarii was trying to do.”
Kane shook his head. “Louisa Hoffman said the Scriniarii’s aim was always to make alchemology accessible. Why would my parents care about that?”More than they cared about mewere the words he didn’t add, but Fletcher seemed to hear them anyway.
“Kane, they couldn’t possibly have known what the consequences would be.”
“Of course they could have. This is Ward we’re talking about.”
Fletcher didn’t appear to have a response to that. He stared at the floorboards between them, his mouth a thin line. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” Kane’s voice cracked. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend to have sympathy for me.”
Fletcher reeled back to stare at him. “Is that what you believe? That I’m not sympathetic? That I think you deserve to suffer because I’ve been angry with you?”
Kane faltered. He hadn’t expected that reaction. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I was angry. Iamangry. But years of friendship don’t just disappear. I couldn’t stop caring about you even if I wanted to.”
“Do you? Want to, I mean.”
“God.” Fletcher leaned back on his hands, tilting his chin to the ceiling. “Honestly, Kane? I want everything to be the way it was. I want to forget any of this happened. But if I let that happen—if I forgive you so easily—it feels like disrespecting myself. I don’t know.”
Kane could understand that. “Every day I want to beg for your forgiveness, Fletch,” he said softly. “Every single day. But I can’t, because I’m afraid you’ll give it to me. And if and when you do, I want it to be because you’re ready. I want it to be because you mean it.”
One side of Fletcher’s mouth ticked up. He didn’t meet Kane’s gaze but continued to stare at the ceiling, apparently deep in thought. “Okay. You know what? I’m ready.”
“What?”
