James shakes his head at me, his eyes tired.
I take in his fresh wound, his bound arm, the myriad cuts and scrapes across his bare, blood-streaked skin. I stabbed him in the torso, in the thigh. He just took a shot in the leg because of me.
This all began when I slit his throat.
Still, he’s staring at me with a kind of anguish, like I might, at any moment, break his heart.
My chest constricts in response.
“That will suffice as an answer.”
I look up, startled. Warner is studying me with a fascination that’s entirely new, his incisive look sending me into a fresh panic.
“I’m going to take some time to make a decision,” Warner says, his eyes hardening. “That’s all for now.” He makes a motion as if to dismiss me—
And I drop dead.
17
James
I hold the potato firmly on the cutting board, then bring the knife down too hard, nicking the vegetable and nearly taking off my hand. The potato goes flying, ricocheting off a bottle of olive oil before hitting the ground, then rolling under the cabinet. The bottle topples over, glass clattering against stone.
Shit.
“You’re not trying tokillthe potato,” Nazeera says, crossing her arms as she leans against the wall, watching me with an amused smile. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, her hands tucked into the front pocket, the hood pulled up. “Your food, by this point in the process, should already be dead.”
“Right,” I say, my head pounding. “Good point.”
I swipe the potato off the ground, then rinse it at the sink before putting it back on the cutting board.
For a moment, I stare at the mess.
Potato peels are piled in a small heap on the counter, leafy celery and carrot tops stacked beside them, papery onion skins fluttering as I move, generating wind.
I gather the leavings and toss them in the compost bin.
“This is more complicated than I thought it would be,”I say, fighting to take a full breath.
My heart is racing for no reason.
I glance out the window, then at Nazeera, the warmth in her familiar eyes a welcome diversion from my own mind. I’ve known her for nearly as long as I’ve known Kenji. For a few years the two of them were a package deal; she’s always been like an older sister to me.
“You’ll be all right,” she says. “You already have excellent knife skills. You just need to slow down.”
I cast her a dubious look. “Slow down more than this?”
I’ve been hacking away for at least a couple of hours, and I’m just getting worse. The problem is, I’m restless and distracted. But also—there’s no consistency to chopping things. Every vegetable has to be cleaned and cut differently, and some of them fight back when you hurt them.
Slicing the onion nearly took me out.
“Slow down yourmovements,” she clarifies, grinning. “Apply firm but steady pressure and you’ll get the hang of it. You have to learn the technique before you can speed up. Remember: you’re not dismembering a body. You’re just making big things smaller.”
“Right.” I exhale, trying to loosen the tension in my shoulders. I stare at the little bowls arranged before me.
Nazeera insisted I prep everything before I actually start cooking, an extra step I resented before arriving at this moment. I’m realizing only now that if I’d just started cooking right away—without a plan or even a sense of how long it would take me to chop everything—I’d for sure haveburned the kitchen to the ground.
I look over the selection of unevenly diced celery, carrots, and onions, and for a second I actually feel a little proud. Then embarrassed. Then irritated. Then I remember the chicken is still in the fridge.
