"I'm coming home," I say instead of answering.
"I'll be here."
The line goes dead.
I sit in the car, surrounded by the evidence of what I've done, and realize that "home" wasn't a word I used on purpose.
But I meant it anyway.
The cleanup takes two hours. By the time I'm walking through my apartment door, evening light is dim and the moon is moving across the sky, and Jonah is pacing the living room like a caged animal.
He stops when he sees me.
I'm wearing different clothes. The suit I left in is being incinerated along with everything else that touched Edmund Holloway's blood. But something must show on my face, because Jonah doesn't make a joke. Doesn't deflect with sarcasm. Just crosses the room and stops in front of me, close enough to touch.
"You're back."
"I'm back."
"Is it done?"
"It's done."
He reaches up, cups my face in his hands. His palms are warm against my cheeks, and I realize I'm cold. Have been cold since I watched the light leave Edmund's eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asks again.
I don't know how to answer. I've killed dozens of people. I've never had someone waiting for me afterward, checking my face for damage, touching me like what I’ve seen is terrible and I need aftercare.
"He would have exposed you," I say instead. "He would have used what he knew to gain power. People like him don't stop until they get what they want."
"I know."
"I couldn't let him hurt you."
"I know." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "That's not what I asked."
I close my eyes. His touch anchors me, pulls me back from the cold place where the killing happened.
"I'm not okay," I admit. "But not for the reason you think."
"Then why?"
"Because I didn't feel anything when I did it. No hesitation. No regret. I cut his throat and watched him die and the only thing I felt was relief that he couldn't threaten you anymore." I open my eyes, meet his gaze. "Death and murder don’t phase me… but losing you… it shouldn’t be like this."
Jonah is quiet for a long moment. His hands don't leave my face.
"You know what I think?" he says finally.
"What?"
"I think you've spent thirty years feeling nothing because that's what they designed you to do. And now you're feeling something, and you don't know how to process it. So you're focusing on the absence of guilt instead of the presence of everything else."
"That's very insightful."
"I used to interview murderers for a living. You pick things up." His mouth quirks. "Also, you're not as complicated as you think you are."
"Is that so."
