FIFTY-SIX
TRISTAN
Somewhere in the industrial wasteland of Newark, tucked between a defunct shipping company and a building that hasn't seen legitimate business since the Clinton administration, we found our little slice of heaven. No cameras. No neighbors. No random visitors.
I was here the last couple of nights. But today I decided to take Keira out on a little date.
Marco meets us at the door.
"How is he?" I ask.
"Alive. I gave him another dose of the blocking agent about an hour ago."
Our guest is in chemical paralysis, thanks to the neuromuscular blocker that ensures he stays conscious but won't be able to move. He can see, hear, and feel everything, though.
"You're a good man, Marco."
"I'm really not." He glances at Keira, standing beside me in dark jeans and a black sweater, her hair pulled back. "Are you okay being here?"
Keira smiles, nodding. "Yes, I wanted to come."
"She's taking the lead," I add.
Marco arches a brow at me, then looks to Keira with purerespect. "Good. He deserves everything you're about to give him. Don't hold back."
"Oh, I won't." She winks.
He steps aside, and we walk into the gray room. The place was abandoned when Aaron found it—nothing but exposed pipes and a single bare bulb casting everything in a sickly yellow light. In the center of the room, bolted to a metal table, lies Ewan Calder.
He looks great.
His shoulder is a mess of dried blood and exposed muscle where my bullet tore through. His face is swollen, purple bruises lining his cheekbones from the work I did last night. His fingers…well, he doesn't have all of them anymore.
His eyes track our movement as we approach. Wide, petrified, and completely helpless. Even if he wanted to scream or beg, he won't be able to. Originally, I thought it would be more fun to hear him beg for forgiveness, but then I had a change of heart. Thought it would be better for Keira if we worked in peace. Right until the end, anyway.
"Hey, sunshine." I drag a metal chair across the floor and settle into it like I'm about to watch my favorite show. "Miss me?"
His eyes bulge.
"I'll take that as a yes."
Keira moves past me, circling the table with the deliberate grace of a predator who's finally cornered her prey. She trails one finger along the edge, browsing.
When she reaches Calder's feet, she stops.
"You know what I kept thinking about last night?" Her voice is eerily calm, as if she's made peace with what she's about to do. "While I was holding Hale, trying to convince him that the monsters aren't real?"
She turns toward the table of tools behind her, studying her options.
She picks up a scalpel.
"I kept thinking about all the nights I did the same thing for myself." She tilts the blade so it catches the light. "All the nights Itold myself it would get better. That you weren't really that cruel. That if I just tried harder, maybe you'd stop hurting me. That maybe you'd change."
Calder doesn't move. Won't look at her. Like if he stays perfectly still, she might forget he exists.
Fat fucking chance.
"But you were always a monster, Ewan." She circles back toward his head, the scalpel dangling loosely from her fingers. "I just didn't want to see it."
