I say nothing as he shuffles his papers aimlessly, humming in disappointment at various pages.
When he’s ready, he leans back in his seat with a small smile on his face.
“I’d like to talk about Serena,” he says.
My dampener constricts at the sound of her name, killing my air supply until I cannot swallow, but I refrain from prying at it.
“I’d rather not,” I choke out, slowly.
The inquisitor nods.
“Yeah, I expected as much. Unfortunately, this is not about what you want.”
He straightens as he rifles through the folder in front of him and produces a small stack of photos. He slides them across the table, face down. When I do not reach for them, he turns them over for me, but I do not look. I have seen them all before. At least a hundred times. I could describe them with my eyes closed. Down to the funny shade of blue in her lips.
“What happened here, Mr. Cross?”
“If you want to know what happened, you can read it in my file. I won’t repeat it again.”
Almar shrugs.
“Okay,” he says. “Fair enough.”
He pulls a page from the file and begins to read aloud.
“Fifteen claw marks. Three to the victim’s chest and back. Five to the legs and torso. And several more along the arms.”
I stop listening.
It’s been almost five years since I heard those words for the first time. I was pretty out of it then, but they aren’t the kind of words you forget.
Almar continues.
“Victim found fifty yards from the Crescent pack line. Witnesses describe the attacker as a wild animal.”
He stops, straightens the little stack of papers, and tucks them back in the folder to glare at me expectantly.
Unfortunately, whatever he’s expecting, he shall be disappointed.
“Wow, you’re reading really well. Good for you.”
Almar’s teeth grind audibly, and he shuts the folder with a dull slap.
“Is there anything you’d like to add to that summary, Mr. Cross?”
“It’s been well established that I was hexed that night. It’s all there in my file.”
“Yes, I’m aware of what the file says.” He drums his fingers across the stack. “But perhaps you can tell me what about this seems so familiar.”
He produces a new stack of photos and sets them beside the images of Serena.
These ones I have not seen before. Although I am familiar with the subject.
Oliver St. Grey lies bloated and cold in the patch of grass where I put him. His arms and legs are splayed out like a star, as I arranged, and the claw mark I’d carved into his neck glistens in the light of the flash, concealing Iris’s teeth marks just as intended.
It is perfect if I do say so myself. If not for one problem.
Someone has torn Oliver St. Grey to ribbons.
