Me running had made him bitter.
A dry laugh escaped me. "How?"
"Just follow me," he muttered before closing the car door and walking ahead, waiting for me to follow.
The air inside the warehouse was thick with the scent of oxidation and something more visceral—a decaying, pissy scent that made the hair on my arms stand up and my nose burn. He led me through a narrow, dimly lit corridor. I pressed the sleeve of my sweatshirt to my mouth and nose.
Suddenly, there was the sound of soft, rhythmic clinking—metal on metal. Chains.
My heart kicked, and I stopped in my tracks, but Malachai didn't even glance back. "Keep moving, Indigo."
I forced myself to follow him until the hallway opened into a wide, vaulted room. That's where I saw him. My breath hitched. A man was lashed to a metal chair like a captured animal. His clothes were stained, his face was a mask of bruises and swelling, and his eyes darted around the room with a frantic, feral energy. There were cans of dog food and bottles of dirty water scattered everywhere. There was a table with knives, weapons, and tools.
My stomach did a slow turn.
"This is him," Malachai stated.
"Who?"
"The man who pushed you that day. Sasha was involved with him. She put him up to it."
"I didn't know. I never saw him or anyone," I whispered, my voice catching in my throat. I thought Sasha had actually done it herself, since I never saw the actual person.
"Here." Malachai pulled out his phone and pressed play on a video.
The footage was grainy and low-quality, but what happened was unmistakable. I watched myself from three years ago, walking down the stairs, carrying my bags, completely unaware. Then, the shadow of a man appeared behind and to the side of me. I watched the hands make contact with my back. I watched the push. I watched myself fall.
I stopped breathing. The floor felt like it was tilting beneath my feet. "That's enough," I choked out.
My knees hit the gritty concrete floor before I even realized they'd buckled. The impact should have been jarring to my bones, but I didn't feel it. I just knelt there in the dirt, staring at the man in the chair.
"That was my baby," I said, my voice sounding hollow, stripped of everything but grief.
Malachai lifted me. I shook him off.
I stepped toward the chair, the blood in my veins feeling like acid. The man began to shake his head violently, tears carving tracks through the grime on his face. "I didn't know—I swear, I didn't know you were pregnant—"
"Don't," I snapped. The word must have felt like a physical blow. He froze instantly. "For Sasha? Was it worth it to end up like this?"
He shook his head.
"Some nights I wake up out of my sleep," I said, my voice trembling as much as my hands, "and I hear crying. I hear it so clearly I think it's real. I think my babies right there next to me." My throat burned with the effort of speaking. "I had names picked out. For a girl, I was going to name her Amara." Mybreath hitched, a sob threatening to break through. "For a boy… I liked Isaiah."
The man began to sob—a loud, ugly sound that filled the room. "I'm sorry… Sasha told me to—"
The mention of her name caused something inside me to fracture. A ringing filled my ears. "Don't say her name," I whispered.
"Let me go. Have mercy," he pleaded, his voice cracking, thick with a pathetic desperation. "I've been punished."
"How dare you ask me for mercy?" My voice snapped. "Where was my mercy when you were standing at the top of those stairs? Where was my baby's mercy when you put your hands on my back?"
I don't remember the moment I reached for the knife. There was no conscious decision, just a sudden, fluid movement. The first stab felt like nothing at all. The second felt like even less. By the third, my mind had gone completely blank.
Suddenly, strong hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me back with a force I couldn't fight.
"Indigo." Malachai's voice wasn't calm anymore; it was sharp, cutting through the red haze. "Enough."
"I wasn't finished!" I screamed, struggling against him.
