"Yes—someone—a woman—she handled the arrangements—"
"What woman?"
"I don't know her name—she used a code—a number—"
"What number?"
"47—I think—47 something—"
Batch 47.
My batch.
My number.
My designation.
Someone else had used my number.
Someone else had been watching.
Someone else had been helping Gabriel hide.
"You're lying."
"I'm not—please—I'm telling you everything—"
"The woman. Where can I find her?"
"I don't know—she always contacted me—I never had a way to reach her—"
"Then you're useless."
I raised the knife.
The torture was methodical.
Almost artistic.
I started with his fingers—small cuts, superficial, enough to make him scream but not enough to make him pass out. Hebegged. He pleaded. He offered me money, women, information, anything to make me stop.
I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop.
The voices were getting louder.
"He never loved you."
Rue's voice, soft and cruel.
"He'll discard you."
Sasha's voice, flat and tired.
"I'm doing this for him."
My own voice, desperate and broken.
