Page 114 of Forbidden Fate

Blood spreads across the porch.

His eyes are wide. His mouth moves.

No words.

Just blood.

Then he’s gone.

Blood.

Blood on my hands.

Not a little.

Not someone else’s splatter from a beating.

This is mine.

I killed him.

The thought arrives muddled.

Not because I don’t understand what happened.

I’ve hurt men before. Badly. I’ve delivered prisoners to people who will hurt them worse. I’ve stood guard while others screamed. I’ve followed orders that made me complicit in things decent men would spend their lives trying to forget.

But I’ve always kept one line untouched.

Never have I killed a man with my own hands.

Until now.

Zabala’s blood moves toward the edge of the porch in a dark stream.

I look back through the open doorway.

Señora Valentina lies where she fell.

Everything inside me caves in.

I scramble to her, slipping once on blood, mine or his or hers, I don’t know. I drop to my knees beside her.

“Señora,” I say.

I press my hands to her chest, to the wound, as if pressure can undo what’s already done.

“No. No, no, no.” I lean over her. “Stay with me.”

Her eyes are half-open.

Not seeing me.

“Please,” I whisper.

The word feels childish.

Please don’t leave.