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He passes a newspaper between us. I find traces of pen that have circled various passages. His voice is deeper than usual, strained, and he sounds exhausted. I notice that his hand is bent to grasp the side of the booth. I find it reassuring. His fingers are scarred, but his nails are clean and neat. Working hands, yet his fingers are long like a piano player’s.
“The wounds are too similar,” he continues in a gravelly tone. “The placement. The depth. The manner in which the bodies were left. Either it is the same killer or someone is studying him closely enough to imitate every detail.”
Neither possibility offers comfort.
“I promised Le Havre would be safe.” My statement comes out strained, for the guilt is heavy on my soul.
I hear his shift in his seat, the weight of the bench creaking as his hand reaches to grasp mine resting on the side of the booth.
“You promised to protect them as best you could,” he replies intently.
“And I failed.” The words fall from my lips as he squeezes my hand.
“No.” The answer comes sharply.
I look away, noticing he has begun caressing my knuckles with his thumb. Electricity hums between us. My breath catches as his scarred fingers close around mine. His grasp is warm, firm, and unexpectedly gentle.
“You did not place the knife in that man’s hand,” he says. “You did not lure her into that alley. You cannot carry the guilt of every monster who enters this city.”
“I can carry the responsibility of stopping them,” I reply, feeling the weight of my words.
“That is different,” he states.
My voice cracks as I say, “Is it?”
A pregnant pause falls between us for a long moment and I tighten my grip around his hand.
“This is survival, darling. Life is hard, and it will fuck with you. It will beat you down and attempt to kill every tender part that remains until you rise and seize the narrative for yourself,” I explain, his thumb still against my knuckles.
I lean closer.
“You take life within your own hands and mold it into what you need. You force it to bend. You break it before allowing it to break you. That is survival, pure and simple.”
The café seems to disappear around us.
“And I will never apologize for the way I have survived,” I continue. “We are each granted only one life. I intend to live mine according to my own will—not the will of a murderer, a man, or anyone else who believes they may decide my fate.”
Something changes in his spirit. Not fear. Not anger. It feels like an unspoken recognition. As though my words have found a wound inside him that I cannot yet see.
His fingers tighten around mine.
“Then we find him,” he says quietly.
“We?” Surprise escapes in my tone.
I can feel a faint smile touching his mouth as he retorts, “You did not truly believe I would let you hunt a murderer alone, did you?”
I raise an eyebrow to myself.
“You barely know me.”
“No,” he murmurs. Pulling my hand over the booth threshold. I am still unable to see his face, but I feel his lips place a kiss atop my knuckles. “But I believe I would like to.” ”
10. The Stage is An Altar - Edward
Concrete Jungle
La Sirene is nothing like I imagined. I had expected noise. Chaos. Men shouting over one another while women performed for coins and admiration. Instead, the room moves with a strange sort of order.
