Page 29
Color. So. Much. Color.
Red, red, red. Crimson is everywhere. It gives me an overwhelming feeling as my senses are assaulted by the recognition of my mysterious partner, then the reintroduction of color, to my kill being stolen. My fingers go numb around the pistol.
“What,” I whisper, “did you just do?”
The Slaying Sickle turns toward me, still breathing hard, fury carved into every line of his face.
“He deserved—” His statement begins, but I cannot help but interrupt from the anger boiling within.
“I know what he deserved!” My voice cracks through the shop.
All three men go still.
Good.
Let them. Let them see me. Let them hear me.
Let them understand that I am not some delicate woman who wandered into their den by mistake. I step over the spreading blood and point the pistol directly at the Slaying Sickle’s chest.
“He murdered my girls. He came into my home. He left them butchered in alleys and rooms where they should have been safe. I wanted him to know their names before he died.” My throat tightens around each word.
I hate it. I hate that grief still has the power to make my voice tremble.
“I wanted him to hear them. Every. Single. One.” My words drip with impatient venom.
The Slaying Sickle’s expression falters. Only slightly, but just enough.
“You took that from me,” I say.
His jaw clenches.
Then my mysterious partner takes one careful step forward, his hands out in a cautious gesture. “Darling.”
The endearment spoken in his voice nearly ruins me, because it is not new. Not truly.
I have heard that voice soften through barriers. Heard it argue across luncheon tables. Heard it grow quiet when I ask too much about the burdens he carries. I turn the pistol toward him. His hands stay still in caution.
Not afraid.
Careful. As though approaching a wounded animal. As though he somehow understands that I am far more dangerous while breaking.
“You knew,” I accuse.
His brow furrows. “Knew what?”
“That it was me.” Something passes across his face at my words.
Pain. Recognition. Longing.
“Not entirely,” he answers softly. “Not until now.”
The honesty in his voice strikes harder than any lie could have. His brother glances between us, his curiosity practically sharpening the air.
“Well,” he murmurs playfully. “This has become rather intimate.” Then he places his hands within his trouser pockets.
“Not now,” my partner snaps.
The Slaying Sickle looks between us and then at my partner’s brother in confusion. He mirrors my companion’s cautious gesture with his hands.
