I thought about the blonde who wasn't there. Batch 39. The girl who'd said Gabriel was dead.
"No."
"Okay."
He leaned back in his chair.
"I need a bartender. The hours are flexible. The pay isn't great, but it's enough to live on. There's a basement you can use for... whatever you need."
"You don't know me."
"I know you're not dangerous. Not to me."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because you're sitting on my couch with a blanket around your shoulders, and you haven't tried to hurt me. Because you're shaking, and your eyes are hollow, and you look like you haven't slept in weeks. Because I've been where you are, and I know what it looks like."
"You've killed someone?"
"I've done things I'm not proud of. Things that would keep me up at night if I let them. But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still trying to do some good in the world."
He stood up.
"The job is yours if you want it. Think about it. No pressure."
"Matt."
He stopped at the door.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the basement."
He walked out, and I heard him moving around out front—chairs being put down, bottles being arranged, the small sounds of a bar waking up.
I sat on the couch with the blanket around my shoulders, and I thought about his offer.
A job.
A place.
Someone who didn't ask questions.
Someone who didn't call the police.
It wasn't safety.
It wasn't home.
But it was something.
And something was more than I'd had in weeks.
I didn't sleep.
I lay on the couch with my eyes closed, and I tried to make my mind go quiet, but Rue's face kept appearing behind my lids. Her eyes, closed. Her mouth, soft. The blood on my hands, drying, cracking, flaking off like dead skin.
I didn't remember killing her.
