Page 69 of The Cannibal

“Just because you deny it, doesn’t make it disappear.”

“I am fine.”

“Intrusive thinking, sensitive to rejection, paranoid, and disordered eating when you’re at your worst.”

“I don’t⁠—”

“This is not new. You’ve done this for years. I can answer any questions pestering you, but perhaps being around her will have a positive effect on you. As long as it doesn’t distract from your responsibilities.” Luka sounded a bit too paternal for my liking.

Responsibilities. I thought delegation would have taken some of those off my shoulders.

“I’m already distracted,” I countered.

“Then keep a journal. Get those feelings out, then we can get back to work, yeah?” He reached to pat my shoulder.

“Go away”—I pressed my palms into my eye sockets—“before I start picking which of your own limbs to beat you with.”

Luka held his hands up in surrender, a clear grin on his face as he stepped away.

As frustrated as I was, there was some truth to it. My issues stemmed from her. She invaded my mind to the point of possessing me, like my every thought and function was only dedicated to her. Without her, I am nothing, a mess.

But she was here now. There was no reason to suffer. I could not promise my best focus or the clearest head, but perhaps seeing her would be enough to settle my mind and body.

Just a small reassurance that she was alive and well may cure my ever-corrosive guilt.

22

THE POISONER

My knuckles rasped at the door, but no answer.

I pressed my ear to it, a small bowl tucked close in my arms. Even though there was no noise, I pushed the door open anyway. When I peeked in, Luka was leaning back in the office chair, eyes closed.

I stepped into the office. The desk was full of knickknacks and newspapers, one of which read in bold:

RIPPER ON THE LOOSE.

Groundskeeper found dead at the botanical gardens.

I grimaced at the paper, then moved on to the rest of the items. A phonograph in the corner but no cylinder. The dust collected around the horn and needle, diffusing the glow as the sun hit it.

On the desk was a familiar portrait. Several, actually.

One was easy to place. It was the one Luka drew of me back in London, before I knew who he truly was. Phoebe must have given it to Silas when she moved all our things. The second one was new, a sleeping face surrounded by funeral flowers.

Even if the office was paid for and decorated by Silas, there was no proof he spent any time in here.

I sat on the corner of the desk, reaching for the collection of telegrams organized in small piles by date.

Luka grabbed my wrist without moving from his alleged sleeping position.

“I knew you weren’t the type to sleep on the job,” I muttered.

He opened one eye, his good one, then closed it again before releasing my wrist. “You’re lucky I could smell the cyanide before you even left the hallway.”

“I brought you something.” I smiled, crossing one leg over the other as I slid the bowl over to him. “I heard you were having some headaches.”

He simply grunted.