Page 24 of Over Her Dead Body

People in this chair always have a moment of relief at this point. I have learned not to mind it. It is a small mercy, and I can afford small mercies.

I look at the man on Merrick’s left. “Your tie.”

He removes it without expression. Silk, decent quality, better than I would have expected from him.

He hands it across.

I take it without looking at him.

Merrick understands then.

Later than he should have, but understanding late is the entire problem with Sean. There was never a version of this in which he understood early.

I stand.

I move behind him.

He does not turn his head.

The tie goes around his neck. And not in a decorative way.

Sean reacts before I pull.

Hands up. Chair scraping backward. A sharp, animal sound.

Then I tighten the silk.

His face reddens almost at once. His fingers claw at the tie, then at my wrists. One nail breaks skin.

Good.

The men behind him are watching.

This is for them too.

Sean kicks backward and catches my shin. The chair jumps beneath him. Spit runs from the corner of his mouth. His breath comes in ugly, wet bursts that get smaller each time.

I hold on.

The painting hangs behind me.

Nine years without a mark.

Then Sean Merrick spends one careless evening in my house.

His hands weaken.

One drops.

Then the other.

His body jerks once, hard enough to move the chair.

Then nothing.

I wait a few seconds longer.

The silk is wet beneath my hands.