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And there was Trina. Not exactly a friend, more of a personal thorn in the side, but a connection. One who posed for official ID as if she wore a flaming tower on her head—fiery red with hot gold tips.
“And she can be stupid,” Eve mused.
She’d barely closed a case she’d caught because Trina had done the stupid.
An e-mail blast, Eve decided. That wasn’t like nagging, it was just putting it all down so everyone had it right in front of them.
She settled down to it, tried to think of a way to write it out that didn’t seem like nagging.
While she did, the killer poured out her own thoughts in words.
I’m hurt. In my body, in my heart, in my soul. I’d nearly forgotten this kind of pain. Not the bruises, ones I discovered after I’d gotten home, tried to calm myself with a warm bath. I never felt them, but must have gotten them from hips and elbows while running through the crowd on the street, or from carts and counters in the restaurant.
She chased me, as if she were the hunter and I some sort of prey.
When I saw her in front of Mavis’s building, for one instant—here then gone—I thought, I actually thought: Oh, at last, we can talk face-to-face, we can sit down, have a drink, talk and talk about our partnership.
Finally, she’ll tell me what I mean to her, how important I am to her instead of it always, always, ALWAYS, being me who tells her.
But I knew, in the instant after that instant, it was never to be. What I saw on her face wasn’t appreciation, wasn’t friendship. It was feral. Hunter. Prey.
I’ve been a fool, letting myself believe she cared about me, respected me, appreciated all I’ve done for her.
She’s like all the rest. Worse than all the rest.
I balanced scales for her, I did what she secretly wanted to do—and I know she wanted those scales balanced—and when it came down to it, she cared more about Mavis than me.
What has that ridiculous woman ever done for Eve?
Could it be, and how I hate to think it, that Eve values fame and wealth more than justice? Look who she married—a man everyone knows broke countless laws in his lifetime, but has enough money, enough power, to keep justice at bay.
And Mavis, there’s fame and fortune—and another shady past.
Is this what drives Eve after all?
I can’t bear to believe that.
Yet now I wonder.
She preened for the cameras today, didn’t she? Looking through those cameras at me, into me. But not as a friend, not as a partner. But as someone who used my good work for her own gain. Who would destroy the only person, truly the only person, who held her best interest above all else.
Have I lost her? This pain in my heart, this drumming in my head, it feels like loss. It feels too familiar, too unspeakable.
I know what has to be done now. This very night.
She must lose. She must pay a price. Scales to balance.
Will we come closer to each other when she feels something of what I feel? Will she look at me, at last, and really see me?
I pray our bond can be repaired, and I pray she comes to understand our bond was forged and will only hold strong in death.
• • •
As Eve had done, the killer brought images onto her main screen. And studied them one by one.
Delia Peabody, Charlotte Mira, Nadine Furst, Mavis Freestone, Li Morris, Cher Reo, Charles Monroe, Louise DiMatto, Ryan Feeney, Ian McNab, Jamie Lingstrom, Lawrence Summerset. Roarke.
Friends, partners, mate.
