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She wept, wept and wept. Everything she’d wanted in the world, all her hopes, her dreams, her needs, shattered like glass.
How could it all go so wrong? She’d done everything, been so careful, so patient. So true. And now it was all for nothing.
There was no meaning now, no goal, no joy.
The skin on her wrist and forearm was raw and blistered, and the pain like hot knives cutting.
She could fix it, she knew how to fix it. But what was the point? Her life was over, wasn’t it? Her purpose gone, erased. It had been a false purpose, as the single person she’d depended on was false.
All lies, she thought. Everything a lie.
So she’d end it. No one would care; no one ever had. She had nothing and no one now. She knew how to end it—a dozen ways to die. She had only to pick one and slide away into yet another form of oblivion.
Empty death after an empty life.
She lifted her head, and there was Eve, looking back at her. She could hear the voice—and there was purpose.
Stop sniveling! Act! You know what to do. You’ve always known. All the rest was play. There’s only one way we can really be partners, be friends, be together. Are you strong enough, finally? Or are you still a coward?
“Don’t say that! Don’t say I’m a coward. I’ve killed for you. Look what she did!”
She held out her blistered wrist to the photo, and saw Eve sneer.
You wasted your time with her, with the boy. It’s always been about us. Clock’s ticking. The ball’s going to drop. It’s the end of the year, so out with the old. In with the new.
Hope, the first rays, broke in her heart. “Is it what you really want?”
It’s what has to be. You’ll convince me. You’ll do what’s best for us. Better get started.
“Yes, I’d better get started. I know what to do.”
Ignoring her burning wrist, she got up, took the body armor out of her supply closet.
Yes, yes, she could make this work. She knew what to do.
She knew how to end it. It had to end to begin, just like one year ended so the new could dawn.
They’d end together, and begin.
Eve woke in the dark with Roarke’s arm wrapped snug around her. She couldn’t see the time, but her body told her it was morning. Early, probably brutally early, but morning.
She couldn’t have said the time she’d dropped into bed, either—or been dropped, as Roarke had just plucked her up when she’d been half asleep at her desk and carted her to bed.
A habit of his she . . . didn’t mind so much, really.
What she could say was the narrower search parameters had netted her just over two hundred potential suspects.
Too many, of course, but it was better than thousands.
She could carve that down, too, she decided, now that her brain wasn’t so fogged with fatigue.
Of course, that ran on the geography around her old building, and that was gut instinct, not solid evidence.
Take that one out, back to thousands.
Or go with it, narrow the area by a few blocks all around, and cut that number down.
So she’d do both, dump a chunk on Peabody. See who in her division could take the time to take another chunk. Hack away at it.
