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“Seriously?”
Rook shrugged and Corvus snorted at him before the pair left to follow Grey out into the dark.
I couldn’t be sure how long I stayed there, leaning against the metal, just breathing. Taking in everything I’d seen and heard.
A thousand questions swirled in the adrenal wasteland of my brain. What they were doing...did it make them any better than Billy?
They were murderers.
Fucking psychopaths.
None of them so much as balked as Rook broke Billy apart.
Neither did you,the darkest part of my mind whispered, and I swallowed hard, forcing my legs to push me back to standing. My back ached from crouching there for so long, and I took a minute to stretch it out.
A thud sounded, echoing in the butcher shop.
Then another.
“H-hello?” A weak voice called, muffled by thick steel and insulation. “Is anybody there?”
I judged whether I’d touched anything in the shop and did one last wipe of the front door to be safe. It was time to get the fuck out of here.
Another thud as Billy pounded a fist against the door. “Help!” he shouted. “Someone please!”
I groaned to myself, stopping near the door to the cooler. The handle was right there. I could just pop it open and vanish. I could free him.
But why in the absolute fuck would I do that?
Heat licked up my spine, and I took two steps toward the back door to leave before something made me stop. Invisible hands wrapped around my ankles like ghosts demanding proper justice.
I didn’t even know what they looked like, his little girls, but I knew that they’d be better off without him. But was that enough?
What was I really considering here?
No one had seen me. I’d been careful. I’d triple check for prints.
What am I doing?
“P-please! I’ve been attacked! Please, someone open the door!”
“Fuck,” I gritted out through my teeth, the flood of new adrenaline vaulting up through me in an eruption of rage.
I stalked back to the walk-in cooler and wrenched the door open. Billy poured out, falling onto the floor with a wetslap.
He twisted, fear in his swelling eyes as he took me in. A relieved gush of air passed his lips, and I wrinkled my nose at the acrid smell of beer and blood mingling in the air.
“Thank you,” he sobbed, reaching his bloodied hand, the one that wasn’t broken, toward my shoes. I stepped back. “Thank you.”
I bent, the dull side of my blade sliding along my fingers as I drew it from the strap.
He lifted his head and his eyes met mine.
Something registered there after a second. The relief smoothing the lines of his weathered face vanished. He stopped breathing.
“Who—”
A hard and quick arc of my blade.
