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“Which time?”
The knife goes still in his hand. “How long? For every minute she cried, I’m going to torture you for an hour.”
I consider it. This doesn’t seem like the time for bullshit. “The most she cried was over you. She couldn’t stand to hear that you were upset.”
He laughs, cracking a smile, and it reminds me of Daphne. That’s what breaks my entire heart. Down the middle. Torn canvas. Snapped frame. Her laugh wasn’t wounded, or bitter. It was sweet.
“So you thought you’d let that continue. Do you have any idea what you did?”
“I thought I’d keep her with me. To keep her safe.”
He’s incredulous. “Kidnapping a person isn’t keeping them safe.”
“Oh, and letting her live in that shitty apartment with no money was?”
Leo stalks toward me, rage simmering in the air around him. “You are a fool if you think I wanted her in that apartment, scrabbling for rent from people like you. Tell me what you did.”
I could probably win against him in a fight. I could at least do some damage. I’m safest here. Most prepared. The knife adds a complication. Otherwise we’re evenly matched. But even if I won, what then? Daphne has four brothers and three sisters. They’d probably all want a turn. I flatten an animal fear and hang it on the wall.
At least I’ll die where I can still breathe. Where it won’t be screaming panic.
“I slept with her,” I say, images flooding my mind. Daphne, breathing softly in the moonlight. Daphne at dawn, pink-cheeked and warm. Daphne on the beach, sketching. “I slept next to her. I fed her meals. I talked to her. I watched her paint. I dressed her in warm clothes so she could draw on the beach. I listened to her. That’s it.”
“How many times did she beg you to stop?”
“None.”
“You’re such a fucking liar.” He takes a breath. “That’s all right. There are consequences for forcing people. You’ll understand them when I’m finished.”
I know what it sounds like, but my little painter didn’t beg me to stop. She fought with me, but she liked it. She fought with me and came for me so many times.
“Shooting would be easier,” I mention.
“Bullets are a cheap way to kill. It’s sad for you that you’re in a rush to die, but it’s not going to happen slowly. It’s going to hurt very much. Enough pain to make up for every day that she was gone. For every tear she cried. And for what you stole from her.”
“I didn’t steal—”
“She’s not painting. She won’t paint. She walks around my house like she’s not there. I’m going to gut you, Emerson. I’m going to let you feel it. And then maybe, if I’m very generous, I’ll end it before you bleed out.”
Daphne, not painting?
Horror repeats itself, a million prints, framed in front of my face, but it’s not for me. She stopped painting. It hurts her not to paint.
I did that to her.
Leo adjusts his grip on the knife, and I see that he’s done this before. He’s not a hesitant man. He’s practiced. He’s a knife himself. I mean to stand here and let it happen. I really do. There’s no point in fighting. What happens next is inevitable.
But then he moves.
It’s graceful and quick, and I can’t help it.
The body protects itself.
His first blows land. They’re opening moves. Toying with me. Every breath flattens, too. Every second into art. While I block and feint, the knife cuts through the air. He’s doing this on purpose. Forcing me to see it. To anticipate it. To spend my energy avoiding it as long as I can.
Not here.
I let him back me out of the office. The table in the foyer goes over. His fist cracks against my cheek. For a single instant I’m at the threshold of a closet door, that same fist in my shirt. My father. No. It’s Daphne’s brother. He has his fist in my shirt and he’s staring into my face.
