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“There always has to be a scapegoat,” she says, slinging my words back at me.
Always.
“Rana’s right, the Harbinger has no logical reason to be here. The alchemist suspect is the best target. Nudge Rana toward him with your profile, and I’ll back it up in my…report.” I bite the word off with a hint of derision, making Halen’s captivating smile surface. Just as suddenly, however, that smile turns crestfallen.
My thoughts focused, I rest my tongue in the corner of my mouth and close another step toward her. “The person who spent time in the Lipton basement conjuring the dark arts, that person probably isn’t trying to manifest rainbows and unicorns, Halen. You don’t even have to suffer any guilt?—”
“That’s not it.” She shakes her head lightly. “It’s all pointless anyway.”
“Tell me what happened,” I demand.
She drops her camera case and crosses her arms, pensively rubbing her thumb over her forearm where I stitched her wound. “Devyn’s sick,” she says.
I lift my chin, waiting for her to offer more as I watch her lower to her bag and remove a hardback.
She rises to her feet with a medical journal. “I saw this in the stacks that day at the mansion library,” she says, showing me the cover. “I couldn’t make any connection to it at the time. I just knew it felt out of place amid all the other esoteric books.”
“You’re getting real comfortable with removing evidence,” I say.
She releases a breathy laugh. “It’s the least questionable thing I’ve done.”
The large print on the front cover has two words that stand out: Huntington’s Disease.
And suddenly, as I stare into Halen’s watery gaze, I understand the hopeless vortex I feel churning inside her.
She cannot save Devyn.
And she knows this now with finality.
“Devyn’s sick,” she says again, her voice catching. “She’s dying.” She lifts her shoulders in a resigned shrug, a despondent laugh slipping free. “Nothing I do here to try to help her much matters anymore. It’s a lost cause. The only thing I can do is let her escape into her madness.”
Her statement from earlier makes sense now. “Madness is welcomed over suffering and death.”
“Her escape.” She sniffs hard, lifting her head higher. “So…lie to them. Hell, lie to me, Kallum. It doesn’t matter. The case is closed. Over.”
I’m frustratingly at a loss for how to console her.
“Don’t pretend as if this news doesn’t delight your wicked heart,” she says, the venom resurfacing. “There’s no reason for you to threaten her life anymore. She’s no longer any threat to me.”
“What causes you pain causes me pain.” I want to lead her farther into the dark marsh, where I can touch her and distract her from that pain.
I understand why she was hesitant to tell me, to say the words aloud, so she wouldn’t have to face the resulting guilt at the relief she feels. In the dark chasm of Halen’s mind, she’s relieved. She doesn’t have to choose. She doesn’t have to decide who to protect.
She’s such a delicious tangle of emotions.
“So why did you even come to the crime scene?” I ask her. “If it’s pointless.”
She shrugs, her gaze fusing to mine through the dark. “To be with you.”
Every cell in my body strains to be connected to hers, but I can feel all their eyes on us, watching, judging. Hernandez, with his suspicions. Dr. Keller, with her annoying, asinine obligation. And Agent Rana, who knows Halen is hiding something.
“No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible.” My mouth twists into a lopsided smile as I offer her what comfort I can. “Voltaire.”
Gaze cast outward, she wraps her arms around her waist tighter. “Voltaire didn’t flay a man,” she counters. “Or crush his face with a lug wrench.”
“That we know of.”
Her laugh tumbles out, and she’s unrepentant for a few brief, blissful seconds before she fights it down with a broken sound. “I think we’re responsible for more than a few snowflakes.” She looks up at the night sky. “I don’t think she’s a murderer, Kallum,” she says softly, her emotions drained. “I just wanted to prove that before I leave.”
