I pulled it out. Blood poured fast, soaking his robe.
“No—no, please—”
The second strike hit the other thigh.
“THAT’S FOR TIANA.”
He bucked in the chair, hands slapping at his legs, trying to hold the blood in.
“PLEASE—Midnight—please, I didn’t know, I swear to God—”
“You swear to who?” I snapped.
Maybe this was why Malachai was called the Hand of God. The power. The absolute, terrifying finality of deciding when someone’s clock stopped ticking.
It was intoxicating.
“God isn't in this kitchen, Dutch,” I whispered, leaning in until our foreheads almost touched. I could smell the copper of his blood and the salt of his pathetic tears. “And I'm the only one here who can hear your confessions.”
He was crying now. Loud. Ugly. Snot and tears running together.
“I got kids—” he choked. “I got a family—please—please, I’ll fix it—I’ll give you money, I’ll give you whatever you want—”
I grabbed his jaw and forced his head up.
“Fuck your kids. Your kids’ happiness ain’t more valuable than mine. I had a life here,” I said. “It was quiet. It was fun. I could dance. It was mine.”
He shook under my hand.
“You ruined it.”
“I’m sorry—please, I’m sorry—”
“I killed that psycho because of you.”
The knife slid into his stomach.
He choked on the scream, a wet, broken sound leaving his mouth as his body folded forward.
“I can’t stay here,” I continued, watching his eyes lose focus. “I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t be invisible anymore.”
His hands clawed weakly at my arm.
“I have to go back to my husband,” I said.
“All because of you.”
“Please…” he whispered. “Please… don’t…”
“Sorry doesn’t give me my life back.”
The blade dragged across his throat.
A wet gurgle filled the room.
His hands shot up, grabbing at my wrists, slippery with his own blood.
I didn’t move.