Staring at Hector's cooling corpse stirred nothing in me except awareness of my steady pulse and the warm stickiness drying tacky on my skin. Another day, another body. Except this one had been a long time coming. His death wasn't just about settling old scores, though years of abuse had certainly fueled my rage. No, I'd killed him because he was going to kill Vincent, and that was something I couldn't allow. When had protecting Vincent become more important than my own survival? When had this man I'd been assigned to kill become the one thing I couldn't bear to lose?
The realization slammed into me with bruising force: I'd never have another therapy session with Vincent if I didn't act now. Never experience that moment when his professional mask slipped andgenuine curiosity shone through. Never find out if the connection I'd felt in his office was real or just another manipulation technique. All the words we might exchange, all the moments where he might actually understand the broken thing inside me would be gone forever if I didn't reach him in time.
What would I even say?Sorry for stalking you for three weeks. I killed my trainer instead of you. Want to go on the run together?Somehow, I didn't think his therapy training covered that scenario.
But I had to try. For the first time in twenty-six years, I'd found someone who looked at the weapon and saw the wounded child underneath. And that was worth dying for.
I removed the penny from my pocket—Vincent's death contract—and placed it in Hector's cold hand, curling his fingers around it. A final fuck-you to The Pantheon. The ferryman had his soul after all, just not the one they'd paid for.
"One penny, one passage," I whispered. "Contract fulfilled."
Twenty minutes. That's all I had to get to Vincent before police swarmed the area, before The Pantheon realized Hector was offline, before another ferryman was dispatched. Twenty minutes to convince a man I'd been stalking for three weeks to trust me with his life.
I stripped off my blood-soaked jacket, used it to wipe most of the gore from my face and hands. Nothing I could do about the broken nose or rising bruises. I'd have to work with what I had.
Moving toward the stairwell, I felt strangely light. For the first time since I was six years old, I'd made a choice entirely my own. Not what The Pantheon wanted. Not what training dictated. My choice.
I shook it off. My existential crisis could wait. Vincent was my immediate concern. I'd have seconds to convince him before he slammed the door in my face or called for help.
Yeah, that would go over well.
I was a dead man walking. The moment Prometheus discovered what I'd done, every ferryman in North America would hunt me. But for these precious minutes, I was free.
And I knew exactly whereI was going.
The gunshot shattered mypeaceful morning.
I froze, chamomile tea halfway to my lips, eyes still on Richard, the spider plant's new growth. For a suspended moment, everything stopped.
Then adrenaline surged through my system, bitter and electric. My hand trembled, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
"What the fuck?" I whispered, carefully setting down the mug.
The rational part of my brain, the one with the psychology degree, calmly informed me I was experiencing an acute stress response. The irrational part screamed I was about to be murdered in my apartment wearing nothing but pajama bottoms.
I moved cautiously to the window, peering out from behind the curtain. The street below looked normal. No chaos, no screaming pedestrians. But across the street, on a rooftop, I thought I saw movement. Something that looked unnervingly like a struggle.
I grabbed my phone and dialed 9-1-1, backing away from the window.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"
"I just heard what sounded like a gunshot near my apartment," I said, trying to keep steady. "And I think I see people fighting on a rooftop across the street."
"Are you injured or in immediate danger, sir?"
"No, I'm fine. I'm in my apartment."
"What's your location?"
I gave her my address, still watching the rooftop where movement had stopped. "I can't really see clearly what's happening, but—"
"We'll dispatch an officer to check it out when one becomes available," she said, tone suggesting this wasn't exactly a priority. "Please call back if you see anyone with a weapon or if you're in immediate danger."
"That's it?" I asked, taken aback by the underwhelming response.
"We get a lot of reported gunshot calls, sir. Most turn out to be car backfires or construction noise. An officer will drive by when they can."
The dispatcher ended the call, leaving me standing there feeling oddly deflated. So much for emergency services.
