Page 38 of Thrown to the Wolves

“Not literally.” She looks down at the photographs again. “I don’t want to be like her. Like Grandmother. I try to be more…” She trails off. “It’s a damn shame you chose this path instead of sticking with medicine,” she says at last. “You’re good at what you do, Scarlett, no doubt about it. But I think you’d be even better at healing people than killing them.”

I open my mouth, a reflexive protest rising—but then I snap my lips shut again as I swallow back the torrent of emotion.

She’s right. I know that. I’ve tried so hard to strangle out the knowledge, because it was pointless for my quest. As a doctor, I could have helped so many, could have made a difference...instead of dealing out violence and death.

But that door is closed to me now.

Lyssa regards me for a long, weighted moment, those deep, dark eyes seeming to stare straight through to the parts of me I’ve fought so hard to conceal. When she finally speaks, her voice is low, nearly gentle. “You’re not convinced, are you? That this woman isn’t me.” She gestures at the video again.

I wish she’d stop doing that. I don’t want to watch it again.

“I’m not entirely convinced,” I agree slowly. “It could be Ariadne. Or you could just be bullshitting me to get close to Grandmother. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? To have another shot at her.”

I’m not stupid. And at least she’s transparent enough not to deny it.

“Mm,” she murmurs thoughtfully. “Does that bother you?”

I think about it. “I don’t know,” I tell her truthfully. “I don’t really care. I only want one thing?—”

“Vengeance,” she says. “Yeah. Well, in that case, I have an idea. But you’re not going to like it.” She allows the words to hang between us, drawing out the tension until I make a wordless Well? face. “We need to go back to the scene,” she says at last. “Where your brother was killed.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it does nothing to halt the onslaught of memories—the tang thick on the air, the warm wet flooding out of him…

“Why?” I demand.

“There are things we might pick up on that we can’t tell from photos or video.”

I want to argue more, but I can see her point.

My parents no longer own the place—they sold it after Adam’s murder—and I think it’s a dry cleaner or a coin-operated laundry now. But the alley in the back…I can imagine it hasn’t changed at all.

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” I tell her. “I don’t like it. But...we should do it anyway.” I suck in a shuddering breath, shoving down the swell of emotions that threaten to drag me under. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can shake loose from Ariadne.”

A muscle ticks in Lyssa’s jaw, the only outward sign of whatever inner argument she’s having with herself. Then she gives a minute nod of acceptance, as though she’d expected nothing less.

“Let’s meet tomorrow night, then,” she says. “Late. Like tonight.”

She gathers up the photos and then, after a moment, hands them to me. I take them automatically, though I don’t want them. And then she yanks a holster out from under the table, just like I knew she had hidden there. She says nothing about it. I say nothing about it.

She just heads toward the door, pausing on the threshold, shoulders straight and body angled halfway back toward me. Her head turns slightly, fixing me with a look over one sculpted shoulder. “Get some rest, Scar,” she murmurs, and there’s an undercurrent to the words I can’t quite catch. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

I almost ask her to wait. To stay.

To come to bed with me again.

But then she’s gone. Silence rushes in to fill the vacuum—suffocating and immense, broken only by the pounding of blood in my ears. I sink back on the bed, clutching the photographs against my heart as I think about Adam.

About his friendly smile, and the way he could hug me so tight I thought nothing could ever hurt me when my big brother was around.

Tomorrow, I’ll return to the place where my old life ended, with the very person who might have ended it. Or at least, I’ll revisit the moment that cleared the way for Grandmother’s poison to take root.

But that’s not entirely fair. I chose this path, after all. I turn on my side, curling up, then press the heels of my hands against my eye sockets until stars burst across the blackness.

How many lies and half-truths am I blindly following now? Lyssa says one thing. Grandmother says another. And if it was Ariadne who killed Adam, will I turn my wrath towards her, instead?

How many more people need to die before this rage inside me is satisfied?

CHAPTER 19

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