Page 21 of By Sin To Atone

“But you do?”

“Are you almost done?”

“How do you know him anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“I don’t feel very good.” She says and I see how she sways a little before catching herself.

“No?”

“If something happens to me, the police will know.”

“Is that so? What about your sister disappearing? What will that do?”

She opens her mouth, closes it. That furrow is back between her eyebrows.

“I think you’re lying about that part at the very least, Little Convict. And I think you forget who you’re dealing with.” I pause. “Tell me. Who are you running from? Because you’re running from someone.”

She opens her mouth, surprised at my question. My guess. Her expression changes. The naïve girl of earlier is back. She rocks in her seat, her free arm hanging at her side, her head drooping. She’s smaller than I realized, and my dosage is most likely off.

“Almost done. Don’t pass out just yet,” I say, leaning her back against the chair and bending my head to finish stitching her up while I think.

I left loose ends, and I’ll need to tie those up. Blue or Bluebird or whatever her name is, she’s not greedy or dishonest, at least I don’t think so. She’s on the run from someone she finds scarier than me. And she’s worried about her sister. I may not have all the information yet, but there is one thing I know for sure and that is she’s not walking out of here tonight. I put in three more stitches and by the time I’m done, I see how her shoulders have slumped. Her head bobs and her eyes have lost their focus.

“There,” I say.

She looks down at her neatly stitched hand then shifts her gaze to me, her movements slow. She looks at the bottle of whiskey, then picks up the glass and peers at the remnants. She scrunches up her forehead. She’s sort of cute with her chopped hair, the top layer of which is blue, the natural shade dark. It’s a dye and cut done at home from the looks of it. But still, she’s pretty enough it doesn’t matter. Even with that scar on her face.

“Is that just whiskey?” she asks.

I smile. “Not used to it?” I take off the gloves.

She shakes her head, slow motion. “It’s not that.” She looks up at me, again cocking her head. “Is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Just…” Before she finishes, she slides sideways off the seat. I’m on my feet in an instant to scoop her up, careful to catch her injured hand and set it on her stomach.

“No, you little convict. It’s not just whiskey. Don’t you know the first rule when dealing with men like me? When threatening men like me?”

“What did you do?” She struggles, trying to get out of my arms as I carry her out of the kitchen, back down the hall and up the stairs to the bedroom I prepared for her.

“Don’t drink anything your enemy offers you unless you’ve seen him drink it first.”

“What did you… give me?” she croaks.

I draw the blanket back and lay her down. She struggles to keep her eyes from closing but she won’t win. I sit on the edge of the bed, brush her hair back from her face as she tries to fight off sleep.

“What…”

“Just a little something to help you sleep while I find out exactly who the fuck you are.”

7

Ezekiel

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