Page 23 of The Hand that Frays

“Well, that’s not so interesting. Loads of people are recluses, Lyla. Look at us.”

I eye him. “That’s my point.”

His eyes light withunderstanding. “You think he’s like us? Do you think he’s the one who poisoned the children?”

I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t want Carl to be the one we go after—not when he’s not finished proverbially punishing his mother for what he went through as a child through his victims.

“I don’t know, but I’m just noting it as odd.”

“What about the kids? It says they changed their stories, and it’s what got her released, right?” he asks, moving on to taking our guns apart and cleaning them.

He does it when he’s antsy and needs something to do. I swear we have the cleanest weapons in the world.

“That’s what the court documents say, yes. She came up for appeal, and the kids testified they thought their mother was innocent and believed she should be set free. They said law enforcement forced their confessions, and there’s now an investigation into those accusations. The third and oldest kid refused to come to court and somehow got an excusal, but the record was redacted, so I can’t read it.”

“Maybe they’re our in, then.”

I nod. “Maybe. You can’t torment some poor girl because you want answers, Neo.”

He scoffs. “I know that, Lyla. You forget, I always made sure who I was going to kill was guilty beforehand.”

I try not to take it as a stab at me and how I operate, especially when he’s the one who made me this way.

“Well, it says she works in a bar in central London. Bar Termini. Maybe we go there and try to speak with her?”

“Maybe we do.” He stands, cleaning up all our weapons and putting them back where they go before leaning over me at the small hotel desk. “And maybe we’ll have a few drinks and lunch, too.”

When he kisses me, everything melts away. All the worry that’s been tangling a web in my brain for the last few days.

His tongue takes over the kiss, and I turn my face to deepen it, groaning when he grips the back of my head tight.

He breaks from my lips, looking me up and down with his dark, restless eyes. “Fuck, you’re always so perfect.”

I’d beg to differ, but I love when he says shit like that to me. It makes me feel… loved.

Bar Termini lookslike something out of another era, though many things in London do. Neo holds my hand as he leads us to the bar, where the bartender shines a glass behind it.

She looks like the only images released about Cecily Hatt, Anne’s eldest daughter.

“What’ll it be?” she asks us, not even stopping to look over.

“We’re here to speak to you, actually,” Neo says.

Cecily rolls her eyes. “Take your fucking recorder and get out of here. I’m not talking,” she says, slamming the glass on the shelf next to the others.

“We’re not reporters,” Neo tells her, dropping my hand and walking around the bar.

“Sure,” she says, placing her hands on her hips. She turns and pins Neo with a glare that makes her look like a damaged little girl.

Her emotions are raw and on her sleeves, whether she knows it or not. People like us can see them as if she’s wearing her memories and scars every day as a display of her pain.

“We’re here to talk to you about your father,” he tells her, his voice changing.

That’s the thing about psychopaths: we’re charming. We know when to turn it on, too.

“My father?”

“Mmm,” Neo says. “I met him the other day. Well, I saw him, I should say. Something about him felt familiar. People like me can sense when they’re around a kindred spirit.”

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