Page 115 of Riordan's Revenge

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot. If I suddenly had two kids land in my lap, I’d treat them differently than he treated us. Oryou, I mean. He stayed in this flat which only had two bedrooms so you had to sleep here.” She kicked the offending couch.

I hated that piece of furniture. It wasn’t long enough for my frame, so sleeping there for years had been a punishment.

“He wanted me to leave,” I guessed. “Why change his life for a kid who wasn’t his? It would’ve meant putting in effort, and we both know he didn’t enjoy doing that.”

“But why not say? Why didn’t he help you? It made me realise how small a person he is. I’m sorry I didn’t call him out on it when we lived here.”

I didn’t need my sister pitying me. I jerked my head at the door. “Come on. We’re done here. This is just him pulling a normal disappearing trick. He’ll be back when he’s back.”

Gen sighed but nodded.

Her movement revealed the coffee table behind her. The place was never tidy, but a collection of strewn items on top of it caught my attention. A scattering of cut-up paper. Scissors. The broken shade of the overhead light had concealed it in a patch of darkness.

“What’s that?”

She followed my focus and snapped on a lamp, bending over the mess to examine it. “Newspaper articles? They’re of the murders. God. How macabre of him to be collecting those.”

I joined her. The top sheets were of Bronson’s confession. Lower ones had pictures of dark streets and crime scenes. Of the dead women. One listed the sites the women were murdered, in exactly the same way Bronson laid them out except with the addition of Alisha’s hanging at the end.

My sister leafed through a stack.

My phone buzzed. I answered the call.

“Zed Alley. Fifteen minutes,” a man ordered.

The line disconnected.

I stared at my phone then took a screenshot of the number and sent it to Cassie.

Riordan: This your brother?

Cassie: Friend-shaped. Have fun!

I turned back to Gen. “I need to leave. He isn’t here.”

She took a shocked breath and reached for something on the table. “What the hell is this?”

She picked up a knife.

A black-handled combat blade.

I recoiled. “Put it down. Why would you even pick it up?”

She squeaked and fumbled it, the weapon dropping. “I don’t know. What the hell is he doing with that?”

“He bought a gun to go after a gangster. Maybe it was backup.” I knelt to examine it on the grubby carpet.

The blade gleamed with a streak of something.

“Did you nick yourself?”

She swore and showed me the side of her hand and the thin line of blood. “For fuck’s sake. Must’ve been when I dropped it.”

“Disinfect that. Now.”

I enclosed the handle in the sleeve of my leather jacket and pursued her to the bathroom sink where she grabbed a bottle of disinfectant from under the counter. Gen winced at the sting but scrubbed the tiny wound.

When she was done, I placed the knife in the sink then doused it, too, scrubbing it with paper towels that I flushed after.

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