Page 191 of Dance of Deception

I let go of him, and I don’t bother watching him hit the ground.

I turn and go back to Lyra.

She’s still limp, battered and bruised as she lies sprawled on the ground. But when I scoop her up, she's able to smile a little when her eyes lift to mine.

"You lit the world on fire for me,” she murmurs, barely conscious.

I press a kiss to her hair. "Who knew I was such a romantic."

Then I start to run. The fire is closing in, consuming everything. We’re both coughing, covered in soot, and maybe a little singedwhen I crash through the underbrush and lurch out of the forest back into the driveway of her old home. I slow, carrying her gently to the car as sirens wail in the distance.

"I'm sorry, love,” I sigh.

She frowns. “For?”

“You’re going to have to share the front seat.”

44

CARMINE

One week later:

The shadows swallowme up as I move, my steps deliberate, predatory. The pavement is slick beneath my boots, the air heavy with the promise of more rain. Ahead, my target moves toward his car. Alone.

That’s a mistake. He should know better.

I stalk closer, unblinking, keeping to the edges of the alley beside the restaurant.

This is the last piece of unfinished business. Arkadi is dead—for real this time. The ensuing fire that I set in the forest ended up consuming Lyra's old house, too. Which, honestly, I view as a net positive.

Lyra feels the same way.

The fire razed more than the house and the foreclosed ones nearby. It also cleared parts of the woods that the search teams had missed seven years ago. Arkadi was convicted of twelve counts of murder for the twelve bodies they found after Lyra ranscreaming from the house, but it was always suspected that there were more victims.

The fire I set that day took that theory and blew the roof off it, exposing the final resting places ofthirteenmore bodies.

Add those to the two other bodies found in the house of the “copycat killer” in New Jersey. Which turned out not to be a copycat at all.

Apparently, Arkadi couldn’t shake those old habits.

Amongst the bodies found in Kingston, though, was Alison Vos, Lyra's mother.

Which brings me to one of my least favorite topics: herfakemother.

Vera. Who isnotdead.

I don’t know why—maybe it was a mistake—but when I saw her lying in that basement after Arkadi choked the fuck out of her, I ended up crouching down and pressing two fingers to her throat.

There was a pulse. Weak. Fading. But there.

For reasons that are still beyond me, I didn’t let her die.

I didn’t patch her up, didn’t tend to her or comfort her. I just hauled her dead weight out of the house, shoved her into the passenger seat of my car, and left her there while I went to save my wife and murder the fuck out of Arkadi.

Thatwas what—who—Lyra had to share the front seat with.

But, as much as I’ve frequently second-guessed myself for saving that waste of oxygen, Vera had answers when she woke up.

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