Page 54 of A Vocation of Violence
I relaxed a little, knowing that our journeys had the same destination tonight.
A shiver traipsed down my spine, not from the chill but from the clandestine urgency in her tone. “Claudia, you have to tell me, do you know anything about Lena or Vivienne’s murders? Do you think they are connected?” I pressed, inching closer, my senses sharpening to the hidden nuances of her demeanor. Had she been the one to bash both their heads in from behind?
Seeing her slight form now, it was hard to believe.
Still, I wouldn’t be allowing her behind me anytime soon.
Claudia hesitated, a delicate tremor in her lips betraying the fear that gripped her. “They knew each other… But that’s not important now.”
“Then enlighten me,” I urged, “to what is important.”
She leaned in, her breath a ghost against my cheek. “I know who killed Vivienne.”
I nearly tripped over her confession and had to grasp her arm to keep from sprawling on the walk.
“Tell me,” I said softly, sensing the brittle edge of trust that held her confession aloft.
Her gaze flitted to mine. “I can’t,” she whispered, looking up at me as if to apologize for her most egregious sin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to be,” I said, stopping to clasp both of her freezing hands in mine. “My only interest in this case is justice for Vivienne, and to clear Darcy’s name. Surely you don’t want an innocent man to hang for her death?”
Casting her frantic gaze about, she found a tight alley and pulled me away from the unceasing shine of the Strand. “I’m so afraid,” she confessed.
“I know.” I huddled in tight, hoping to protect her from the darkness beyond. “I will stay with you, Claudia,” I promised. “We will take the information to the men who have the power to avenge her death. Don’t you want to do that for Vivienne?”
Her wide eyes never blinked as they filled with moisture, gleaming up at me with that worshipful gaze that broke my heart.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
My question was taken by an explosion of pain that stole my vision.
And then my consciousness.
Chapter Seventeen
Consciousness crept back to me like a sinister shadow, crawling across the cobwebs of my mind. A dull ache throbbed at the base of my skull, a cruel reminder of the violence that had brought me to this dire circumstance. I stirred, only to find my movements restricted, bonds tight around my wrists and ankles, tethering me to a cold, unyielding chair. Panic’s icy fingers clawed at my chest as I strained against the ropes, desperation lending me futile strength.
A chill swept over me, colder than the grave, and it wasn’t solely from the dank air. The foul stench of the river invaded my nostrils, decay and brine that one could never forget, mingling with the copper scent of spilled blood. My heart stuttered, but a morbid curiosity urged my eyes to adjust quicker to this infernal gloom.
Immediately I wished to return to the bliss of unconsciousness.
Because I saw her—a shapeless form sprawled upon the floor mere inches from my bound feet. My breath hitched as the details coalesced into a dreadful truth.
Claudia, Vivienne’s shadow turned specter, lay motionless, the pallor of death stealing the manic gleam once ever-present in her eyes.
A whimper escaped me.
I strained against the chair, seeking any telltale sign of where I might be held captive. The edges of my world were blurred, yet through the shadows emerged the stark outline of a warehouse. Brick and concrete, cold and unyielding, much like the corpse at my feet.
The horror of it all threatened to unleash the bile rising in my throat. Claudia had summoned me into the alley, distracted me so my stealthy assailant could clobber me over the head. She’d trusted whoever was behind this. That gullible, hopeful fixation, that all-consuming adoration she harbored for Vivienne—and possibly my attacker—had been her undoing, leading to her grim fate.
But there was no time for sorrow or revulsion; such luxuries were afforded to those far removed from the clutches of malevolence. My mind, ever my weapon, sharpened itself against the whetstone of necessity. There must be a weakness—a loosened rope, a forgotten tool of escape, anything to exploit. With each tentative shuffle, each careful twist of my wrist, I sought my salvation in the oppressive gloom.
“Think, Fiona,” I chided myself, grappling for that sliver of cunning that had kept me alive all this time on my own. My mind raced, each thought a spark in the dark, seeking a way out. I wasn’t done with this life. Too many people needed me.
Mary’s memory needed me.
“Hello?” The question was a whisper to the dead, to the ghosts that lingered in the corners of this godforsaken place. To whoever had tied me up. “Who are you?” I was proud that emerged as a demand, at least.
