Page 57 of The Darkest Half

“Where?”

“Mozart will be here in thirty minutes to remove your IV and to escort you to the meeting hall. I have to go prepare.”

“But what’s going on?”

He kisses my lips and then stands at the door, his hand on the lever.

“The beginning of the rest of our lives,” he says with a smile, opens the door, and then leaves.

I just stand here, watching the door close slowly behind him, cutting off the light from the hallway, a nervous but excited knot spinning in my stomach.

The beginning of the rest of our lives…

I go back to the window and peer out at the vast city as far as I can see. I wonder where in the city I am, which building, how far away or near Times Square. I wonder about many things in the short moment, but mostly I think about Victor. I think about how far we have come together, the things we’ve endured and faced, the impossible choices we’ve both had to make, even against one another. I think about Fredrik, Niklas, and Nora, feeling a twinge of sadness at knowing at least two of the three will not be a part of “the beginning of the rest of our lives.” I even think of Dina and still miss her terribly. And my dear friend Lydia, who died before I could save her.

So much has happened, so many lives lost.

But life goes on. Things change—the world changes all around us, and it changes us, whether we want to change with it or not.

Still weak and shaky, I make my way to the closet, my IV stand alongside me, pushed on its little wheels. And I’m ready when Mozart knocks on the door.

We leave together; my arm is hooked within his because I still need a little help getting around.

“Are you ready for this?” he asks.

I look over. “Yes. I think I am.”

We walk down the hallway.

“You know,” he says, “I wanted to apologize for how I treated you when you came looking for Victor.”

“No apology necessary,” I tell him. “But if you’re the kind of guy who needs it, then you have my forgiveness.”

He chuckles.

“No, I’m not that kind of guy. But thank you just the same.”

“What kind of guy are you then?”

We round the corner at the end of the hall and wait for the elevator.

I feel his eyes on me, and I look over.

“I’m just like you,” he says. “A killer.”

I smile. “Then I guess I’m in good company.”

The elevator dings, and the doors part; we step inside, and it takes us up many floors to the very top; my heart…as calm as it’s ever been.

28

Izabel

The meeting room is more massive than those we’ve used in the past. It has tall ceilings and bright white walls, but just as clean and sterile and simple as any place we’ve ever used for times like this. But what makes this room so interesting and surprisingly intimidating is the approximately one hundred people standing around six twenty-foot tables.

I know that every person in this room is a killer of some kind. Whether they are like Victor and me and have killed with their bare hands, or they only aid in killing others and are guilty by association, they are all the same—we are all the same.

How did I end up here, among the elite? How did I end up counted among hired killers at all? I was just a teenage girl forced into an unfortunate situation. I wanted to play the piano and maybe get a job in fashion—fashion, really! They were just ordinary dreams. But I’m proof that not always—sometimes not even often—people get what they dream about having or achieving. So many people find themselves in jobs they never thought they’d work, in relationships with people they never dreamed or imagined they could love. Some people at the top of their game end up living on the streets, shooting drugs into their arms, while others who swore they’d never have children or be tied down end up with three children, a husband or wife, and a white picket fence and a dog.

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