Page 62 of The Darkest Half

The thing is, in my heart, I don’t believe that’s the case. Like I told Kenneth and Victor, those women had to be guilty of something unforgivable because the Fredrik I know—the dark or the light side of him—could never kill innocent people.

But, in the end, it doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m a hired killer, and I’ll do what I’ve been trained to do.

Kenneth Ware has a few last words with Victor before he leaves to take care of important business elsewhere. And that leaves James Woodard, who has been waiting impatiently since the night I saw him with Vonnegut—I guess my hand on his shoulder wasn’t enough.

“Izabel—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I tell him. “You did what you had to do, and if you’d done it any differently, I know you wouldn’t be standing here today.”

“B-But I just didn’t want you to think—”

I place my hand on his shoulder.

“You’re my friend, James,” I tell him with a smile, “and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“If it were not for Woodard,” Victor says, “I would never have been able to pull off the plan to get you and Niklas out of that building.”

“I know. Thank you, James.”

He nods and smiles, and I watch the anxiety and feelings of shame lift from him.

James leaves us, shuffling out the door with his digital tablet and briefcase.

“So, what now?” I ask. I step up into Victor’s personal space, which just so happens to be mine as well, and I tilt my head, looking at him. “And how does it feel to know that Vonnegut is dead?”

He isn’t smiling or even in a lighthearted mood anymore.

I step back a few inches.

“Victor, what is it?”

“There is something I need for you to see,” he says.

I stand here for a moment, anticipating his coming words, and when they don’t come fast enough:

“Well, what is it?”

“Come with me.”

Victor takes my hand and squeezes it, making me anxious about whatever he’s about to show me, and we exit the meeting room.

We ride the elevator down to the basement floor, walk several hallways, and then through several locked doors guarded by men and women with guns.

“Where in the hell are we going?”

Victor doesn’t answer, but wherever it is, as far deep underground and as dark and gloomy as this area is with only dull, flickering fluorescent lights in the ceiling, I can’t imagine it’s anywhere nice.

Finally, we move closer to a room out ahead with a wall and door made of thick, bulletproof see-through material, much like the window in my prison. There is a light on, and as we approach, I don’t know why but I can feel my heart in the tips of my toes.

“Please don’t tell me you have Hannibal Lecter down here,” I say in jest, but I kind of mean it, too.

“Not quite,” Victor says, and then we stop in front of the see-through wall.

“My God…Victor…” I can’t get the damn words out; my eyes dart to and from Victor and the man who looks exactly like him, imprisoned inside the room. “You didn’t kill him?”

I take a deep breath and then step backward, shaking my head.

“Why is Vonnegut alive?”

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