Page 136 of Grim

My voice breaks on the last word.

A tremor of pain.

It barrels through me like a fist driven into the center of a hollow. I hate it.

“The Weaver triplets became twins,” I finish, voice brittle now. “And that is the end of that.”

I do my best to recover from the unrecoverable, but Kane’s demeanor has shifted, and I am aware I have said too much.

“Where is she now?” Kane asks with the same obnoxiously empathetic voice he has been using this entire conversation.

“She is gone,” I snap. “And that is all you need to know about that.”

“Dead?”

“Mercy cannot die.”

“Lost then?”

“Gone,” I state after a pause that stretched longer than it should have. I can see the challenge behind his eyes before the acid words come out of his throat.

“You loved her.” He slaps the truth across my cheek like a gauntlet.

“Love is for the weak, Kane. As you have now become painfully aware. And I,” I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a thread of warning, “am anything but weak.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Love is the opposite of that,” he says with a pestering sadness in his tone. “Love is why, D. Whatever the question is, love is the answer.”

My patience frays.

“Not here. Not now. There is noMercyin this story, Kane,” I say, each word deliberate and final. “Not anymore.”

The floor shakes under us at the finality of my tone. I turn our attention to the large abstract painting on the side wall of the office. At another thunderous snap, I fix my gaze on the image and bring up our viewing arena for Kane’s final torments.

“You’ll like this,” I say with a wicked grin. “You like stories, don’t you, Kane? Let’s watch a few.”

The first image flickers into focus—a strong young woman jogging in place, checking her heart rate. Her pulse spikes. Her body seizes, and just like that, she drops.

“She ran her PR marathon last week, Kane. That means personal record.”

“Je sais,” he replies dryly, his mouth tight.

I swipe my hand. The next scene plays out. A pediatric surgeon on their new boat, grinning, wind in his hair. Then gone. Aneurysm. No buildup. No suspense. Just one second laughing, the next lying cold.

“What are we watching?” Kane murmurs.

“Life.” I grin. “Spoiler alert though: these stories all end with a TFE.”

“Qu’est que çe?”

“A tragic fucking end, Kane. It’s like an HEA, but you know … not.”

Kane’s silence bores me. I snap my fingers and change the story on the screen.

“Ohhh,” I squeal. I do love a good squeal. “Here’s a two-pack-a-day smoker, fueled by whiskey and regret. He’s just ridden out ninety-two spiteful years in a rocking chair on the front porch of a house he inherited from his parents. Gifted just enough comfort to squash any chance of ambition.”

I look at Kane, whose gaze does not leave the screen.

“Would’ve been a great poet actually,” I muse. “But comfort kills ambition, doesn’t it? Poor bastard never even tried. Oh, Fate.”