Page 144 of His Trick

I didn’t move toward her, not yet.

My hand rested lightly on the armchair, my thumb brushing the material as if to remind her that every word had consequences.

“You understand why you did this, don’t you?” I said, circling her slowly. “Because if you didn’t, he would get hurt. You don’t want him hurt, do you?”

She shook her head, her voice a ragged whisper. “I…I don’t…”

“Good,” I repeated.

She pressed her palm to her forehead, trying to steady herself. “Carrington…he’s going to be okay, right. You’re just…drunk and acting crazy right now?”

I tilted my head, watching her.

“That depends on him,” I said softly. “And you.”

My thumb brushed the cool metal of the gun, slowly. I let the words sink into her like stones pressing down.

She swallowed, shivering. The rain drummed harder against the window, a low, steady roar that mirrored my pain. I tuned out her sobs that filled the apartment. Instead, I breathed in slowly, patiently…waiting. Shiloh was already spiraling, likely drunk, terrified, and on the road. He had nowhere to hide now.

When he saw my gift, the mask, the blood, the proof of his mistake, he would understand not just that he’d been hunted. Not just that he’d been manipulated, but I had always been in control.

The sound of the rain grew heavier outside, filling the apartment like white noise, a static that lulled me. Xanthy sat frozen on the couch, her hands intertwined, and her eyes on the bullet hole in the phone, as if it could pull her out of this room.

Sorry, dear sister. We are all a little mad, and tonight, this version of me you can’t escape.

I watched her for a long time, silent and calculating.

She didn’t recognize me anymore.

That much was clear.

She kept flicking her eyes toward the gun in my hand. I let her, making sure it glinted in the dim lighting.

Fear was a language, one I had been fluent in for years.

I finally turned from her and walked toward the old storage trunk against the far wall. My boots creaked against the floor, and she flinched at every sound.

I crouched down, flipped the latch, and opened the lid. Inside, everything was exactly where I’d left it—a plastic bag, gloves, and the mask I’d used back then.

The smiley face stared up at me with its crude black cut-out grin, a grotesque joke against the rain-streaked halo. I pulled it out slowly, feeling the weight of it in my hands.

“Do you remember this?” I said to her without turning.

I could hear the tinkle of her earrings as she shook her head quickly. “No…I don’t?—”

“Yes. You do,” I said, my voice low. “You saw it that night. We both did. It’s where all of this began.”

I reached into the bag again, pulling out the small vial of rabbit blood I’d mixed earlier. His favorite. I uncapped it and let the thick red liquid drip over the mask, speckling the plastic like rust.

Xanthy gasped softly behind me. “Carrington…what are you doing?”

I turned the mask over in my hands, letting the blood pool in the corners of the grin. “Reminding him,” I said.

“Reminding him of what?” she whispered.

“Of what happens when you take what’s mine.”

The words came out colder than I expected. For a second, even I felt the chill.