Page 37 of Lash

I push the tray away, my appetite gone. "I knew my father was not always…good. I know the things he does are illegal. Drugs kill people. Guns kill people. I know this. But I guess I never really considered that he would do things likethat."

"I wish I could protect you from that reality, but I cannot. It is the truth." He looks at me with compassion. "Your father is not evil, but nor is he good. He has done bad things, and that is the reality."

I shake my head. "But…cutting off the fingers of a young girl? He knows that fear! He has had to rescue me from exactly that! How could he do that to another father? So what if he owed him money? Hurt him, not an innocent child."

"I agree with you. I would have not balked at intimidating, threatening, or even hurting the man who owed your father money. He knew the kind of man your father was when accepted the loan. He knew what would happen if he did not pay it back. But the child was innocent."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying like hell to hold back tears. "It just makes me wonder if I ever knew him at all."

Lash looks at me with sadness and compassion. "Humans are infinitely complicated, Tatiana. We can hold within ourselves an endless array of conflicting feelings and beliefs. Your father loves you. With you, he is gentle and kind. He works hard to take care of you and only ever wanted to give you the best life possible. That is true and not faked. He also can be vicious and ruthless to those who cross him. That too is true, and the two do not cancel each other out. His goodness does not erase the bad he has done, and the bad he has done does not invalidate his goodness."

"That is very hard for me to wrap my head around." I rub at my face with both hands and then use the heels of my palms to wipe away traitorous tears. "I understand being morally gray. But giving the order to chop off the fingers of an innocent girl who could be your daughter because her father owes you money…I do not know if I can forgive that."

Lash shrugs. "I do not say that you should. Why do you think I walked away from him? I could not be part of such a thing. I could not look the other way. And I was unwilling to die for his business and his practices. I have struggled with that since the moment I heard the order. I can comprehend your father, but I cannot and do not justify the things he has done."

"What about yourself?” I ask.

Lash polishes off the last French fry and gathers everyone’s trays. "I cannot justify or forgive the things I have done either. That is how I can comprehend your father. I have never intentionally harmed an innocent person, but I have still taken many lives. I am guilty of being ruthless, vicious, and cold-blooded. I have looked a man in the eyes as he dies with my blade in his heart. What does that make me?"

"Fucked up," Solomon answers. "Just like the rest of us. When you've got blood on your hands like guys—" he glances atScarlett, “and girls like us do, you're gonna be fucked up. No one is truly and thoroughlygood. But as an operator, you have to look at your motivations. That's the only way I’ve ever been able to come to terms with my conscience."

I have a vivid sensory memory of plunging the knife into that man's belly, the soft spring of fat greeting my knuckles, the hot flood of blood over my hand, his quiet grunt of surprise as the blade cuts through flesh, fat, and muscle and into organs.

Nausea rifles through me, bile burning my throat and boiling behind my teeth. I lurch out of my seat and bolt for the bathroom, crashing into the stall just in time to spew out everything I just ate. I hear the door creak open and footsteps on the tile, and a soft touch pulls my hair back as another wave slices through me.

"The first one is the hardest." Scarlett's voice is soft and understanding. "You never forget. Especially when it's self-defense in a situation like that. And no matter how empathetic a man might be, he'll never understand."

Another flash of sensory memory hits—his weight on me as he dies, and he's trying to grab me, grope me, kill me, and I have to yank the knife free and stab him and stab him because he won’t fuckingdie.

I retch again, but only bile emerges.

"I kept stabbing him," I whisper. "But he wouldn't—he wouldn't stop. He—he wouldn't die."

"Most people don't understand how hard it can be to kill a human being. TV gets it wrong. People can survive a hell of a lot, especially with modern medicine. And even if you don't survive it, most stab wounds won't kill you right away. Unless you hit them in the heart or sever a major artery like the femoral or the jugular, it can takea lotof stabbing to kill someone with a knife." She rubs my back. "You did what you had to do to stay alive,Tatiana. But I know all too well that that doesn't do shit for the guilt. It doesn't take away the memory."

"I keep feeling it," I whisper.

"I know."

"When will it stop?"

"It takes time. You'll think about it once in a while forever. I still remember the first man I killed like it was yesterday. It's not as painful now, but the memory doesn't go away. You just learn to live with it. Remind yourself that you had to do it. Remind yourself what would have happened if you hadn't done it. You gotta argue with yourself a little bit."

"Like arguing with yourself when you try a bikini on for the first time after the winter," I say.

Scarlett snorts. "I guess. I usually have the opposite reaction."

I frown at her. "What do you mean?"

“Being as fit as I am comes with certain downsides in terms of traditional views on femininity. In order to stay at the elite level of fitness my job requires, my body fat stays very low. That means my tits are non-existent. Tiny tits, tiny ass, hard hips. Irregular or non-existent periods. Hormone issues." She shrugs. "So when I try on a bathing suit, I often have a hard time seeing myself as…" she pauses, swallows. "As feminine. I'm not a girly girl. I'm lean, hard, and mean. It means I'm damn good at my job, but it’s hard to feel like a woman, sometimes. I have to argue with myself about it. My femininity isn't defined by my shape any more than someone who struggles with too much weight. As women, we all have image issues. All of us. Mine is just a little non-standard."

I look at her. "I never thought about that."

"Of course not," she says. "Why would you? It’s not your experience.”

“Thank you," I say.

"Hey, us girls gotta stick together, right?"