Page 115 of Shrapnel

He didn’t necessarily need words—Jamie had heard enough from this man to last a lifetime. He could just pull him apart. Rotate his joints or replace his bone marrow with battery acid. There was a thousand ways Jamie could hurt Renard.

He didn’t want to. He just wanted him gone. A bad anecdote he would never talk about.

Renard’s eyes flicked from Jamie to Elijah, puzzled but maintaining his calm.

Jamie should ask him about White Sand Mesa. About the bomb. The murders. But that wasn’t why they were here, was it? This was personal. And it didn’t matter. There was nothing Renard could lie about that would change the end result.

He tried to find traces of himself in Renard’s face. Something familiar. But there was nothing. Nothing but an emptiness in his eyes Jamie recognized all too well.

Elijah inhaled sharply when Jamie holstered his gun. He handed the one he took from the kid to Elijah and let his empty hands drop to his sides. They felt too big, too heavy and ungainly without the gun in them.

“You must be the Weaver assassins,” Renard finally said, voice gravelly from sucking on a thousand cigarettes.

“Our reputation precedes us,” Jamie mused, cocking his head to take the man in.

Back then he was dollar bin t-shirts stained yellow from sweat. Now he was wearing some button up shirt and slacks. Jamie found the pretense of distinguished gentleman to be grating.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Renard asked quickly, the way his lips pressed together revealing just how uncomfortable he was. “I don’t think I have any business with the Weavers. Certainly none that warrants the killing of my men.” His accent wasn’t as thick when he was sober. Or maybe the years had diluted it.

There was nothing in his face to indicate he recognized Jamie. He watched him only because Elijah was hanging back, letting Jamie take control of the situation. Jamie hated how that stung. Maybe there was a part of him that wanted Renard’s eyes to widen in recognition. To immediately know who was looking at him from across the desk. He could lie to himself—say it was the flour coating his face or the dark shadows in the room. But he knew.

Something shifted inside of him, and he let it. Let the cool weight of his anger coil up his spine and diffuse through his system.

“I don’t want anything from you.” Jamie heard himself saying. He felt like he was watching the scene from above himself.

He moved toward the ugly decanter, tapping his fingernails against the glass. It was an obnoxious thing, wide at the bottom with a sloping narrowed spout. Artistic. Jamie picked it up and sniffed it.

Renard watched him. “Brandy. I’m afraid it’s not very good but help yourself.”

Jamie swirled the amber liquid around, watching as it changed color with the light. Changing from molten caramel to a dark coffee color.

The offer of a drink was clearly Renard’s attempt at civility. At extending a laurel branch toward the man who holds all the cards. Jamie pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked the wheel twice. He preferred matches. There was something about the snick and hiss of a wood match, but he worked with what he had. Still swirling the alcohol, he lowered the lighter and watched as the colors danced in front of the flame.

“Do you remember her face?” Jamie asked as he waved the lighter across the glass.

Renard parted his lips to answer but Jamie knew he couldn’t. “You’ll have to—”

“I can’t remember her face. At least, not the way it was before you destroyed it. Before the drugs had eaten through her senses and rotted her skin. I used to think that she must be beautiful, why else would you take her? Then I realized it had nothing to do with beauty.” Jamie didn’t look up. “I remember her hair though. It was always so long. She taught me to braid it after you broke her fingers, and she couldn’t do it herself.”

There was an audible swallowing sound and Renard shifted in his chair, laying his palms flat on the desk to push himself up.

“Sometimes I think I get flashes,” Jamie continued as Renard rounded the desk, hands in his pockets. He sat on the desk, only a few feet from Jamie. “Like maybe I can see her nose? Or her lips. But most of the time it’s the way she looked the night she died.”

Cold unseeing eyes. A soul that died long before her body caught up.

Jamie finally looked up. Renard was staring at him with recognition now. There was no pleasure in it. Jamie was past that.

“Would you like the truth?”

“Yes.” Jamie smiled ruefully. “If I thought you were capable of it.”

Renard huffed, like Jamie said something funny. Funny ol’ Renard. He’s a liar, a murderer, and a rapist.Ha. Ha.

“You want me to tell you that you look like her? That her eyes sparkled like stars or whatever shit I tell them all? Tough luck. Because I couldn’t tell you what she looked like when I was fucking her, let alone now.”

Elijah shifted behind Jamie, but he shook his head.No.Elijah backed off, but he could feel the weight of his partner’s stare.

Jamie watched as the flame curled around the glass decanter. It left behind a sooty stain, the amber liquid roiling inside as he twisted the container.