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Gillian

T he woman across the shop is staring at me.

I don’t know her.

But she looks like she knows me.

Her hand trembles when she picks up her drink, just slightly. She covers it well.

Her hair’s pulled back the way corporate likes it, but her eyes don’t match the rest of her—too alert, too knowing.

Her eyes skim the room like she’s cataloging exits, escape routes, witness angles. I can’t place her face, but something in my chest shifts sideways. Like I used to know her name. Or maybe just how she made me feel.

She doesn’t come over. She watches me for a second too long, then looks away.

Good. I don’t need another distraction right now.

She leaves. I don’t.

The coffee here is bitter. I like it that way. No surprises.

I reach for the cup, and that’s when I see it—a speck of dried blood beneath my thumbnail.

I scratch it away with my other hand. Watch the flake disappear into the grain of the napkin.

It takes a second for my brain to catch up.

For the moment to reassemble itself.

And then I remember.

Not all of it. Just pieces. Sharp ones.

The silence of Andra’s townhouse.

The way she opened the door like she expected someone else.

How she said my name without meaning to—like it escaped. Like a reflex.

She was barefoot. That surprised me. I don’t know why that’s the detail that stuck. Maybe because it made her seem smaller. Softer. More human.

She asked if I was there to talk.

I said no.

She didn’t run. That part didn’t surprise me.

Women like Andra don’t run.

They negotiate.

She offered tea. I said nothing.

The kitchen was dim. She appeared to be a fan of candles, rather dangerous for someone with as many enemies as she’s bound to have, but what do I know? There was one stool slightly out of place, like someone else had been there recently. She motioned toward it. I sat.

She stood.

I waited.

And when she turned her back—when she reached for the kettle?—

That’s when I moved.

The first strike wasn’t meant to knock her out. Just down.

Blunt object. Heavy. Ceramic. It cracked against the side of her face before I felt it in my hand.

She went down hard.

Not unconscious. Just stunned.

She made a sound I’ll remember—not a scream, but a breath. Like disbelief trying to find its voice.

I knelt beside her. Watched her try to speak. Watched her try to understand.

She asked why.

I said, “You already know.”

She said she was loyal. She said she didn’t have a choice. She said she was scared.

I told her fear doesn’t make you innocent. It just makes you useful.

Then I asked her where they were. The journals.

She blinked. Told me I was confused. Said I’d already taken them. Said they never existed.

I reached into the inside pocket of my coat and pulled out the bone clamp. She saw it. Didn’t know what it was at first. Just a piece of steel. Clean. Cold.

I asked again. Politely.

She backed away slightly, said she didn’t have anything. That I should calm down.

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t move fast. I stepped around the island, forcing her to back into the corner of her own kitchen. Told her she had one chance to tell me the truth.

She said she didn’t know what I was talking about.

So I clamped the bone setter onto her pinky.

She screamed, finally.

It wasn’t about the pain. Not really. It was about taking something small and making it feel permanent. That’s what they do. That’s what she did. One injury at a time. One lie. One reset. One manipulation.

I tightened the clamp until the joint gave, then asked again.

She didn’t answer me. Or if she did, I couldn’t make it out over all the sobbing.

So I took her hand. Flattened it against the countertop. Used a meat mallet from her drawer. Just once. Her middle finger. She fell to the ground when it broke.

I crouched beside her and spoke calmly. Told her she wasn’t going to die. Not yet. That I just wanted her to understand what she’d done. What she allowed. What she helped cover up.

She started to cry harder. Wailing, you could call it.

I told her crying was a response, not an answer.

And then I pulled out the bag.