Page 180 of Because I Killed Him
“My name.”
Edmund draws back, confusion shadowing his face. “But… I meant it.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Why? Why does he have to make it harder? For months, I’ve hoped for this moment, to finally hear him say my name, but now that he has, all I can think about is howmuch I don’t deserve it. I lower my head, fighting back tears. His hand touches my chin, trying to lift it, but I resist, keeping it down.
“Loredana… look at me.”
I finally do. And it’s a mistake.
Because that look, gentle as the faintest wind, is the final blow that breaks my heart. I drop my head again, wiping away tears, when footsteps echo across the deck. I jolt back from Edmund, trying to put space between us, but it’s too late. Irene is already there, flanked by two Coppers, and she’s seen his hands on my arms. They all have.
Irene stops dead, her fist curling until the edge of her engagement ring digs into her skin. Her eyes sweep over us—me, Edmund, the closeness of our bodies—and she flinches, as if struck by something sharp.
Edmund doesn’t recoil the way I did. He steps out of the hot tub, water dripping from his shirt across the deck, and meets Irene’s gaze head-on. The air between them seems to ripple, like heat rising off asphalt.
At last, she exhales slowly. “Is this how you plan to conduct yourself, Mr. Prew? Publicly?”
Edmund tilts his head. “If my conduct offends you, Miss Hussey, might I offer a suggestion?”
“And what is that?”
“Lookaway.”
Irene’s throat tightens as she swallows. She folds her arms stiffly behind her back. “A word, Mr. Prew. In private.”
She avoids my gaze, but the two Coppers behind her don’t. One, a heavyset Green with a jagged honor scar under his eye, lets his lip curl as if he’s caught the stench of something foul. He sizes me up, deciding whether what he saw was what it looked like, whether I’d actually stoop that low. Everyone knows Blues don’t fall for low-citizens. They buy us. And there’s only one kind of currency we have to offer.
I draw a ragged breath, murmur something polite, and make my exit with as much dignity as I can muster. I walk quickly, hoping for a respite, maybe even a merciful bolt of lightning to strike me down and spare me what’s coming. I didn’t get the chance to tell Edmund, and the next time I do, no one will be there to interrupt.
When I reach the others, Jack and Rosamund are gathered near thedriving range at the far end of the deck, taking turns launching golf balls toward the neighboring yacht. Rosamund has shed her cover-up, revealing a swimsuit built for more than just resisting water. She leans over her club with exaggerated confidence: legs apart, hip tilted, shoulders angled to showcase her chest. The club dangles from her fingers as if she’s never held one before.
“Jack,” she says sweetly, “show me how to hold it. I think I’m doing it wrong.”
Jack approaches with the caution of someone trying to avoid a land mine. He adjusts Rosamund’s grip quickly, his eyes darting anywhere but her breasts.
In a way, I feel sorry for him. Rosamund isn’t subtle, and Edmund, being her twin, puts Jack in a bind. He can block her, but he can’t humiliate her without risking damage to his most valuable friendship. He has to tread carefully. Charlotte, on the other hand, had no such luxury. She wanted Jack to tell Rosamund to screw off, to draw a firm line, but he never could.
Charlotte stands a few feet away, her eyes hidden by sunglasses, her mouth set in a grim line. Her swing is pure power, less about aim and more about release. Ball after ball screams past the neighboring yacht, so quickly that one of the Coppers whistles.
I’ve only ever seen fragments of what it must have been like when Charlotte and Jack were together: the quiet sabotage, the cruel patience of someone like Rosamund, who could turn any kindness into ammunition. Charlotte was walking a tightrope, unable to say what everyone else could see. I understand why she snapped. Why, eventually, she struck a match and burned it all down. Because no matter how much you love someone, circumstances mean everything.
Rosamund trails Jack as he walks back to his golf club. She pulls off his tortoiseshell sunglasses and slips them onto her own face, whispering something that draws a half-laugh from him. When he reaches to take the sunglasses back, she presses her cheek against his hand and smiles at him. It’s a radiant smile, almost sweet, yet beneath it, there’s a hunger to use her mouth for a lot more.
Charlotte turns away, clutching her club and swinging again. Her backis to me, her expression hidden, but through the slow, sinking slump of her shoulders, I see her hope fade, once and for all, until it dies.
The day slips by like a tense, silent game of dodgeball. Charlotte avoids Jack and Rosamund, and I do the same with Edmund and Irene. After the way Irene caught Edmund and me together, I’m not eager to test her patience. She’s already on edge after being locked up for so long, and it feels like one wrong word could push her over.
Luckily, there’s no real need for us to talk. The Coppers made it clear that, as a primary witness in the attempted murder case against Irene, any direct contact between us must be officially monitored. It’s not strictly illegal for us to communicate, but if we do, the conversation must be recorded and reviewed, with a Copper present to ensure the language remains admissible in court. So we keep our distance.
Shortly before sunset, when the bioluminescent lake begins to shimmer like spilled stars, everyone heads below deck. The fireworks show will start soon, but there’s still time to eat first.
While the Pinkies prepare the table, Edmund, Jack, Irene, and Rosamund start a game of poker. Across the room, the Coppers turn on a wall-mounted television and tune into the Blue trial. The jury is still out, but Benjamin Bogart says the verdict is expected within the hour. He adds, almost reverently, that it’s fitting the judgment should come today, on the anniversary of the Civilized World’s founding.
Charlotte and I sit apart from the others at a small table tucked in the corner. She loosens a cigarette from her case, holds it, then pushes it back as if deciding it won’t make her feel better. I lean in to talk to her until I notice the faint blue glow of her Bond behind her sunglasses. She’s texting.
So I watch the poker game for a while. Edmund sits as far from Irene as the table allows. He doesn’t look at her, and when they interact, his tone seems harsher than it needs to be. I can’t help but wonder why. The truth is, without context, he kind of looks like a jerk.
When I ask Charlotte about it, she deactivates her Bond and scoots her chair closer to mine. “Edmund and Irene used to be friends, you know.”
