Page 217 of Because I Killed Him
My hands clamp around the sink, trembling, as if I can hold myself together by force alone. A low groan tears out of me, wracked with fear. I can almost hear the guillotine’s lever creaking, the blade preparing to fall. The weight is unbearable, as if my soul itself is screaming.
I swing my head back and forth, trying to beat down the panic, the choking terror of death. I reach for Dad’s advice, then for Mom’s encouragement, but it isn’t until I remember the last words I spoke to Hillaire that the noise in my head finally stops.
I won’t waste it.
I made that promise to her only yesterday. I swore I wouldn’t just survive; I’d live. But I see the truth now, clearer than ever, too late to escape: I never truly lived for anything at all. And now I’ll die for nothing, too.
My eyes level with the reflection in the mirror, and I see a coward staring back. A coward who never spoke up, never fought back; who shut her eyes while others like her were dragged to the guillotine or collared like pets by Blues; who stayed quiet and called it survival. Shame burns through me, deeper than any fear.
“I want another chance,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
Just one. To do it right this time. Please. To fate, to luck, to whatever might be listening—just one more. I swear I’ll live for something, even if it breaks me the way it’s breaking Dad and Mom, the way it’s broken so many others who never had to sink this low before they rose. I’ll suffer for it. I’ll crawl for it. Just stop the civil credits from falling. Just give me one more chance to make it matter.
Please.
The toilet hisses behind me, the only response I get. No mercy or miracle, just the cold tick of numbers slipping away.
584.
I leave the lavatory at 304 civil credits. My body is calm, my stomach empty, my eyes clear for the first time in months. I stride down the corridor, so focused I feel as though I could see through walls. I’m going to find her.Rosamund.I’ll challenge her before the Coppers arrest me. I’ll drag her down with me, so Charlotte won’t be left to suffer alone. I have nothing left to lose, only something to gain if I can reach her in time.
In the foyer, Henry stands in front of the door, blocking the only exit.
“Excuse me, Henry,” I say, already thinking about where I might get ahold of a saber. “I will no longer be meeting with Professor Jerome today. Please inform him of my departure.”
“Already informed,” Jerome calls from behind me. He’s walking down the corridor in trousers and a crisp dress shirt, his boxers gone at last. “Henry tells me you’re getting clipped with a Section Twenty-Seven.”
I frown, still pushing past Henry toward the door. “A what?”
“Ghost charges. Fictional sins. They pile up on your Bond until a Copper carts you off to the slammer. Any guesses who’s playing god today?”
“No.”
“What’s your counter at now?”
I check my Bond. “209.”
Jerome snorts and looks at Henry. “Dead.Bring me the other one.”
Henry continues blocking the door. “This candidate is sufficient, Professor,” the robot says calmly, almost as if it’s speaking on someone else’s behalf. “Miss Waldsten and her family have already cleared the background inspection. And the footage of Mr. Blackwell’s locker room attack may prove—”
Jerome cuts Henry off with a snap of his fingers, then steps back and studies me with a sigh. Gradually, his expression hardens, narrowing into something so precise it feels like he’s turning out my pockets, siftingthrough every hidden shame I have left. Then his shoulders drop, and he rubs the cut on his temple—the one from my rock—with another sigh.
“Fine. But for the record, Henry, I wanted the other one. If this all goes to hell, it’s your bag of bodies.”
Jerome rummages in his trouser pocket, muttering, then strides back down the hallway and disappears into his office.
“The other one for what?” I ask, shifting impatiently. Every second they waste, Rosamund slips further out of reach.
Henry finally steps away from the door and holds one of its mechanical hands aloft. “Miss Waldsten, if you would kindly wait.”
“Why?” My voice cracks when I see my civil credits: 123.
“You will want to hear what the Professor has to say.” Henry’s gaze fixes on mine, unyielding.
From inside the office, I hear the mechanical whir of a biometric scanner. Jerome’s voice rings out, loud and exasperated. “What the hell’s the password?”
“Seven-one-three-seven-eight-nine-seven-three-seven-seven,” Henry recites.
