Page 71 of Because I Killed Him
The Pinkie steps in, its mechanical limbs clacking as it sorts through Edmund’s meager stash. “Ruby,” the robot declares, setting a stone aside. “Vivid red. High clarity. Value: eight hundred thousand.” Next comes an emerald. “Vivid green. Excellent clarity. Value: seven hundred thousand.” Then a sapphire worth five hundred thousand and a pink spinel worth three hundred and fifty thousand.
But the stones are still not worth enough to match the diamond’s value. As the Pinkie continues sorting, Edmund reaches for a beer bottle and tops off the mustached Blue’s glass. He lifts his own glass and holds it out.
The mustached Blue studies Edmund, then swirls his beer dismissively. “I don’t toast an opponent, Mr. Prew. Not until the game is finished.”
Edmund inclines his head, but doesn’t withdraw his glass. “That is exactly when a toast matters most.”
The mustached Blue arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You clink so the beer spills into each other’s glasses—just enough to prove neither of us poisoned the other.”
The mustached Blue glances down at his glass, considering for a moment. Then he laughs, sharp and delighted. “Well then. As long as we’re enemies.”
The mustached Blue raises his glass and taps it against the side of Edmund’s, firm enough that a few dark drops leap the rims and mingle.
The Blue woman exhales a ribbon of smoke, her smile turning curious. “How intriguing, Mr. Prew. If a toast is meant for enemies, what’s the equivalent for friends?”
Edmund takes a sip of his beer, then turns to her, his expression polite yet direct. “Friends drink from the same glass.”
He holds his beer out toward her.
She hesitates only a moment before taking the glass. As she drinks, her throat bobs slightly, and a flush creeps up her neck.
I’m feeling flustered myself, but not because of Edmund. I don’t have time to wait for this game to drag on. For all I know, they could play all night. I reach for Dad’s daffodil brooch, pinned to my gown. After I used its camera footage to force Edmund to uphold our agreement, I know he’ll remember it. Carefully, I loosen the pin and hold the brooch out for a moment, its hard edges biting into my fingertips. Then I drop it through the grate, where it lands on the table with a soft thud, its brilliance swallowed by the piles of gemstones.
A moment of stunned silence passes before the mustached Blue jerks his head up. “Who’s there?”
The Blue woman springs to her feet so forcefully that her chair topples sideways onto the rug. In one swift motion, she draws a pistol from a garter on her thigh and points it at the grate. “Identify yourself.Now.”
Edmund, meanwhile, stares curiously at the brooch. He picks it up slowly, turns it over in his fingers, and sets it back on the felt.
He remembers.
“Mr. Blakely. Miss Seymour.” Edmund’s voice cuts through the charged air. “I am afraid I must bid you good evening. Please accept my apologies—and an invitation to my party tomorrow night.”
The two Blues exchange a glance that shifts from surprise to disbelief.
“And the gemstones?” Miss Seymour asks.
Edmund pushes the remaining pile toward them. “A gift.”
The Pinkie hands each Blue a velvet satchel. They begin scooping the gemstones into their satchels with brisk, practiced efficiency, but when Miss Seymour reaches for the daffodil brooch, Edmund’s hand flashes out and gently catches her wrist.
“You have an excellent eye, Miss Seymour,” he says. “Excellent enough to observe that this brooch is not a gemstone.”
Her hand stills in his grasp. She looks up and meets his gaze, his smile still perfectly polite. After a brief pause, she lets out a soft, forced laugh and flicks her fingers, letting the brooch fall back onto the felt.
The Blues finish gathering the gemstones in silence. Mr. Blakely tucks his cigar into the corner of his mouth and turns to leave, while Miss Seymour straightens her headdress, her gaze never quite leaving Edmund. At the door, they both tilt their heads back, casting curious glances toward the ceiling vent. The Pinkie opens the door for them, and they step out with reluctant grace.
Edmund picks up the brooch again and leans back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. “Miss Waldsten…” His gaze settles on the grate. “You may now crawl out of the ceiling.”
I tug at the grate, but the screws won’t budge. My hands are swelling, each throbbing cut a vivid reminder of how much it cost me to rip off the last one. “A gentleman opens the door,” I say.
Edmund rolls the brooch between his palms, amused. “Ah, so you consider me a gentleman now?”
“That remains to be seen.”
He considers for a moment, then exhales sharply, like a beast settling its hackles. The room seems to shrink around him as he stands. He steps onto the table, planting his shoe squarely on his cards, and crouches beneath the metal grate. In one brutal motion, he tears it free and drops it to the floor. Then he straightens, his head level with the vent opening, and looks at me.
