Page 64 of Because I Killed Him
The message fails to send.
My shaky breathing fills the silence as I look around the cramped elevator. Wherever the Purple Copper is taking me, the internet must be blocked. I reach for Dad’s daffodil brooch pinned to my gown, trying to activate the camera, but it fails. The camera should work without an internet connection, so it must’ve been damaged in the struggle with the Coppers.
“I know who you are,” the Purple Copper says. His shoulders are hunched, as if bracing for something.
“Then you’ll understand why I denied the request for this meeting,” I say.
“I’m simply following orders, Miss Waldsten.”
I’ve heard those words before, back in the locker room, standing over Charles Blackwell’s dead body. The Coppers dragged me away, throwing me into a holding cell without food for two days until surveillance footage proved I acted in self-defense. How many times have Coppers like him used those words to absolve themselves of responsibility or guilt?
“There’s no need to be afraid,” he continues. “I’ll stay outside during the meeting and personally escort you to a destination of your choice afterward.”
If I believed he was telling the truth, I might feel hopeful.
The elevator stops on the fourth floor, and the doors open to a long, empty corridor. Everything feels deceptively silent, yet faint echoes ofconversations, laughter, and the occasional clink of glasses drift through the walls from the private lounges lining the hallway.
The Green Copper and my two Pinkies join us a moment later, falling into step behind us. My feet are starting to blister in my heels, and I focus on the discomfort to ground myself.
At the end of the corridor, a stone wall looms, broken only by a single wooden door. The Purple Copper dismisses the Green Copper with a nod, then turns to me.
“I’ll await you here. Your humanoids may accompany you.”
He scans his Blood Ring on a biometric panel, and the door swings open with a rush of smoky heat. Firelight flickers across the stone walls, illuminating a lone figure seated in a leather armchair. I don’t need to see her face. I recognize the tall profile, the sleek black bob, and the springer spaniel at her feet.
Irene.
A murderer is judged by the kill; a hunter, by the restraint to forgo it.
—ELEANOR CLARKE, DANGEROUS-GAME HUNTER
CHAPTER 14
Confusion roots me to the floor in the doorway. If Irene wanted a meeting, why didn’t she reply to Dickie’s text? And if this isn’t about a meeting, if she brought me here to kill me, why go to all the trouble? There must be easier ways than involving the Coppers, risking a surveillance trail, and forcing me here against my will.
The Purple Copper nudges me into the room, then closes the door behind me. I glance back, and the door is gone, hidden behind the mounted head of a taxidermied elk. Its antlers resemble a crown of knives, with nine points on the left and eleven on the right.
I inch forward, but even with the click of my heels, Irene remains still in her armchair. All her focus is fixed on an outdated bolt-action rifle—more museum piece than weapon—disassembled on the table in front of her. She runs an oiled cloth along the silver-inlaid barrel, carefully wiping away the residue of burned powder. She looks ready to hunt in a heavy, forest-green woolen jacket with leather buttons and embroidery spilling down the lapels, featuring oak leaves and pheasants. There’s a spatter of dark blood on one of the sleeves.
Five other Blues lounge in armchairs by the fire, the same women Irene was with in the dining hall. Their conversation fades to whispers as I pass. Judging by their clothes, they’re hunters like Irene. A few of them enjoy cigars and blended whiskey in crystal glasses, but there’s no mistaking their readiness for a fight.
I edge closer to Irene, still trailed by my three Pinkies. Overhead,security camera lights blink in the ceiling shadows. When I reach the table, Irene finally sets the oiled rag down and rises from the armchair.
Up close, I realize she’s even taller than I thought. Her intelligent blue eyes sweep over me in a way that feels surgical, from the hem of my gown to the arch of my neck and the set of my jaw. I get the distinct impression she’s comparing herself to me, and when a slow, confident smile spreads across her face, I know she’s decided she’s won.
In the Speakeasy, where etiquette rules are absent, I’m unsure how to greet her. But a memory surfaces, my fencing instructor’s advice before we traveled to the Rainbow District for the Junior World Fencing Championship:Greet every Blue the same. Smile and curtsy, no matter what.
So, I do it.
Irene’s expression hardens instantly. “Wipe that look off your face, Miss Waldsten. Smiles aren’t for pleasantries. They’re for triumphs.”
I drop the smile, hating my fencing instructor.
Irene turns away, and as she reassembles the rifle, I notice her engagement ring from Edmund, set with a sapphire so large I’m surprised she can lift her hand. “Is it true,” she says, “that you were invited to Mr. Prew’s private salon on the Regal Express?”
The question catches me off guard.Edmund?I thought Irene dragged me here because of Bliss. The ban has knocked her entire future off track. Rapture, worth fifty billion and operating a large-scale Bliss manufacturing network across the Civilized World, is the backbone of the Hussey family’s wealth and power. Thanks to Dad, that empire ground to a halt overnight. As the sole heiress of Rapture, Irene has spent the last two days watching her future gutted like one of her kills. Is she really going to take this lying down?
“Yes,” I reply cautiously.
