Page 133 of Relapse

“Noir,” I whisper.

He doesn’t look at me yet.

That somehow makes it worse.

Dagger shakes him once. “Answer me.”

Noir’s eyes stay on Dagger.

“What do you want me to say?”

Dagger hits him.

Hard.

The crack of his fist against Noir’s face snaps through the apartment. Noir’s head whips sideways, cigarette dropping from his fingers and rolling across the balcony floor in a weak orange smear.

Blood appears at the corner of his mouth.

He licks it away.

Then smiles again.

A cold, cruel, devilish smile that makes my blood turn to ice.

Dagger’s breathing turns rougher.

“It wasn’t Mikey.”

Noir says nothing.

Dagger’s eyes flicker.

He’s putting it together faster than I am.

Or maybe I’m refusing to.

Maybe my brain is standing in front of the truth with both hands over its ears because no, no, no, not this. Not him. Not after everything.

“Mikey was telling the truth,” Dagger says, voice shaking with rage now. “He didn’t know shit. He didn’t know Dante. He didn’t plant anything. He didn’t rat her out.”

Noir finally looks toward me.

And fuck.

There is no apology in his face.

No guilt.

No panic.

Just something almost amused.

Like getting caught is an inconvenience, not a tragedy.

Dagger laughs once under his breath, but it sounds broken.

“I knew something didn’t add up.” He turns back to Noir. “I fucking knew it.”