Page 100 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

“What reason would I have to record you?” he said. “You’re not that interesting.”

“It’s not recordings I’m worried about. You know that.”

“Ah.” Owen tipped his head to one side, studying me. In the moonlight, he looked more like me than ever. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife, holding it up. “Is this what you want to see?”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Panic tore through me like a wildfire out of control. I was on the roof, but I was also one floor down, reliving it all: the knife in my back, the fall, the pain, the realization, the blood, the coffee, the helplessness. It repeated over and over, like a slideshow that refused to end, where images picked up speed until they were nothing more than a flicker.

“It’s the same knife,” Owen said conversationally. “I kept it as a memento. I even considered not cleaning it, but there’s a fine line between sentimentality and stupidity, and that would cross it. A murder weapon and the DNA of the victim, all rolled up into one, would be something of a gift for the police should they ever have put two and two together and come up with the right answer. Of course, they didn’t. A stabbing in a car park was enough for them to decide it was some other guy entirely. I forget his name.”

I couldn’t drag my gaze away from the knife. “Geoffrey Ryhill.”

“That’s it.”

“I met him,” I said. “I got a visitation order because I wanted to know why he did it.”

That amused Owen, the reveal prompting the first smile I’d seen from him. “I wish I’d been a fly on the wall for that conversation.” He moved the knife, first to the left, and then to the right, laughing when I tracked its path. “Your face! You’ve gone pale. Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” He set the knife down beside him and then crossed his arms. “Better?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It depends if you’re planning to use it.”

He shrugged. “I don’t really have a plan. I’ve been giving myself over to instinct lately.”

My throat was dry, and I wished I’d brought water. “Was that what Jamie was? Instinct? Why him?”

“A message to you. I saw the cozy little cafe tête-à-tête the three of you had.”

“What was the message supposed to say?”

Another shrug. “Watch your back. Be careful who you trust. Or maybe I just wanted to see whether you had the balls to rush to his aid. Who knows?”

“So you attempted to murder him mainly for sport?”

Instead of answering, Owen stood and walked over to the parapet, staring out across the city. “It’ll be light soon.”

I stared at the knife he’d left behind, and then at the man standing with his back to me. He kept talking, but the words were nothing but noise. How easy it would be. Pick it up. One push. The fall would finish him even if the blade didn’t.

Revenge. An eye for an eye. His just desserts. Whatever you wanted to call it. And it would all be over.

Could I do it?

I was no closer to an answer when he turned around. There was a knowing look in his eye that told me the dilemma had been a test. One I didn’t know whether I’d passed or failed.

“I asked you something,” he said. “What could you have been thinking about, I wonder, not to have heard me?”

I lifted my chin, letting my anger show. If he took satisfaction from it, then so be it. “How about we cut the bullshit? You said you’d answer my questions if I came up here. So far, you’ve answered jack shit.”

He smiled. “I tell you what. We’ll take turns. I’ll let you start.”