Jack stared down at her and then pushed up from the bed, pulling from her body. She made a noise, curling into a ball that did nothing to hide the fact that he’d just come inside her. There was a dark stain on the bed where they had been, and the backs of her thighs were damp. She curled tighter and started sobbing, a fist in her mouth and he just watched her for a moment, disconnected from the scene.
Something clicked in his brain. He turned away from her, putting himself back in some semblance of order. He ran a palm over his face and pressed the pads of his fingers over his eyes before dropping his hand to one side. She was stuffing the covers against her mouth to stifle the sobbing that tore through her body. Why she bothered, with the noise of the storm rattling the glass and howling around the building like an angry ghost, he didn’t know.
Jack bent down, picked up the ruined skirt and threw it into the trash. This was quickly becoming complicated. He sat down in a sparsely padded chair and drank the remains of the wine in his cup. He wondered, briefly, what his wife would think of him now. He looked at the small, curled ball on the bed and knew he’d lost something there.
The phone in his pocket vibrated and he fished it out. Jeffries. He sent the call to voicemail and pocketed it. There was still a job to do, even if it had grown slightly distasteful. He didn’t make the rules of right and wrong. They existed, they simply were. She’d stolen. He was there to retrieve it. Simple.
He repeated it in his head several times over the next few minutes and another small glass of wine. The bottle hit the trash and settled on top of the skirt he’d put there earlier. She had silenced on the bed, but he could feel her watching him. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Focus. He needed to focus.
He exhaled softly. “It was never my intention to kill you, Elizabeth,” he said, recalling her words from earlier. Looking at her, he frowned. “You might be a thief, but you haven’t earned that. Not from me. Not now, at least.”
He stood and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “I’m here for you, and here to get the money.” Her head came up a bit and leveled her eyes at him, red-rimmed and still leaking. Jack continued. “He does want you, but it’s a matter of the authorities at that point, I’m sure.”
She raised herself from the bed, sitting up, and glowered at him what he thought was a mixture of incredulity and hate. She laughed, bitterly, once. “Do you really believe that, Jack? Are you that naive?” She made that noise again, as she curled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. “Harland will want me dead. I know how he did it. I know what he is,” she paused to catch her breath, “he’ll kill me.”
She shook her head. “So… So… if you think that I’m going to give him both. You’re wrong.” She wiped her hand across her eyes. “I’m not going to help you.”
Jack stood, watching her, processing her stubbornness and resolve. He was slowly sorting out the details, but not liking the picture they painted. He opted for simplicity. Get the money. He had to get the money.
“You don’t have a choice,” he said quietly as he stood and walked to the bureau, taking in her reflection in the mirror. “Just like I don’t have a choice.”
“Whatever, Jack. Tell yourself that if you’d like.” She brushed away the tears angrily. “You’re his little dog. His killer. You’re fetching, that’s all. Don’t tell me that there isn’t a choice there.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He paused for a moment before he spoke. “Let’s revisit.” He turned away from the mirror, walked around his chair and placed his hands on the back, looking at her. “You are the thief. You are the one who thought that you could get away with this. With someone else’s money.” The anger curled in Jack’s stomach as he spat out the words. “You are the one who fucking made this all happen! You, Elizabeth!” Jack flung the chair sideways and stomped towards her.
Her jaw was locked, the look on her face somewhere between alarm and anger. “He’s the thief, Jack, and you’re just his dog.”
Jack felt the haze of rage break; his hand shot out and he grabbed her by the throat. She clawed at his arm and he tore her hand away with his, but not before she left deep gauges on his forearms. Pulling out his knife, he flicked it open, bringing the point of it to the corner of her eye. She stilled, but glared hatred at him. The welts burned where she had marked him.
Squeezing until her breath choked off, he dug the corner of the knife into the skin at her eye. He knew the voice that came out of him, but couldn’t contain it. It was flat, cold, and with it came the tide of calm that calmed the beast riding him. It wasn’t a good sign. “There are worse things than death.” He eased his grip so she could breath, but kept her from falling back on the bed. Her face was a deep red, her breathing short and fast. “Do you think I can’t find your bank? Do you think I can’t become the grieving husband when I turn up with a living will?”
He dropped his gaze to her lips, a darker color still. He kissed her softly, briefly, as she strangled on whatever she was going to say. Twisting the blade, he watched the first drop of blood well and trickle down her face. “Yes, Elizabeth, there are much worse things than dying.”
He pushed her back on the bed, and she pushed up on her elbows, scrambling away, only to be dragged back by her ankle. Straddling her, he slapped away her hands from her face. The streak of crimson was now taking a route back into her hair. The other had dried into a streak down her cheek.
“So. It now becomes the question, Elizabeth, of how much you can take before you break.” He leaned over her and pulled up one of her hands, pressed her fingers wide, his thumb smoothing up her index finger. Edging the tip of the knife under the nail, he pushed in slightly, just until she knew what his plan was. “Will I have to take the nail, Elizabeth, or the entire finger?”
He pulled back the blade and kissed the index finger tenderly. “Will I have to take all of your fingers, or your hand?” He drew the tip of the knife down her forearm to the elbow. “Torture changes a person, Elizabeth. You’ll never be the same.”
The tears were back. He reached down, dragging a thumb through the dried blood and salt, and brought it up to his lips, smearing it across his mouth. He leaned back, tasting it from his lips. Again he looked down at her. “Death is easy. Living is hard.”
