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Those eyes are suddenly full of fire, like she hates me for pointing out what she’s clearly been up to. “None of your business.”
I chuckle. “And here I thought you might have some survival instincts.”
She returns to the corpse, swallowing a sob. “It’s my ma. She’s dying. Cancer. I needed?—”
“A decent healthcare system, which isn’t going to happen this century here,” I summarize. “It’s courageous of you to do this for her. But foolish. You wouldn’t make enough to pay for cancer treatment on your back.”
“Fuck you!”
I laugh again. She’s so idiotic, it’s actually fun. “No, thanks. Come back in five years and I might, though.”
Except she won’t be alive in five years. She shouldn’t be alive in five minutes.
I’m smart—unlike her—and that means making the right decision.
The right decision is disposing of this waif.
Except I don’t want to.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, kid. You’re going to pretend tonight never happened.”
I am in so much fucking trouble.
“He was a horrible man. I’m not gonna say anything.”
I almost ask her what he did to her; then I decide against it. It would probably lead to me kicking his body, which would be even dumber than letting her see another day.
“You’re going to tell me your name and your address. Then you will go home, throw those clothes in an open fire, go to school, get good grades. And tomorrow, your mother is going to get into the best hospital. Her treatment will be taken care of by an anonymous donor.”
The pale green eyes fill with tears. Fuck. Now I’m playing Father Christmas. Someone shoot me.
“Hold this.” I hand her the bottle in my gloved hand.
“Why?”
“Because I want your prints on the murder weapon, in case you ever get a little chatty.”
I’m surprised to see her immediately take it. I figured she’d argue. Maybe her survival instincts aren’t that terrible.
Mine are.
“Do you like it?” the kid asks me. “Killing people, I mean.”
I retrieve the bottle. “Yes.”
She nods like it’s the most logical thing in the world.
“I bet it makes you feel powerful.”
“I am powerful.”
“Yes. Because you can get away with murder.”
I laugh again. Three times in an hour. When was the last time that happened? “You’re a smart kid.”
“And you’re really not going…to hurt me?”
I don’t know if she means rape or kill. The first is out of the question; and to my surprise, so is the second.
“No. I don’t think that’s necessary. Do you?”
She exhales so deep, before that mouth extends in a monkey grin. “You’re like my guardian angel, then.”
Ah! Here I am again, cracking up. “I suppose I am, kid. I still need your name.”
“I’m Rory. Aurora Grant.”
The End
