Page 32

STERLING

Blood welled up slowly, a dark bead rising to the surface like it had been waiting for permission.

I watched it blossom along the cut I’d just made, a line a man could take pride in if he was the sort who took pride in this. Which I was. There was something about the moment right after the blade did its work…the quiet bloom of truth in red…that always settled something tight in me.

The man in the chair whimpered, a thin, broken sound, but my attention stayed on the blood. On the way it trembled, almost shy, before finally spilling over. It told me more than he ever had. More than he ever would.

I let out a breath and adjusted my grip on the knife, the familiar balance of it settling into my palm. It was good steel, reliable…unlike him.

He tried to speak, tried to form a plea around the gag of his own panic, and I hummed to drown it out.

I didn’t smile or gloat…I didn’t rush.

I just hummed. It was low enough to soothe a skittish horse, constant enough to keep my hand from shaking, and familiar enough that the ranch hands joked it was my murder lullaby.

Little did they know it actually was.

The chair creaked as the man strained against the ropes. Pathetic little sounds, useless little prayers. Men like him always had prayers at the end. But they never had them for the girls they hurt.

“You—you got this wrong,” he choked. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Don’t insult me,” I said calmly.

My hum didn’t falter.

He shook harder. “I found her by the tracks—she was already—already⁠—”

“Dead,” I finished for him. “Because you put her there.”

His breath hitched. The lie collapsed in his eyes before he even opened his mouth. Men like him always thought their fear would melt the truth.

I stepped closer. The basement light swung once overhead, catching the smear of red where my blade had kissed him.

“She ran from you,” I said quietly. “Barefoot. Alone. Terrified.”

His lower lip started to tremble. Good. I wanted him to feel it—what she must have felt.

“You chased her.”

Another hum slid under my breath.

“You caught her.”

“N-no⁠—”

“You crushed her windpipe,” I continued, steady as rainfall. “Held her down. Left her near the tracks so scavengers would take the blame.”

His whole body recoiled like he could reverse history by sheer force of denial. “Accident,” he whispered. “It—it was an accident⁠—”

I tilted my head. “Funny. That’s what people say when they hit a deer. Not when they murder a girl.”

The next hum vibrated low in my throat.

“You left her there like trash you couldn’t be bothered to bury,” I murmured as I let the blade kiss his skin again, drawing a clean line across the inside of his forearm. It wasn’t deep or fatal. It was just enough to make his breath hitch and his eyes snap wide with the realization that the talking part of this was almost over.

Blood welled instantly, warm and dark, beading up as if eager to confess.

He jerked against the ropes, a strangled noise ripping out of him, but I kept my hand steady, my hum low and unbroken. The hum wasn’t for him. It never was. It was for me—so I didn’t rush. So I didn’t let anger dictate the cut.