Page 223 of Craving Venom

“Okay, sure. You made it out. But how the fuck did you convince the media, the officials, the whole goddamn world that it was you who died down there and not Jensen?”

Terry grins.

Not the cocky kind. The kind that says you’re not ready for this.

“I left them a story they couldn’t argue with,” he says, stretching his arm across the back of the couch. “Blood. Hair. Skin. Enough DNA to sell a forensic report three times over.”

“And they bought that?” Mark croaks.

I answer, because Terry’s jaw is twitching and I know that pain probably still hums through his nerves.

“They didn’t want to not buy it,” I interject. “The molars were enough to pass a shallow match. No dental records flagged because Terry’s file was already edited since we had a guy in Records who logged him as ‘cleaned.’ Cross-referenced with the melted ID tag on the body, they had their ‘John Doe.’”

Terry wipes his hands on his thighs. “But the teeth weren’t the key. The narrative was. I sent every news outlet in Veridian a thumb drive. No name. Just hard footage of Jensen pocketing bribes. Statements from inmates. A full list of stolen medical-grade narcotics. Even a video of him beating a restrained prisoner.”

I cut in. “He built a digital dossier. Tied it to corruption in the guards’ union. Dropped Jensen’s name alongside two supervisors and a former warden who got caught up in a sex scandal three years ago.”

“So what… you blackmailed the media?”

“No,” I say. “We gave them what they love more than fear.”

Terry glances over at me.

“Scandal,” I finish.

“They didn’t need to ask for confirmation,” Terry says. “The footage spoke for itself. I didn’t need to be the source, I just needed to be the spark.”

“And Jensen?” Mark asks. “They didn’t question why he didn’t come forward to deny any of it?”

I laugh once. “They couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because the prison told them Jensen fled the country. Disappeared the morning after the explosion. No formal resignation. No exit paperwork. Nothing. They turned him into a rogue operative. Made him the villain and the runaway. Painted me as a casualty of proximity.”

“And it worked?”

“Perfectly.”

The room goes quiet.

Not the kind of silence that settles. The kind that waits.

Mark slouches back on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, only now realizing how close to death and manipulation he’s been living. Terry rolls an unlit cigarette between his fingers, tapping it against his knee out of habit more than need. My gaze, though, isn’t anywhere near them. It’s glued to the top-right corner monitor where Faith just walked in, looking as if she’s been swallowed whole and spit out.

She doesn’t even take off her jacket, doesn’t change, doesn’t glance at herself in the mirror. She stumbles forward, drops her bag to the floor, and crashes face-first into the bed with her shoes still on.

I know that fall.

I know that posture.

I’ve seen it after every time I’ve touched her. She collapses the same way as if her body can’t hold onto her anymore.

I should look away.

I don’t.

I should feel guilt.

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