Page 87 of Last Hand

—Mom

The paper trembles in my hands. I don’t cry, not the way I expected to. It’s quieter than that. Like a breath held too long finally let out. A door closing with the softest click.

Milo doesn’t say anything. He just rests his head against mine, the side of his hand brushing my thigh.

Leone reaches for my free hand, and for once, I let both of them touch me without needing to flinch, without needing to be the strong one.

Because maybe Mom was right.

Maybe I really can put it down now.

The past is buried.

All what’s left is us.

TWENTY-THREE

Milo

Two months later

It’s been two months since Fallon cut the monster down to size. Two months since I took Igor’s arms—one at a time.

She never told us why. She never screamed. She never cried. She just said,“Take his arms. But he lives.”

And I did.

God help me, I did.

I’ll never forget the first time. How I clamped the tourniquet just above his elbow. How he fought so hard I thought he’d rip his own arm off when I saw the leather straps start cutting into his skin. Dr. Stevens was there, white-knuckled and swearing under his breath. Still, he did it, kept the man alive while I carved the limb off. The smell… Jesus, the smell of his flesh burning as Dr. Steven’s cauterized it.

He lost so much blood we had to run two transfusions that night, he bled like a stuck pig.

When I went to Fallon afterward, shirt soaked and shaking from the adrenaline, I told her the second one would kill him. She looked at me, the belly already starting to round beneathher robe, and said,“Then you better make sure it doesn’t.”I could only stare at her in shock at how cold she was. I just cut off a man’s arm for her, and she didn’t even look the least bit disturbed by it.

So, days later, I did it again.

And Igor lived.

Now he’s a stump in a cage, a breathing carcass chained to a bolt in the floor of our basement like some sick family secret we never speak of upstairs. Fallon never gloats. She never threatens him. She just brings him breakfast.

Every morning.

Right on time.

And today’s no different. Fallon is at the stove in one of Leone’s old T-shirts, one hand on her belly, the other stirring porridge like this is just any other Sunday. Her hair’s tied back in a loose knot. She’s humming something I can’t quite catch. The sun filters in through the kitchen window and hits the swell of her stomach, making her glow even more. Which is fucked up, considering what we’re about to do.

Leone stands beside me, arms crossed, watching her with the same puzzled expression I’ve worn every morning for weeks now.

“You still think this is healthy?” he mutters without looking at me.

“I stopped trying to label her behavior after the first week,” I reply.

Fallon doesn’t acknowledge us. She pours the porridge into a wooden bowl, adds a little cinnamon like she always does, and slides the spoon in like she’s preparing it for a friend. Then she turns and walks past us with her little wobble, and heads toward the basement door.

Leone and I follow like we always do, too afraid to let her go down there on her own. Not that he will get out of there or be able to hurt her in his state.

“She’s going to have to let this go eventually and let us kill him or at least tell us why we are keeping him alive,” he says.

---