Page 159 of The Thief
"I love you," he whispers. "More than you know. Thank you for coming home, for giving an old man the chance to get to know his granddaughter."
"Henry, please?—"
"Take care of them. The family. They'll need you now."
His hand finds mine, squeezing weakly. "Tell Freddie... tell him he chose well."
And then he's gone. Just like that, just like Dad, just like everyone I've ever loved. Gone, leaving me alone with blood on my hands and a madman unconscious at my feet.
I sit there for a moment, holding my dead grandfather's hand, feeling something inside me break and reshape itself into something harder, colder.
Then I pick up Trace's knife and wait for him to wake up.
We're going to finish this. Once and for all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
alastríona
I'm still sitting on the floor beside Henry's body when Trace starts to stir.
Twenty minutes have passed since I hit him with the hurley. Twenty minutes of holding my grandfather's cooling hand while his blood soaks into the expensive Persian rug beneath us. Twenty minutes of watching his chest remain still, of memorizing his face, of trying to accept that another person I love is gone.
But I can't fall apart. Not yet. Not while Trace is still breathing.
The knife feels heavy in my free hand—his knife, the one he used to murder Henry. The blade is sharp and covered in blood. Blood that now stains my hands.
Trace groans, his head rolling to the side. There's a gash above his left ear where the hurley connected, blood matting his graying hair. He'll have a concussion, maybe worse. Good. I hope his head is splitting.
His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as consciousness returns. He tries to sit up, then winces as he tries to put a hand to his bleeding scalp. But I have his arms and legs tied together. I used the ties from the curtains. It’ll hold him off until I can clear my thoughts and figure out what the hell I’m going to do next.
"You little bitch," he slurs.
"Shut up."
"Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I've given you exactly what you deserve."
He looks around the entrance hall, taking in Henry's body, the blood, me sitting here with his knife. For a moment, something like respect flickers in his eyes.
"You killed him," he says.
"No. You killed him. I'm just the one who's going to make you pay for it."
Trace laughs, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "What are you going to do? Stab me? You don't have it in you."
"Try me."
But even as I say it, I know he's partly right. Killing someone in self-defense is one thing. Cold-blooded murder is another. Even when they deserve it, even when every fiber of my being wants to drive this blade through his heart.
"Your boyfriend's not here to save you," Trace continues, slowly pushing himself to a sitting position. It’s difficult to do with his arms and legs tied up, but he manages it. "Neither is your precious grandfather. It's just you and me now."
"That's all I need."
"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a scared little girl playing with weapons she doesn't understand."
The words are meant to provoke me, to make me angry enough to do something stupid. But I've learned enough from Dad, from Freddie, to recognize manipulation when I hear it.
