She had to debrief; it was some kind of rule. First she limped to the Infirmary, where Dr. Townsend assured her that her ankle was only sprained, and could be treated with ice and rest. Then she sat at the receiving end of Dominic's desk, Alex in the chair next to her, and tried to re-tell the night in a way that might please him.
Her heart wasn't in it. Alex was quick to interject, steering her while she told their invented narrative. She didn't wander too far from the actual course of events; there would be news articles and police reports and security footage to deal with.
It was late. When her eyelids became heavy, she feared what waited behind them: Jacob Corrigan and the security guard. And blood.
It had poured out of Corrigan in great pulses at first, his heart making a final blind effort at functioning. Grasping at straws. It was thick as molasses when it hit the cold winter air, pooling on his white dress shirt. Octavia had never seen anything so red. She'd spent her whole life looking at cheap forgeries, like crayons and paint samples, and there was the real thing in front of her, shining and wet. Alex dragged her away, but the blood had already squeezed through her fingers, lukewarm as a forgotten cup of tea. There were still creases of it in her nail beds.
"Octavia," Dominic said.
She snapped back to attention.
"Why did you let your target get the drop on you? You should have gone into the bathroom the moment you heard him. It would have given you an advantage." Even as he scolded her, he opened a locked drawer under his desk and began to count bills onto the surface in a tidy stack.
"She was nervous to approach him. It's normal," Alex interrupted. "She'll know better next time."
Dominic allowed the awkwardness between them to linger a moment before he pushed the money to her. "Count it," he said. "That's two grand you've earned tonight."
She didn't want to count it. She barely wanted to touch it. "What about Alex?" she asked. He turned stiffly, his look warning her to stop.
"Your trainer doesn't get paid for ride-alongs."
"It's okay," Alex reassured her. He hurried to his feet, looking relieved to get out of the office. As if the memorabilia on his walls were two-dozen smaller Dominic's, staring and judging and poorly masking their disappointment.
"Next time," Dominic said, "don't let a job go to street level like that. You introduce outside elements. Witnesses, collateral damage." It didn't escape Octavia's notice that witnesses were worse to him than collateral damage. "You should have aimed into that bathroom and hit him on the first try. We taught you better than you demonstrated tonight."
"Next time," she said without conviction, and limped out.
She waited until Alex had walked her downstairs to her room before handing him the money. "I can't take this," she told him.
"Octavia..."
"Even if I had killed him, I couldn't take a reward for it. What kind of monster would I have been, busting into that bathroom and shooting him while he washed his hands?"
Alex looked down at the money, eyebrows converging, and there was desperate sadness there. Did he regret killing Jacob Corrigan, or was he only wounded at the idea that she'd indirectly called him a monster? And really, her point didn't stand up to scrutiny: what difference did it make if she killed him in the bathroom or out on the street? Dominic would have argued that the fast, efficient kill was more humane. It would have spared the security guard, too. And for that, she was the monster.
"I don't want to think about that job ever again. Any job, actually," she said. "Maybe we could make a trade. All I want is some sleeping pills."
The bills waited in his open palm. "Octavia," he began again.
"I said some sleeping pills, not a lot of sleeping pills." She frowned. "A normal amount of sleeping pills."
"I know this is difficult."
"I can't do it. I can't do what you do for a living and tonight proved it. Sooner or later, he will find out."
"You have to give me some time. I can find a way around this," he replied.
Octavia wriggled out of her coat, backing away when he reached out to help. "Because you need the excitement in your life. Is that it?"
The bills crinkled in his fist. "It's not that," he said. "You know I want to help you."
That was true enough; he'd proven it when he killed her intended target. If only she hadn't been inches away and sitting on Corrigan's wounded leg when he'd done it. The sight of that blood, where it lingered on her fingers and in her clothes, would make sleeping harder than ever. Should she chastise Alex for helping, or thank him for the double homicide? She might do anything for the pills.
"Someday you're going to need this money. I can put it somewhere safe for you, set up a bank account. You've got your future to think about," he said.
She nodded, the sudden professionalism driving the wedge further between them, and Octavia didn't want such a horrible night to end with this argument. The job had permeated like a sour mood, making her doubt things that could have been positive – Alex thinking he'd been protecting her from the guard – and she couldn't face her room alone, knowing she'd dismissed him just for doing his job. It wasn't like he'd had a lot of options and in that way, they were alike.
She let her coat fall quietly to the floor and slid her arms around his waist. Her cheek landed on the front of his shirt, where he curved a hand against her hair. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. If she could distract herself, just for a moment. If she could push out the image of the security guard falling to his knees, or Corrigan's rag doll body. Alex hadn't rejected her to hurt her feelings. He'd rejected her the other night because she was drunk. She knew that, of course. "I don't know how long I can stay here," she said. "But thank you."
Octavia went in and lay face-down on her bed without even bothering with her bedside lamp. She decided to reclaim it. Just because something bad had happened on that mattress didn't mean it was cursed. It didn't matter, of course; sleep was going to be an impossible goal. She'd sooner win the lottery. Sleep taunted. It permitted a few seconds of dozing, that sinking feeling where her thoughts fell out of formation and dissolved away, where her brain slowed and wandered in strange directions—
blood
—and in short fits and bursts her heart clanged around in her chest until she gasped, eyes wide. Octavia wondered how long a person could go without a solid rest, if sleeping in five-minute intervals was enough to maintain a minimum of health. If she could sleep in five-minute intervals forever.
A sound came from behind her.
Octavia rose, body tensing, and her fingers found the lamp in the dark.
Everything looked normal. It wasn't like the room had a dozen good places to hide. The door to the hall was shut and the floor was clean, if she ignored the pile of magazines. Her bed was still a tangle of blankets. And then she saw it.
A tiny black box on the pillow next to hers.
She didn't have to touch it to know what it was. Each passing second confirmed a detail she had worked hard to forget. It had a soft outer shell that had felt like velvet. The hinge would take a certain amount of convincing, because it was new. The inside would be lined with white satin. The jewelry shop logo embossed on it with gold ink.
Then, the ring. Behind Octavia came the whisper of fabric.
She wanted to fight. She had enough adrenaline in her. There were skills too, moves she had learned to incapacitate an opponent of any size, but her limbs didn't move once she held that tiny ring box. She willed herself into autopilot; she would have accepted the uncontrollable urge to run, even if it didn't work, because it would have been something. It would have shown effort. Instead she waited on her knees on the bed with her back to Victor and the dreaded box in her hands, the little box that could have drowned her in only two inches of water.
Victor was wearing an outfit that suggested he was heading outside – thick cargo pants and a zippered sweatshirt, and underneath, she caught a glimpse of a white tank top. Men didn't call them tank tops though; they called them wife beaters.
"Have you missed me?" Victor asked. He approached with no trace of animosity, but already she identified the red edge of his ears, the color creeping around from the back of his neck. He wasn't as calm as he wanted to be. "You look so beautiful. Come here."
Octavia had hardly opened her mouth when he reached down to circle her waist and nearly lifted her from the bed, locking his arms behind her, and then she was covered by him and he breathed in the scent of her hair and sighed. If she looked past the worried rumbling in her stomach, he was as warm and familiar as worn-in pair of shoes.
He took a seat next to her on the bed without letting go, turning her so that she was nearly sitting in his lap. "Have I been loyal to you?" he asked. The words buzzed against her neck.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I said. Have I been loyal to you? Have I ever cheated on you, or left you? Have I ever put other women ahead of you?"
His hug constricted as hers went slack; he had made some decision or other and needed to feel justified. Even their months apart hadn't changed the way she read his manipulations. But, for his part, Victor had been loyal to a fault – many a long night she had prayed another woman might catch his eye. Immense guilt always followed that thought; she wouldn't have wished Victor on anyone. "You're loyal," she said. "Why?"
"Because we have to leave. Now."