A baby who, a few minutes ago, had been nothing to him. A baby for whom he’d murdered the father he’d loved so much. Tristan looked at her — her eyes swollen from crying, the colors in them shining and twinkling; her little mouth rosy and soft; her chubby face smeared with his and his father’s blood. The flutter he had felt in his chest minutes ago was gone. In its place was something else instead. Something he’d never felt before. Something he didn’t understand. Something twisted and ugly and alive, taking root inside his chest as he watched her breathe, because of him. Something poisonous
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