Perhaps my little Persephone is actually fit for her fate. She stares at the wound, the curved handle of my knife still protruding from the area, and gives the smallest shake of her head. “Insurance.” “What?” Replacing the jacket over the area, she gives a little shrug. “Insurance, right? The stab wound? In case whatever else you did to him didn’t work.” My mouth parts to refute her claim, the need to distance myself from the crime second nature at this point, but I don’t. There’s no reason if she already knows this was my doing. Part of me—the sick, disturbed part I stuff down into the
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