“You’re dead,” Harold wheezes. “I was there. I saw the casket. They—they lowered it into the ground. The priest said—”
“You should know better than anyone how easy it is to fake paperwork in this city, Harold. You’ve certainly forged enough of it yourself.”
Harold does what I expected him to do, albeit not quite this soon: He makes a break for the door. It’s a clumsy, desperate lunge that would be almost comical if the stakes weren’t so high.
I block him effortlessly. One hand plants itself against Harold’s chest and shoves. He stumbles backward, his heel catching on the rug, and he collapses into the leather seat with a graceless thump.
I point the knife in my other hand at his throat. “Don’t do that again.”
The blade gleams red in the swirling light, like it’s already wet with his
