KNOX’S POV
My hands are the problem.
Not in the way Nathaniel would diagnose it, not the gene or the claws or the shift.
The problem is simpler and worse. I’m sitting in the passenger seat watching my fingers open and close around my own knee, and I cannot stop seeing them do other things.
The boy was holding his sister.
That’s the detail that won’t leave. Not the ballroom or the blood or the woman in the red dress whose face I still can’t fully see.
The detail that followed me into this car is the boy.
Sabias. Seven years old, holding his sister Mira under a bed in a guest room with a nightlight still glowing because someone on my staff knew the child was afraid of the dark and cared enough to plug one in.
He was telling her to be quiet. That if they were quiet enough, the mon
