KNOX’S POV
She cries then, quietly, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin in a way that’s clearly practiced but no less real for it.
I wait while she composes herself, and when she looks up again, she’s smiling with the kind of determination that tells me this isn’t over.
“Will you at least dance with me at the New Year’s Eve ball?” she asks. “One dance. That’s all. For old times’ sake.”
I should say no. I can feel the trap closing, the way each small concession leads to a larger one.
But she’s dying, and I’m not quite enough of a monster to refuse a dying woman a single dance.
“One dance,” I say. “In public. With Ember present.”
She nods like she’s won something, and maybe she has.
The photographer she hired, sitting three tables away with a telephoto lens, has been capturing every mo
