I’m loving the process of letting him.
What’s most baffling of all is the lack of action in the mental space where the horror should be. I keep waiting for it to show up and slug me in the gut. Any second now, surely. Just a few more ticks of the clock and I’ll look at the body on my floor and feel the appropriate amount of revulsion. I mean, Kir staged a date around a murder, and then gave this intruder not an ounce of mercy.
I would have killed him, he said about my r****t. What is this but proof of just how much he meant that?
“You can’t stay here tonight,” Kir declares.
I look at the hallway behind him. The body. The blood. The candles still going, all five hundred of them, cheerful, warm, and completely incongruous next to the dead man on the floor.
“No,” I agree. “I guess not.”
