Chapter 5 Forte

Friday night, I found him by the river.

The streetlights trembled on the wet pavement, and the city sighed around us.

I stepped out of the shadows, hands in my pockets.

"Forte," I said.

He turned, blinking stupidly. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises, most not my doing. His eyes were bloodshot, wary.

"Who...who are you?"

I smiled, thin and cold.

"A mirror," I said. "Come to show you what you really are."

He laughed, a wet, broken sound. "I don't even know you, man. You want my wallet? You want my shoes?"

I shook my head.

"I want your soul."

Maybe he thought I was crazy. Maybe he was right.

But crazy or not, I knew what needed to be done.

I took a step closer.

He flinched.

Good.

"Listen, man," he said, hands up, voice cracking. "I didn't mean to-I didn't-"

"You didn't mean to leave her in a dumpster?" I said.

My voice came out low, shaking, like the growl of a cornered dog.

His mouth opened, closed. Like a fish on dry land. Yes.

There were words he could say. Excuses. Lies. Anything.

But none of them mattered.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

A photograph. Macreen, smiling, the city a soft blur behind her.

"She forgave you," I said.

It was true.

She would have.

That was who she was.

But me? I was something else. Her sister.

I let the photo drift down into the gutter.

You want it quick or delayed? Then I drew the blade.