by Loren Walker
* * *
A loud bang woke Renzo from sleep. He looked around wildly in the dark. A burglar? He fumbled for his cane and gripped it tightly with both hands as the doorknob to his tiny room turned.
A white face loomed from the shadows. He saw the palm of her hand, her fingers outstretched, groping the air.
Renzo put down the cane and shimmied to the end of his bed. Then he leaned over to take Phaira’s wrist and guided her to sit down.
The smell of cold sweat made him recoil. Her shirt was torn, she was bleeding from her mouth, and her knuckles were split open. “What happened to you?” he demanded.
Phaira’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “I told Macatia to meet me on the overpass. I told him that I knew what he’d done, and until he settled with me, he’d never be safe. And he came - ”
“Why did you do that? What did you do to him?”
“He was high,” Phaira continued. “Alone, acting insane. He came at me.” She swiped at her mouth; a streak of dull red remained from her knuckles. “Smashed me in the head. We fought, and then he slipped and hit the edge of the bridge. I tried to grab him, but he fell. He’s dead.”
Renzo’s head spun, his stomach both nauseous and euphoric. She had to hide. She had to get out of Daro. No, they should call Phaira’s friend from the military, Aeden Nox….
“I know,” Phaira said listlessly. “I already called Nox. He’s bringing the patrol. They should be there by now.” She started to rise from the bed, as if in a trance.
“No, wait,” Renzo protested. He forced a deep breath. “It was an accident. Right?”
“Of course it was.”
“Was it really?”
For the first time, Phaira’s eyes focused on his face. “You think I threw him over on purpose to avenge you?”
“Why else would you do something like this?” Renzo shot back. “Calling him in the middle of the night, making threats?”
He stared up at his sister’s silhouette. But even as he tried to ignore it, bitterness began to rise in his throat. And fear, mixed with disgust.