All the things we used to do The places we went, the music we listened to, Tell her the jokes that you made with me too, Play her the songs which you know I played you, Our favourite restaurant, my favourite food, The record’s reset now, restarting from new.

Recycling the memories, repeating our dates, With that self-satisfied smirk on your face. I wish I could tell her that she’s being tricked It’s no coincidence that you moved on so quick. You build this illusion, Tell yourself you’re doing great But I know one day you’ll miss me, And by then you’ll be too late.

“I love how well you get on with my family,” Matt smiled fondly. “Would you ever consider moving closer to them? After we’re married, I mean.” “What do you mean, “after we’re married”? What makes you so sure we‘ll get married?” He dropped his gaze to the floor, abashed. He should have waited until he had asked explicitly; he should’ve known it wouldn’t bode well to blurt out comments like that. Such things shouldn’t be taken for granted, he reminded himself, before fixing his girlfriend with a sheepish smile. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. I just meant... well, I really need to think more before I speak.” He laughed awkwardly. Sienna grimaced slightly, avoiding giving too much away by his expression. She almost never tried to hide his feelings, which made Matt all the more surprised to see her jaw tighten as she responded. “Matt...” she broke off, before gently taking his hand. “Matt, I don’t know if I‘ve ever told you just how much you mean to me. I... I’m not going to marry you, Matt. I decided that a while ago.” He flushed, humiliated. The possibility that she would reject him so bluntly had never even occurred to him. Countless questions arose, and he let go of her hand. His voice sounded shockingly calm as he replied, and he was grateful that it didn’t give away the hurt he felt. “Don’t you love me?” “Of course I do. I think that would be obvious to anyone with eyes! That’s nothing to do with me not marrying you, though.” “What are you talking about? That has everything to do with you marrying me!” “Actually, yeah. I guess it does,” Sienna said thoughtfully. Matt’s voice caught in his throat and he blinked, taking a deep breath. “Why won’t you marry me? Am I... not good enough, or something?” “Not good enough?” Sienna repeated, astonished. “Not good enough! Jesus, Matt, if that was the case then no one could ever be good enough. You’re too good, you’re too much, it’s...” She shook her head, trailing off. “Then why?? If that’s true, why won’t you let me propose to you?” “Because you don’t love me,” she said softly, looking back at him. His face crumpled. “I don’t understand, Sienna. I care about you, you know I do. It might not be love in the traditional sense, but hell, it’s more than what most married couples we know have. We would be happy together. We’d share a house, a family, everything that we would need. It would be more than enough.” She smiled, resigned, and nodded her head. “You’re right, Matt. You’d so much for me, and you would love me, too, in your own way. But I’d know. I’d always know. I would try to convince myself otherwise, and maybe on some level I’d manage, but deep down I’d always know, and it’d drive me mad. I’d hate myself for it, wondering why, why I couldn’t make you love me. Maybe you will get married someday, and it’ll be enough, but not us. Not me.” The pain in his eyes as she responded was almost enough to make her reconsider. “But why not you, Sienna? Why not?” “Because I would love you. I wouldn’t be able to help myself,” she said simply. “You’d love me back to some degree, but it wouldn’t be the same. Not really. I’d love you even more then I already do and it would kill me every day knowing that you couldn’t love me in the same way. You’d never be able to, and that would make me a bitter shell of a woman. I won’t do that to you, Matt, because I want you to be happy. And most of all, I want that for myself.” He looked at her with such an aching expression, so distraught, and she wished there was something she could do to make him feel better but she knew that this was the only way for them both to find happiness.

As the teacher looked out at the class with steely eyes, she stood silently, features smoothed over, face as unreadable as an ancient tombstone, etchings barely visible after being eroded by centuries of wind and rain.

Then, scurrying into the classroom, came Adelaide Aveline.

Every class has one pupil who does not participate much. If you were to ask any educated person, no matter where they lived or which school they frequented, they would be able to name one for you. Likely, you are able to name one yourself. Think of the girl who always hid behind her hair in your English class or the quiet boy you sat next to in History of Art. The one who never raised their hand to speak if they could help it, and if - horror - they were asked a question, they would answer with a simple “yes” or “no”.

Adelaide Aveline was not one of those girls.

However, her teacher - along with every student and faculty member alike - would tell you with immediate certainty that they wished she were. Adelaide was a different type of pupil altogether. She was the sort who thought being rude was the same thing as being funny and being loud was just as good as being smart. She likely would have been the last one picked on the dodgeball team, if it weren’t for the fact that she always somehow managed to weasel her way into being team captain.

For you to paint an accurate picture of her in your head, you must first imagine a worm writhing in the soil, pushing its round pink head and fat body up through the earth only to be snatched up by a brown little bird. Adelaide was that sparrow, with mousy brown hair and a tweetery voice, always flitting around and picking up the scraps of her classmates’ enjoyment.

As you may now have guessed, Adelaide is not the introvert in this story.

“Sorry I’m late, miss!” She shrilled nasally. She scuttled to the back of the classroom like a scorpion emerging from beneath a rock, plonking down in her chair beside Gwen. “You look tired, Gwen - are you sick or something? Why so quiet?”

Just as Gwen opened her mouth to reply, her attention was caught by the creaking of the old mahogany door as it opened to reveal an unfamiliar man. He wasn’t old, Gwen mused – no older than her father was – but his somewhat thinning hair was speckled with grey and he had a weathered look about him. He gave the impression of being rather well-versed in the ways of the world, as if he had been on his fair share of adventures and wanted nothing more to do with them. Gwen couldn’t decide if this would turn out to be a good or a bad thing.

“Ah, good,” the teacher cleared her throat, hastily making her way towards the back of the room. “Gwen, pet, would you mind showing this gentleman to the school office?”

Gwen hesitated, unsure, as the teacher watched her expectantly. She was incredibly aware of all the eyes on her, including those of the man hovering awkwardly at the door, and nodded silently before getting up, tucking her chair in and, with her eyes on the floor, walked out of the class.

“Please, please just listen. I know what our faith professes about those who love the wrong gender, and yet I cannot bear to live another day like this. Every waking moment which I do not spend with you is a wasted moment; a life without you in it would be a pitiful and torturous existence. I cannot allow myself to continue listening to you complain about your wretched life even when I know that I could make it better. When I see you with him I feel trapped, frozen in time as I silently scream into the empty void until my lungs are in pain yet even you, who know me better than I know myself, do not hear me. I have always been a woman of faith but now.... now, I can no longer attempt to put aside what I feel about you.” She reached out shakily, interlacing her fingers with mine, and gently squeezed my palm. Tears danced behind my eyes and I struggled to swallow the pain.

“My love for you is... is... It’s everything, Aniya. It is the sun and the moon, the earth and the sea, the wind and the rain and the rose and the thorns. There are no words to describe my love for you; even if I were the greatest poet that ever lived I could not express that feeling. It is more deep and more vast than the Dragon’s Sea. Most of all it is fierce and unrelenting, impermeable and inexplicable, and nothing in this world nor the next could ever challenge it.

“I wish that I could let you go, I wish my love was only that strong, but it’s not, it’s too strong, and even if you reject me now once and for all, my love for you will never die. You could plunge a dagger into my heart and as the life faded out of me I would be thankful that your face would be the last thing I saw.” I shook my head, tears spilling, and clasped tightly to her hands. She pressed her lips into a pained smile, and put our hands in her lap. “I love you enough to want the best for you,” she continued, “even if that is not what is the best for me. I know, rationally, that the best thing for you is to marry him, I know that, and yet against all reason I know that being with me would make you happier, I know it would. It cannot be explained, but that knowledge stems from something deeper than reason.” She gripped my hand firmly, clinging on for dear life, and I knew that she meant every word of what she said. Reina would never do anything that could hurt me, even indirectly, and I was crushed with the realisation that if I turned her down now she would never make another advance toward me again.

“Even if the gods do not forgive us, I would still have you and you would still have me. I wish things were different, but I...” she trailed off, looking at me in concern. I bit down, hard, on my tongue as I swallowed a sob, struggling to compose myself and hold back the tears.

“I couldn’t bear it,” she finished. “I can’t. I couldn’t care less how long I live; a day with you is better than a lifetime with him. When you look at me, I know that I am finally free; heaven and hell are mere words to me. If we burn we shall burn together,” she whispered as the tears streaming from her eyes made a clean path down her face, cutting through the grime. Her eyes searched my face desperately as her voice faltered.

She paused, a shadow of her usual cheeky grin flitting across her face. It passed quicker than a floating cloud, but it was enough to make me realise I had already decided what I was going to do. I had decided long ago. “And,” she finally whispered, “at least it would be warm.” I giggled, watching as fresh tears spurted from her shining eyes. “Yes,” I said softly, looking down at our entwined hands. “At least it would be warm.”

On a sudden impulse I leaned towards her, our lips coming together in a fiery kiss. The embrace was soft but firm, and it was only as I felt the coolness of her tear-streaked cheek against mine that I realised I was crying too.

“Oh, drat it! I just remembered I had promised to receive a visit from Lord Whettly, the dreadful old sod, at the request of my grandmother, but I can easily cancel. We were scheduled to luncheon in around an hour’s time, but I shall just send a wire to say that unfortunately, I am prevented from coming by consequence of a subsequent engagement. That would make a rather fine excuse, wouldn’t it, Nancy?” Jacqueline said eagerly.

“You do have quite the flair for the dramatic, dear,” her father commented, nose buried in a newspaper. “So does everyone who matters nowadays, Papa, don’t be so dismissive. And you are aware that that is yesterday’s paper, yes?” He rolled his eyes, reaching for his pipe. “Besides, you cannot truly expect me to sit in that God-awful dining room for hours on end listening to Grandmother drone on while he rolls his eyes and scoffs with total hypocrisy. He is rather interesting, though, I suppose, in his own way. It’s... intriguing, to say the least - to see a member of respected society behave so strangely. Then again, Whettly is hardly the most respectable of the lot,” she grinned cheekily.

“I’m sorry, who are we discussing?” Nancy smiled politely, awkwardly perched on the armchair. “Oh I do apologise, I keep forgetting that you haven’t met everyone in the town. Lord Whettly is a friend-” “Acquaintance,” her father interrupted. “Acquaintance, then, of Papa’s. He took the title of Lord after his late father passed - when was it, Papa? - oh, I don’t suppose it matters, does it, but anyhow, he is connected to them all somehow, the whole pack,” Jacqueline chattered excitedly. “As a matter of fact, it should have been his brother who took responsibility for their estates in the wake of their father’s death, but he was forced to pass it on to the younger of the pair because he was disgraced. He had an affair with Lord Demend’s distant niece, the not-so-honourable Ms Breanna. As you can imagine, we were absolutely engrossed by the scandal of it all,” she whispered, lowering her voice and leaning in conspicuously. “Anyhow, the younger Whettly turned out all the better for it. He is now the owner of multiple large town houses and an absolutely exquisite country seat, but according to Ruth he hardly ever dines there, choosing instead to take the majority of his meals at the club. To be frank, I can’t imagine why - he has very few friends, and seems to prefer it that way. Don’t let Father catch us talking about the affair, though - he threw a right fit at the time when Ruth mentioned it one afternoon. He made it very clear he did not wish to hear me speak of it again. I bit my tongue, of course, but after he left I muttered to Ruth that all was well - I simply would not let him hear.” She giggled.

“He is a rather odd fellow, the current Lord Whettly, isn’t he?” Jacqueline remarked more loudly. “Yes, I suppose so,” her oblivious father replied. “He likes to fancy himself not so much the smartest one in the room as he does in the building, and lives by an entirely hedonistic set of ideals. He has far more houses than friends, that’s one thing for certain.”

“And not nearly as many mistresses,” Jacqueline said slyly with a mischievous wink in Nancy’s direction. “Jackie!” She exclaimed, stifling a laugh. “Oh, don’t be so disapproving, it’s true,” the girl giggled, noting her father’s stern look as he too struggled to hide his amusement.

“Well, he’s certainly a rather enigmatic figure at that,” Jacqueline continued. “He is most strange indeed and yet his peculiar behaviour never fails to make him the talk of the town. Just the other day Ruth told me that he reportedly caused quite the stir at the Dowager Viscountess’s ball the other week. Someone discovered the woman he had brought with him was paid to be there. Evidently he was embarrassed of going alone everywhere, so hired someone to pretend to be his friend for the week. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“I fear that you’re becoming something of a socialite yourself, dear, and I don’t much fancy the idea of my favourite daughter becoming some sharp-tongued busybody at the ripe old age of sixteen. I’m afraid that allowing you to spend your days gossiping away in that parlour is already beginning to take its toll,” her father murmured dryly.

“Listen, Katie, there’s no point in dragging this on. You know why these meetings are necessary. It’s been months since the incident, and things are getting out of hand.” The incident. She always calls it that. She probably thinks avoiding the subject will reassure me, remind me that they don’t think it’s all my fault. She couldn’t be more wrong. “I know you don’t trust me. That’s to be expected, given your.... prior experience with law enforcement. But they’re going to prosecute soon, and to our knowledge, you were the last person ever to see your husband alive.” “Well then, it seems your knowledge is incorrect. I’d imagine whoever killed him saw him after I did,” I reply coolly. The woman blinks, adjusting her glasses and leaning back in her seat. They’re new ones, rounder this time, with plastic red-coloured frames. She looks like an insect, a beetle or ladybird maybe. Yes, a ladybird, that was it. Her polka-dot cardigan doesn’t do much to distract from that impression.

She sighs, opens her notebook, and scribbles something down. “Alright. It’s clear that no progress is being made here, Katie. I think we’d better-” “Kate,” I interrupt. She watches me expectantly, bulging eyes squinting at me through her thick glasses like I’m some fascinating new strain of bacteria under a microscope. No, actually, not quite like that. More like I’m something interesting, maybe a butterfly or pressed leaf or flower or something, that would have to be pinned up and dried and hung on the wall of her office in a pretty glass frame. I avoid her prying gaze, looking vaguely out through the window into the corridor instead. “No one calls me Katie. It’s just Kate.”

“I see,” she replies, smiling pointedly, before scrawling more words down. She’s an awful liar. She always just agrees with whatever other people say. The real art of the lie isn’t to make yourself sound good. It’s to make yourself sound believable. I’ve often heard that the best lies always have a little bit of the truth in them. I don’t think that’s necessarily true, although it’s definitely easier to stick to a simple story that sounds true, even if it isn’t. I should know. I mastered the art of the lie long ago. “Listen, it really is a waste of time having these sessions if you’re just going to sit in silence all the time,” she chuckles awkwardly. “Things aren’t looking great for you at the minute, especially since the police say your neighbours are willing to testify that they heard you arguing with your husband the night of the incident. If you would just talk to me, then I’m sure we can explain to them that it was just a petty fight, nothing important, just an insignificant misunderstanding. I know that you think whatever you say is going to be used against you. Trust me, it won’t be. These therapy sessions may be court-appointed, but I just want to help. I truly believe that you’re innocent, Kate.”

She’s always lying. It’s ridiculous. She wants me to like her, I can tell. It’s obvious that she cares too much what other people think of her. Photo of her husband and kids on her desk, turned not to face her chair where she can see them, but out towards the corridor, so her coworkers can. Hell, I’m soon to be on trial for murder and she still wants my approval. She thinks that she knows everything, with her oh-so-sympathetic smiles and nods. Little Miss Understanding.

I sense her watching me again. This time, I look straight back at her, unsmiling. “We’re all guilty of something.”

We came to the village during the worst period of Mark’s life. I don’t know why he agreed to come; I was shocked when I managed to convince him. My brother has always been stubborn, determined to get his own way. Now, that makes the truth even more incomprehensible.

Even when we were relaxing in the hotel I knew something was wrong. While I settled down into the mattress and wrapped myself in a cocoon of blankets, ready to read my book and go to sleep, he would pace around the small bedroom, rattling the door handle to check it was locked. He was constantly complaining his mouth was dry, the only solution being to go along the hall to the water fountain. When he returned, he would lock the door, walk to the window to ensure it was secure, and back to the door again. Eventually, when he went to bed and struggled to fall asleep, having drank so much water he was struck with the urge to go to the bathroom. He would get up, unlock the door, go to the communal bathroom down the hall, return, lock the door, check the window, etc, etc. And so the cycle continued.

He defended the tiny space as if it were an indispensable castle rather than a cramped room in a three-star bed and breakfast. At first, I was merely irritated by Mark’s erratic nighttime routine; dismissed it as mere nerves for what was to come. After all, we had travelled for hours in the car to get here. Dr Campbell is the best psychiatrist we know of, renowned across the nation. I think Mark knew that no one believed him. He had almost come to accept it. When I told him I’d booked us a room and made the plans to come, he reluctantly accepted without protest, no doubt worn out by my relentless reminders that he needed help. Now, I worry that his paranoia could have been an indicator of something more.

He was convinced people were watching him, always phoning me while he was out to tell me where he was and who he was with. At first I thought it was nothing, it seemed like a good thing that he was telling me; he had every reason to be worried, especially after the incident last year. But over time I became more and more doubtful of his tall tales, always ranting and raving about cameras in his house and people following him off the bus on the way to work. I stopped humouring him, tried to tell him that it was nothing, but it seemed he just couldn’t shake the feeling that people were watching him. Nothing and no one was able to convince him otherwise. Eventually I decided enough was enough. I love my brother and wanted nothing more than to help him, and I knew that my blunt confrontation would only push him away.

That’s when I suggested we come to the village.

It seemed like the perfect plan. Book a room, drive for three hours, settle into the hotel, maybe get some takeout and watch TV. However, the morning after we arrived he was increasingly agitated. I tried to calm him down, reassure him that Dr Campbell was only going to help, but the more I tried to console him the more frustrated Mark was. He said he was going for a run, just twenty minutes of fresh air to blow off steam before the meeting. I suggested we could grab a muffin for breakfast and eat in the park, but unsurprisingly he said he wasn’t hungry. Reluctantly, I let him leave and told him to call me when he was on his way back.

That was the last time I spoke to my brother.

It’s been more than a month and no one has seen him. The police said they’re doing all they can but I suspect they’ve given up. No doubt they think he ran away, maybe had another breakdown or got cold feet about the appointment. I would too if I didn’t know any better. But I know my brother. And no matter what he would never, EVER leave me like this, not by choice.

Maybe Mark was right. Maybe there was something sinister going on. Or maybe I’m just going crazy too. Either way, it won’t make much difference now. Regardless of what happened, the result is the same.

I am never going to see my brother again.

There once was a Girl made of thunder Whose eyes misted over with tears. And from her tears were formed raindrops, Fat, wholesome things which fell from the sky And as each struck the ground The thunderous Girl found The sound echoed in harmony with her cries.

“why, o why, did They send him to me?” Lamented the stormy Girl. And They looked They watched Pensive. “why should he have been blessed with such beauty,
and not i?”

What the Girl made from thunder did not know Was that she possessed beauty too. Not the kind warm and golden, which he had in clear abundance Nor the kind that radiates, soft and buttery And sweet, Nor the kind which surrounds you like a Printemps breeze, rippling through your clothes But she possessed beauty indeed.

A miraculous beauty. Beauty of the sort which is crafted from stone Of the sort which has been described As striking, And striking it is.

They found it somewhat ironic, in fact That the Others could not meet the Girl’s eye For what the tempestuous Girl did not realise Was that the beauty her face encompassed The perfection she wore undisguised Was so overwhelming to the Others That it was found to be terrifying. They found this funny.

Their amusement did not stem from cruelty, Although of that They were more than capable. Nor were They entertained by the Girl’s naivety For stupid she was anything but.

They knew this, of course, as They know all things As They know why the clouds move so slowly Yet a storm can take hours or days to pass. As They know why the water in rivers is fresh, Yet the sea is composed of salty brine. They know. They have always known.

The Girl, however, did not know And her lack of comprehension made Them think, And so They thought back To her creation. The night had been cool and calm The sky a black canvas on which a map of stars Had been laid out By the Cartographer.

And on this night of serenity They had decided to have A party And no party is any fun without a game. They would have to find some entertainment.

They stood, hands linked with hands - In fact, no. “Stood” is not the right word, Nor has there ever been a word which can truly describe Them But “stood” is how you may imagine Them So “stood” is what shall be said.

They stood, hands linked with hands And They planted Their feet on the ground And from Their feet, came light. And so the ground struck the sky Illuminating all earth and sea and night And the world was Enlightened.

From this Enlightenment (en-light, in light, to enlighten, enlightened, enlightening) Came lightning And this was the birth of the Girl.

Face, sharp and clear and smooth. Skin, dark and shining with gold. Hair, long and curly and wild Yet contained in its textured groove As the stormy Girl cried They tried to reply And thanks to Them the Others began to move.

“The Others, now, have left her” They muttered. Again, “muttered” is simply wrong. The words They spoke were not spoken, Nor uttered, Nor chuckled nor whispered nor Screamed. Perhaps, in fact, the words were A mixture of All three.

Or perhaps it was nothing, not a sound at all, But more an impression - if that. Regardless, They knew what They said.

Their actions must not be mistaken for kindness For They do not pity the Girl Nor is she envied by Them. But They watch her, as They watch all of Their creations And the Girl was most interesting to watch indeed.

As the Girl lay weeping They remembered him, sleeping. He was like honey to her, Hot and sweet and thick, delicious And smothering. When he took her in his arms she Melted, as she had never done before Unmothered Unwanted Alone.

A teaspoon of honey Is the life’s work of twelve bees And nothing came free to the Others So why should she enjoy him à gratis?

Honey, treacle, milk Heavy and sickly and sticky Just like he loved He was sleep to her freezing. Warm and bright and merciful Before him her life had never been easy.

But he left her Renounced, forsworn, rejected. So alone and weak and broken She cries, Divine, yet disowned.

Now They watched as she sat Under her tree as she Stared at the sky They Called home.

My mind is racing. I’ve often thought about what I would do if placed in a life-or-death situation, but that’s not much help now. I stifle my fear. I can’t let him know I’m afraid. Maybe if I don’t show any emotion then he won’t kill me; most killers need to see the terror on their victims’ faces, it’s part of the fantasy, what makes it satisfying, I read that somewhere, or maybe it was on TV, I don’t remember. But maybe if I don’t act scared he’ll get frustrated, become violent, unhinged, do whatever he can to make me squirm. He tilts his head, bulging wide eyes watching expectantly. He looks me up and down, and setting my jaw i stare back at him. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“You gonna say something?” he asks, voice surprisingly... normal. You’d expect him to sound, I don’t know, raspy, gruff, scary. But he doesn’t. He just sounds normal. Say something, quick, anything.

“I have three cats,” I say quietly. He blinks.

“What?”

“At home, I have three cats. Like, as pets,” i continue, the words spilling out rapidly. “Two Calicos, their names are Merlin and Morgana, and a tabby, her name’s Guinevere.” He stares at me, expression unreadable. My words hang in the air, the tension as thick as treacle, until after what feels like an eternity he chuckles. A joyless sound.

“So what?” he says mockingly. I hover, unsure how to answer, hyperaware of my every movement.

“You’re supposed to humanise yourself,” I say, voice cracking. The words come out as an awkward whisper and I cringe, kicking myself internally. Forcing myself to speak louder in an attempt to feign confidence, I continue: “When faced with a situation in which another person is considering whether to kill you, you’re supposed to share personal details. Your interests, family, things that remind the other person that you’re a person, too. Clearly that’s not going to work in this scenario, though, as you don’t care that I’m a person, that’s not going to stop you. For you that’s the whole point, you enjoy seeing other people suffer. I could appeal to you through logic,” I suggest casually.

“Point out the fact that if you leave me alive you’ll be far, far away by the time anyone gets here. You could tie me up, or even knock me out, actually,” I reason. “You’re a large man, obviously very strong physically, and it’s not as if I’m going to be able to escape or even to call anyone by the time you’ve left. You could be out of the city in an hour.”

I pause, allow him to digest what I’ve said, proud of myself for the subtle flattery I slipped in. That was good, very good, it’ll boost his ego, make him less likely to shut me up. “You could even take me with you. Tie me up, toss me in the back of your white van - I assume it’s a van you’re travelling in, the news are always telling us to be suspicious of men in white vans - and dump me at the side of a road somewhere. By the time I got someone to take me home you’d be long gone.

“And I could mislead the police,” I add hopefully. “Tell them it was a small man in a brown coat, or someone balding with a dark beard, or that he had a scarred face and spoke with a stutter. Obviously if you were to leave me alive, you wouldn’t be there at the end to find out if I stay true to my word. You don’t know me well enough to rely on me. There’s always the threat of you coming back to kill my family, I suppose. But there’s not much chance of that happening, is there? After all, we both know none of what I’m saying is going to happen. You’d never leave me knocked out, alone, or take me away with you. You’d certainly never pass up on the opportunity to murder a teenage girl just because she appealed to your sense of humanity,” I say sarcastically.

A lopsided grin spreads slowly across his face. “We both know I’m going to die here,” I finish with resignation. “At the very least, let me look at a photo of my cats first.”

He chuckles again, chin jutting forward as he nods slightly. “I like you,” he smirks. “It’s a shame you have to die.”