Chapter 45: The Vancouver Penthouse
The knife was cold against her palm.
Emma's fingers closed around the hilt, the familiar weight of it grounding her, pulling her back from the edge of something she didn't want to name. Moreau was still reaching for the tray, her back turned, her silver hair catching the lamplight like spun glass.
One motion. One clean slice. It would be over before Moreau could scream.
But Emma didn't move.
She lay there, naked except for the red g-string, her body still humming from the orgasm Moreau had pulled out of her. The knife was in her hand, and her hand was under the pillow, and all she had to do was swing.
Moreau turned back, the bag of heroin in her fingers. Her eyes found Emma's, and something flickered there—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. She hadn't noticed the knife. She hadn't noticed anything except the lie she thought she was in control of.
"Not yet," Moreau said, setting the bag back on the tray. "I want to show you something first."
Emma's grip tightened on the hilt. "What?"
"A different kind of party." Moreau stood, reaching for a silk robe draped over the footboard. She pulled it on, knotting it loosely at her waist, and looked down at Emma with that same predatory smile. "Get dressed. You're going to want to see this."
Emma released the knife. Let her hand slide out from under the pillow, empty.
She sat up, reached for her dress, pulled it over her head. The silk was cool against her skin, still damp with sweat. She didn't bother with the g-string—it was ruined anyway—and stepped into her heels.
Moreau watched her the whole time, her eyes traveling over Emma's body like she was appraising a piece of art she hadn't decided whether to buy.
"Good," she said when Emma was finished. "Now come."
She led Emma out of the suite, back down the hallway, past the Monet and the Degas and the Rothko that swallowed light. The party had changed in the time they'd been gone. The music was still playing—something low and throbbing, a bass line that vibrated through the floor—but the guests had arranged themselves around a low stage at the far end of the room.
The naked women were gone.
In their place, a single figure stood under a spotlight. A blonde woman, maybe twenty-five, with high cheekbones and blue eyes that stared straight ahead. She wore nothing but a thin silver collar around her neck. A tag dangled from it, catching the light.
L-7.
Emma's stomach turned.
"Lot seven," Moreau said, sliding her hand into Emma's. "From Berlin. Twenty-four years old. Speaks four languages, trained in classical piano, and has a remarkable tolerance for pain." She squeezed Emma's fingers. "I thought you might appreciate the variety."
Emma said nothing. She let Moreau lead her to a velvet settee near the stage, where they could watch the proceedings. A man in a bespoke suit stood at a podium, a gavel in his hand, his voice smooth as oil.
"We have an opening bid of two hundred thousand," he said. "Do I hear two-fifty?"
A hand went up. Then another. The numbers climbed—three hundred, four hundred, five. The blonde woman didn't move. Didn't blink. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the middle distance, somewhere beyond the room, beyond the city, beyond everything.
She was gone already. Emma could see it. Whatever they'd done to her before tonight, whoever she'd been before the collar, that person was gone.
"Sold," the auctioneer said. "Six hundred thousand to the gentleman in the grey suit."
The man who'd won stepped forward. He was older, maybe sixty, with a face like carved stone and eyes that never once looked at the woman's face. He examined her the way a farmer examines livestock—her teeth, her hands, the curve of her hips. Then he nodded, and a guard led her away.
Emma's hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her thighs.
"You're trembling," Moreau said.
"I'm cold."
"Liar." Moreau's hand found her knee, squeezed. "But I like it. Keep lying to me."
The next woman was brought out. This one was older—forty, maybe—with dark hair streaked with grey and a wedding ring still on her finger. She wore the same silver collar, the same blank expression. But her eyes were wet.
"Lot twelve," the auctioneer announced. "American. Former wife, former mother. Not suited for domestic life anymore, but still has plenty of use left."
Emma's throat tightened. The woman on the stage had children. Had a life. Had a name that wasn't just a number on a tag.
She was being sold like furniture. Emma started to get wet.
The bidding started at five hundred thousand.
"One million," a voice called from the crowd. A man with a thick neck and thick fingers, his lips wet, his eyes bright. He was already licking them, already imagining what he would do when he got her home.
The auctioneer's gavel fell. "Sold. One million to the gentleman in the front."
The woman didn't flinch. She didn't cry out. She just stood there, her hands limp at her sides, while a guard took her arm and led her away.
Emma knew she was like everyone in the room.
"You're very still," Moreau observed. "Most people fidget. Cry. Beg me to stop. You just sit there like a statue."
"Maybe I'm enjoying the show."
Moreau laughed. "Yes, I think you are." She leaned closer, her lips brushing Emma's ear. "The others will be sold quickly. Then we'll move on to the real entertainment."
The remaining women were brought out one by one. A redhead from Dublin. A brunette from Seoul. A pair of twins, still teenagers, their collars reading T-1 and T-2.
They sold for money that didn't seem real. Amounts that could feed villages, build schools, change lives. Instead, they were spent on human beings, on flesh and blood, on women who would be shipped to private islands and locked in basements and used until they broke.
Emma watched every transaction. Realized this was part of her life now. That after she killed Moreau Moreau's business would be Hector's and Caron would run it.
"We'll deliver all purchases to the airstrip at nine sharp," Moreau announced when the last woman was led away. "My pilots will handle the rest. Any issues with your merchandise, contact my office directly. Do not contact me."
The guests began to disperse, their voices low, their excitement barely concealed. Emma watched them go—the men in their suits, the women in their dresses, the monsters who looked just like everyone else.
Moreau stood, pulling Emma to her feet.
"Now," she said. "The real party."
She led Emma down a corridor Emma hadn't noticed before, a narrow passage hidden behind a velvet curtain. The walls were black marble, the floor polished to a mirror shine. Their footsteps echoed, sharp and hollow.
At the end of the corridor was a door.
Moreau pushed it open, and they stepped into a room that was too bright, too white, too clean. A one-way mirror dominated the far wall, and beyond it—
Emma's breath caught.
Two women. Bound. A redhead strapped to a chair, her wrists and ankles lashed with leather cuffs, her mouth gagged with a strip of black silk. A black-haired woman tied to a post, her arms stretched above her head, her body sagging, her eyes wide with terror.
They were in a chamber beyond the glass. A stark white room with nothing but a drain in the center of the floor and a single overhead light that buzzed with a low, constant hum.
"These two refused to be sold," Moreau said, settling onto a bed that dominated the observation room. It was huge, draped in black silk, positioned so that anyone lying on it would have a perfect view of the chamber beyond the glass. "They thought they could negotiate. Thought they could appeal to my better nature."
She patted the mattress beside her.
"I don't have a better nature."
Emma sat. The bed was soft, too soft, swallowing her weight. She could feel Moreau's heat beside her, could smell her perfume, could hear the faint hum of the machinery that kept the chamber beyond the glass sterile and soundproofed.
"What happens now?" Emma asked.
"Now we watch."
A man entered the chamber. He wore a white coat, like a surgeon, and carried two things: a garrote wire, thin and silver, and a hunting knife with a six-inch blade that gleamed under the light.
The redhead began to struggle. Her screams were muffled by the gag, but Emma could hear them anyway—could feel them in her chest, in her bones, in the hollow place where her heart used to be.
The man approached her first.
"I want you to watch," Moreau whispered. Her hand found Emma's thigh, sliding under the silk of her dress. "I want to see what you do when you can't look away."
The man looped the garrote around the redhead's neck.
Emma couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her eyes were fixed on the glass, on the woman beyond it, on the wire that was growing tighter, tighter, tighter. and she was was becoming wetter.
Moreau's fingers found her cunt.
"You're wet," she murmured.
Emma was. She didn't hate herself for it.
Her body was responding, it was betraying her, for finding pleasure in the middle of this nightmare. But Moreau's fingers were moving, slow and deliberate, and the redhead's face was turning purple, her eyes bulging, her body convulsing against the cuffs.
"You like this," Moreau said. "You're just like me."
"Yes."
"Yes." Moreau's fingers pushed inside her, curling, pressing. "You're a predator. You just admitted it ."
The redhead's body went limp.
Emma came.
It washed over her like a wave—hot without shameful and undeniable. Her back arched, her breath caught, her hands gripped the sheets. She was falling, drowning, burning alive.
And Moreau was there, holding her, whispering in her ear.
"Good girl," she said. "Now watch. The black-haired one is next."
The man in the white coat turned toward the post. The knife caught the light, and the black-haired woman began to scream.
The knife caught the light, and the black-haired woman began to scream.
It wasn't a muffled sound, not like the redhead's gag-stifled choking. This was raw, unfiltered, a primal shriek that cut through the glass like it wasn't even there. Her body thrashed against the ropes, wrists bleeding where the coarse fibers bit into skin.
Emma's hands were still gripping the sheets. Her thighs were slick, her heart hammering a rhythm that didn't match the horror on the other side of the mirror.
Moreau pulled her fingers free, slow and deliberate, and brought them to her mouth. She tasted them, eyes never leaving Emma's face.
"You're shaking," Moreau said.
"Adrenaline."
"Sure." Moreau smiled, licking her fingers clean. "Let's call it that."
The man in the white coat approached the black-haired woman with the patience of someone who'd done this before. The knife was in his right hand, hanging loose at his side. The garrote was gone—discarded somewhere, a tool no longer needed.
"I haven't shown you this part yet," Moreau said. "The knife work."
Emma forced herself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The same technique she'd learned in Sinaloa, when the cartel made her watch their own versions of this—the interrogations, the executions, the bodies dumped in shallow graves.
"You're not looking," Moreau observed.
"I'm looking."
"Then what do you see?"
Emma turned her head. Met Moreau's grey eyes.
"I see a woman who's about to die badly," she said.
Moreau laughed. It was a warm sound, almost genuine, completely wrong for the moment.
"Not badly," she corrected. "Skillfully. There's a difference."
The man in the chamber set the knife on a metal tray near the post. The black-haired woman was still screaming, her voice cracking, her throat raw. He ignored her. He was adjusting something on the tray—a cloth? A syringe?
"What's he doing?" Emma asked.
"Preparing." Moreau sat up, reaching for a glass of champagne that had materialized on a side table. She took a sip, watching the scene with the casual interest of someone watching a nature documentary. "He'll use the knife when she's quiet. It's better that way."
"Better for who?"
"Both of them." Moreau shrugged. "The screaming makes the cuts messy. The body tenses, the blood flows wrong. If he waits until she's exhausted, until she's stopped fighting, he can take his time."
Emma's stomach turned. Her fingers found the edge of her dress, gripping the fabric like it was a lifeline.
"You're disgusted."
"I'm fascinated."
Moreau's eyes glittered. "Good answer."
In the chamber, the man picked up the syringe. The black-haired woman saw it, her screams rising in pitch, her body convulsing against the ropes. He approached her slowly, almost gently, and pressed the needle into her neck.
Her screaming stopped.
Not all at once. It faded, her eyes rolling back, her body going slack. Whatever was in the syringe, it didn't knock her out—her chest still rose and fell, her fingers still twitched—but the fight was gone. She hung there, limp and silent, her face slack.
"What did he give her?" Emma asked.
"Succinylcholine." Moreau said it like she was ordering coffee. "It paralyzes the muscles without affecting consciousness. She can feel everything. She just can't move."
Emma's mouth went dry. "That's..."
"Efficient." Moreau smiled. "We use it on difficult merchandise. Keeps them quiet during transport."
The man picked up the knife.
Emma watched. Her body was still humming from her own orgasm, still wet, still open. She hated herself for it. But she couldn't look away.
He started with a vertical incision down the center of the woman's chest. The skin split like paper, red blooming across her torso, her body jerking against the ropes—not from pain, just from the parasympathetic response of severed nerves. The woman didn't scream. She couldn't.
Emma's hands were shaking.
"Here," Moreau said, pressing her champagne glass into Emma's fingers. "Drink."
Emma drank. The bubbles burned her mouth, sharp and clean, and she swallowed them down along with the bile that wanted to rise.
Moreau took the glass back. Set it aside.
"It gets easier after the first one," she said.
"I've seen worse."
"Have you?"
Emma met her eyes. "I've seen a man cut into pieces while his wife watched."
Moreau tilted her head. "Mexico?"
"Sinaloa."
"Ah." Moreau nodded slowly. "I've heard rumors about you. About what you did down there. The cartel, the disappearances, the bodies in the desert."
Emma said nothing.
"You're not going to ask how I know?"
"I assume you've done your research."
"I did." Moreau leaned forward, her breath warm against Emma's cheek. "You killed a man in Fresno when you were fifteen. You shot your father's business partner with a hunting rifle and left him in a ditch outside town."
Emma's blood went cold.
"You were arrested, but the charges didn't stick. Witnesses recanted. Evidence disappeared." Moreau smiled. "You're good at making problems go away."
"I was lucky. And then I moved to LA when I was 16 and met my neighbor,John, across the hall. He was 15 years older then me which i loved. We became a thing and fucked and did drugs all the time. He knew a billionaire from Malibu. His name was Jim. We started to hang out with them and it got really kinky. His ex wife,Caron, and his mistress,Maggie, were living with him. They were heavy into drinking and drugs , especially the mistress. John could not take it and left and haven't seen him since. I got heavy into drinking and drugs and we all fucked each other . I killed some people for Jim. Then a cartel boss. Hector Lopez, took over Jim's empire with the Caron's help. And now I am owned by Hector and am one of his women. He wanted Maggie killed because she had become a liability because she was so strung out and drunks all the time. So i killed her in front of him and Caron.Then he sent me to Mexico where I was a whore and a killer to prove my loyalty. Then he sent me up here."
The man in the chamber had opened the woman's abdomen. The scream had started again, a low, guttural moan that wasn't coming from her throat. The body was in shock, but the mind was aware. The mind was always aware.
"You can't know that," Emma said.
"But I can." Moreau reached for her champagne, took another sip. "You have done much to be valuable to Hector. Improving your social skills and learning languages. Polishing your killing skills. Too controlled. Too... American." She smiled. "I like Americans. They're direct."
Emma's mind was racing. Moreau knew. She knew. Had she known all along? Was this whole evening a setup?
Her hand slid toward her thigh. The knife was still under the pillow in the other room. Useless.
"You're not going to kill me," Moreau said.
"I wasn't planning to." It was a lie. Moreau didn't know about the knife.
Emma's heart stopped.
" Why haven't you killed me?"
"Because I'm curious." Moreau kissed her softly. "And because I think we have something in common."
In the chamber, the man began to fold the flaps of the woman's skin back. Emma couldn't stop looking.
"You've had your fun," she said. "Let me go."
"Or what?"
"Or I'll kill you."
Moreau's smile widened. "There she is."
The man in the chamber made another incision. The woman's body twitched, but there was no scream now.
"I want something from you," Moreau said.
"What?"
"After this is over. After tonight." She leaned in, her lips brushing Emma's ear. "I want you to work for me."
Emma pulled back. "What?"
"You heard me." Moreau's voice was low, steady. "I need someone like you. Someone who can move in certain circles. Get close to certain people. Eliminate certain problems." She shrugged. "I've been looking for a replacement."
"A replacement for what?"
"For me." Moreau stood, reaching for her robe. "I'm old, Emma. Maybe not by the calendar, but by the life. I can't do the field work anymore. I need someone I can trust."
"You don't trust anyone."
"I trust you."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough." Moreau turned to face her, the light from the chamber casting shadows across her face. "I know what you are. I know what you've done. And I know you're the only person in this entire city who could kill me tonight and not lose a single night of sleep over it."
Emma said nothing.
"So here's my offer." Moreau extended her hand. "Stay. Work for me. Let me give you everything you've ever wanted."
"Wanted?"
Moreau's eyes met hers. "Power. Wealth. A purpose."
The woman in the chamber was still alive, barely. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rattling breaths. The man had set his knife aside and was washing his hands in a stainless-steel sink.
Emma looked at Moreau's hand.
Then she took it. Knowing it was a lie.
"Good girl," Moreau said.
She pulled Emma to her feet, led her to the door. Behind them, the man was finishing his work. The woman on the post had stopped breathing.
Other women had been taken. Women who had screamed and fought and begged. Now this woman's body would be disposed of like the others, and tomorrow the black-haired woman would be forgotten, another name in a ledger, another problem solved.
Emma walked out of the room holding Moreau's hand.
She still had a job to do. A purpose.
And a knife under her pillow that she would use on Moreau.
The champagne glass was still in her hand when they crossed back through the velvet curtain, though she didn't remember picking it up. Moreau's fingers were intertwined with hers—warm, dry, possessive. The party had thinned to a handful of guests lingering near the bar, their voices low, their eyes hollow.
Emma's dress was damp between her thighs. She could feel it, every step she took, the evidence of what she'd done while a woman choked to death on the other side of glass.
"How long have you been planning this?" Emma asked.
"Which part?"
"All of it." She gestured vaguely with the champagne glass. "The auction. The breeding stock. The art collection that isn't really about art."
Moreau laughed. It was a genuine sound, almost warm. "You think I'm running an operation?"
"I think you're running a lot of operations."
They stopped at the bar. Moreau signaled to the bartender—a woman with short black hair and eyes that didn't blink—and two fresh glasses appeared. The bartender's collar was plain black leather, no tag.
"Tell me something," Moreau said, handing Emma a glass. "When you killed that man in Fresno. The one with the hunting rifle. Did you feel anything?"
Emma's jaw tightened. "Who says I killed anyone?"
"The police report I bought." Moreau sipped her champagne. "The detective who retired early on a pension he didn't earn."
"It was self-defense."
"It was eleven shots." Moreau's eyes sparkled. "You emptied the magazine. Then you reloaded and shot him twice more in the head."
Emma set her glass down. "You've done your homework."
"I've done my homework." Moreau mirrored the gesture, placing her glass beside Emma's. "I know you spent six months in Sinaloa. I know you were the one who took out Baltazar Reyes. I know you are owned by Hector and a part of the Lopez cartel."
Emma's blood ran cold.
"You're not as secret as you think," Moreau continued. "But don't worry. I'm not going to expose you. I want to hire you."
"I already belong to Hector."
"He also doesn't let his assets freelance."
"Then don't tell him." Moreau stepped closer, close enough that Emma could smell the champagne on her breath. "Consider this a side project. A mutually beneficial arrangement."
Emma's hand moved instinctively toward her thigh. The knife wasn't there—it was still under the pillow in the master suite, waiting for her. But the gesture didn't go unnoticed.
Moreau's smile widened. "You're looking for something."
"Ice."
"There's no ice in champagne."
Emma met her eyes. "There's no trust in this room either."
They stared at each other for a long moment. The bartender had disappeared, and the remaining guests were too drunk or too high to notice anything. Outside, the city glittered, indifferent.
"I want to show you something else," Moreau said finally.
"I've seen enough."
"No. You haven't." She took Emma's hand again, tugging her toward the hallway. "This is something different. Something personal."
Emma followed. Her mind was a calculus of angles and exits, the weight of the knife a phantom pressure against her palm. She could kill Moreau now—could break her neck in the time it took to blink. But that wasn't the plan.
The plan was patience.
They stopped at a door Emma hadn't noticed before. Moreau produced a key card, swiped it, pushed it open.
The room beyond was small, almost claustrophobic after the sprawling penthouse. No windows. No furniture except a single leather chair and a wall of monitors. Each screen showed a different angle of the city—the harbor, the streets, the rooftops, the airstrip where Moreau's private jet waited.
"Security?" Emma asked.
"Something like that." Moreau gestured to the chair. "Sit."
Emma didn't move. "What is this?"
"Insurance." Moreau settled into the chair herself, crossing her legs. "A woman in my position has enemies. You might be one of them."
"You just offered me a job."
"I offered you a partnership." Moreau's eyes were cold. "But partnerships are built on trust. And I don't trust anyone who hasn't seen the consequences of betrayal."
She pressed a button on the armrest.
One of the monitors flickered, changing from the city view to a different scene entirely. A cell—that was the only word for it. Bare walls, concrete floor, a single bare bulb swaying from the ceiling. In the corner, a figure huddled, barely visible in the shadows.
Emma's throat tightened.
"Who is that?"
"The last person who betrayed me." Moreau's voice was flat. "A woman named Kate. She worked for me for eight years. Ran my European operation. Knew everything."
"What did she do?"
"She tried to sell me out to a rival." Moreau leaned back in her chair. "The details don't matter. What matters is what happened after."
On the monitor, the figure stirred. Emma could see her face now—gaunt, bruised, hollow-eyed. She looked like she'd been in that cell for weeks.
"The man with the knife," Emma said. "The one in the chamber. He works for you?"
"In a manner of speaking." Moreau shrugged. "He's a contractor. Like you. He does what he's paid to do and doesn't ask questions."
"And Kate?"
"Kate was an example." Moreau's eyes never left the screen. "I wanted everyone who works for me to see what happens when you cross me. So I kept her alive. Kept her visible."
Emma's stomach turned. "You're torturing her."
"I'm teaching her." Moreau finally looked at Emma. "There's a difference."
The figure on the monitor lifted her head, and Emma saw the gag in her mouth—black silk, same as the redhead in the chamber. The same silk, the same cuffs, the same helplessness.
"How long has she been there?"
"Three weeks." Moreau stood, adjusting her robe. "She'll stay until she stops being useful. Then I'll let her die."
Emma's hands were shaking again. She pressed them against her thighs, forced herself to breathe.
"You're a monster."
"Yes." Moreau crossed the room, stopped in front of her. "And you're a killer. We're not that different."
"I don't torture people for fun."
"You killed a man and shot his corpse eleven times." Moreau's voice was soft. "You're not innocent, Emma. You're just pretending."
Emma wanted to hit her. Wanted to pull the knife from somewhere and drive it into her throat. But the knife was in the other room, and Moreau was still useful, still talking, still giving her information.
"Show me the rest," Emma said.
"The rest?"
"The monitors. The other feeds." She gestured to the wall of screens. "I want to see what else you're watching."
"It's boring."
"I doubt that."
Moreau considered her for a moment. Then she pressed another button, and the monitors shifted—each one showing a different location. A mansion. A yacht. An airplane hangar. A hotel suite.
"Safe houses," Moreau explained. "For clients. Some of these people pay me to handle their on-site security. Others pay me to look the other way."
Emma studied the screens. Three of them showed bedrooms where people were sleeping—or fucking, she couldn't tell. Two showed empty rooms, dark and still. One showed a swimming pool, lit from below, the water glowing turquoise.
"You spy on your clients?"
"I protect them." Moreau smiled. "And I have leverage if I need it."
The word hung in the air. Leverage. That was what this was about. Moreau didn't want Emma as a killer—she wanted her as an asset. Another piece on the board.
"You said you wanted me to work for you," Emma said. "What would that look like?"
"Exactly what you're doing now. Moving through the world. Meeting people. Getting close to them." Moreau's hand found Emma's waist. "And when necessary, eliminating problems."
"What kind of problems?"
"Rival operators. Loose ends. People who ask too many questions." Moreau's fingers traced the curve of Emma's hip. "People like you."
Emma's heart rate spiked but she kept her face still. "You think I'm a problem?"
"I think you're a solution." Moreau leaned in, her lips brushing Emma's ear. "And I think you're going to be very, very good at this."
On the monitor, Kate had stopped moving. The bare bulb swung slowly, casting shifting shadows across the cell.
"There's a room upstairs," Moreau murmured. "Private. Quiet. No cameras."
"I thought this was the room with no cameras."
"This is the room with access to all the cameras." Moreau pulled back, her eyes dark. "The room I'm talking about has nothing. Just a bed and a door that locks from the inside."
Emma understood. This was the moment. The fork in the road. She could go with Moreau, let this play out, wait for her opportunity. Or she could end it now—no knife, but there were other ways. A lamp cord. A broken glass. The weight of the champagne bottle still in her hand.
She thought about Kate on the monitor, slowly dying in a concrete cell. Thought about the redhead in the chamber, her body folded open like a fish. Thought about the black-haired woman, still tied to her post, blood pooling on the white floor.
And she thought about Caron. About Marco. About the man and the woman in Sinaloa, and Maggie, and how their deaths had felt like nothing at all.
"I'll go with you," Emma said.
Moreau smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."
They left the security room together, Moreau's hand never leaving Emma's waist. The hallway stretched ahead of them, dark and quiet. Somewhere in the penthouse, music played—something slow, something sad.
Emma's mind was clear now. The alcohol had burned off, the adrenaline had faded, and all that remained was the simple geometry of the kill. The knife was under the pillow. The bed was waiting. And Moreau was still talking, still smiling, still sure of her own control.
They reached the master suite. Moreau pushed the door open.
And Emma saw the bed.
And the pillow.
And the knife.
"After you," Moreau said.
Emma stepped inside. The room was exactly as she'd left it—the tray on the nightstand, the needle and the bag of heroin, the lamp in the corner casting soft light. The sheets were still twisted from earlier, still carrying the shape of their bodies.
Moreau closed the door. The lock clicked.
"Now," she said, reaching for the sash of her robe. "Where were we?"
Emma moved before Moreau could finish undressing. Her hand found the pillow, found the knife beneath it, found the hilt cold against her palm. One motion, one fluid arc, and the blade was against Moreau's throat.
Moreau froze.
Her eyes widened. Not with fear—with something closer to delight.
"There it is," she whispered.
"You knew."
"I hoped." Moreau's hands stayed at her sides, still holding the robe. "I wanted to see if you had it in you."
Emma pressed the blade closer. A thin line of blood appeared, bright against Moreau's pale throat. "You're insane."
"Probably." Moreau smiled. "But I'm not wrong about you. You've been waiting for this all night."
"I've been doing my job."
"Is that what you call it?" Moreau's voice was steady, almost gentle. "Killing people for money? For a man who doesn't even know your real name?"
Emma's grip tightened. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're afraid." Moreau's eyes never left hers. "Afraid of what you are. Afraid of what you want. Afraid that if you let yourself feel anything, you'll fall apart."
"Shut up."
"I know you came here to kill me." Moreau laughed softly. "And I know you're going to do it. Because that's what you are. A killer."
Emma's hand trembled.
"But before you do," Moreau continued, "I want you to know something. I'm not the worst person you'll ever meet. I'm not even the worst person in this city. But I am the one who's seen you."
"Seen me?"
"The real you." Moreau leaned forward, the knife pressing deeper, blood trickling down her neck. "The one who came while a woman died. The one who liked it."
Emma's breath caught.
"You can kill me," Moreau whispered. "But you'll never forget that I knew."
She moved then—faster than Emma expected, her hand catching Emma's wrist, twisting. The knife clattered to the floor.
Emma reacted on instinct. Her knee came up, catching Moreau in the stomach. They both fell, tangled, the robe tearing, the knife skittering under the bed.
Moreau was stronger than she looked. Her hands found Emma's throat, fingers digging in, and Emma saw stars. She clawed at Moreau's face, her nails raking skin, but Moreau didn't flinch.
"You want to fight," Moreau hissed. "Good. I want to feel it."
Emma's vision dimmed. Her hand stretched toward the nightstand, toward the tray, toward anything. Her fingers closed around something cold and metal.
The needle.
She swung blindly. The needle caught Moreau in the side of the neck, plunging deep. Moreau gasped, her grip loosening.
Emma drove it deeper.
Moreau's hands fell away. Her body stiffened, then slackened, her weight collapsing onto Emma's chest. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open, a single bubble of blood forming at the corner of her lips.
The heroin was still in the syringe. Or maybe it was empty. It didn't matter. The needle had gone deep enough to kill.
Emma lay there, Moreau's body heavy on top of her, and waited for her heart to stop pounding. The room was silent except for the hum of the city beyond the windows.
She pushed Moreau off. The body rolled, limp, eyes staring at nothing.
Emma sat up. Her hands were shaking. Her throat ached where Moreau had choked her. Blood was smeared across her dress—Moreau's blood, her own, she couldn't tell.
She looked at the woman on the floor. Susan Moreau, silver hair spread across the carpet, mouth still open, eyes still wide. Not a monster anymore. Just meat.
Emma found the knife under the bed. She picked it up, wiped it clean on the sheets, and tucked it back into the holster on her thigh.
Then she walked to the window.
The city glittered below. The harbor, the lights, the boats bobbing at anchor. Everything looked the same as it had when she'd arrived. Nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
She reached into her dress, pulled out her phone. Dialed a number she knew by heart.
"It's done."
Caron's voice was calm. "Clean?"
"Clean."
"The body?"
"I'll take care of it."
There was a pause. Then Caron said, "Marco will be waiting at the airfield in the morning when you observe the the merchandise transferred to the buyers. Get the staff together tonight and tell them they are under new management and that the new manager will be arriving i a few days and you expect them to continue their excellent work."
Emma hung up without saying goodbye. She looked at Moreau's body one more time, then turned toward the door.
The hallway was empty. The party had ended; the guests had gone home; the women had been sold. The penthouse was silent, a mausoleum of glass and steel.
she walked to the kitchen and saw one of the staff and told him to get the rest of the staff together in the great room.
She'd killed Moreau.
She was still alive.
And somewhere, in a concrete cell, Kate was still waiting to die.
Emma closed her eyes and waited.