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“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
He lay sprawled on the oversided bed in his undersized flat, watching her dress through hazy eyes and one hand resting on his naked chest. She dressed mutely before him, her back turned in some feigning of modesty on her part. “You could always stay.” he told her, again. As usual. And as usual, she said the same thing.
“No, I really could not.”
Girls slaughtered like animals in the street. She wouldn’t sit idly by, his Helen. Not when she shouldered so much responsibility. ‘It’s their blood in my hands. Murder by fiancèe.’ she’d half choked out a laugh in a roll that left them both exhausted and breatheless.
She was always gone by nightfall. Out, into the streets of London Underbelly. Out looking for him. She swore she was going to kill him. She swore.
“Be careful.” he’d tell her.
She paused, hand gripped on a gun (his gun, a present in the most twisted of natures) as she pulled apart her coat, hunting for the pocket she’d sewn into her skirts herself. A small smile that made his stomach flop back and forth uncomfortably. “Oh, Adam. You know me.”