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“If you would have him”—Lucille’s hand is at her wrist, below the handle of the butcher’s knife, but her blade is at Edith’s throat, the choice she presents as sharp as silver—“earn him.”
“Lucille-” Thomas pleads.
“No.” Like the crack of a whip. Thomas is chastened. He blinks at his sister like a scolded puppy.
“Edith. Please.” Alan came all this way, for her.
In another life, she’d be grateful.
She brings the butcher’s knife down. There’s a repulsive thud.
“Good girl,” Lucille purrs, her knife replaced by her lips on Edith’s neck. “Perhaps we can keep you.”