His knees hit the floor with a dull crack. 31 strikes, I said quietly. You remember that number? His throat bobbed. She betrayed me. She would have ruined count, I said. He stared up at me, confused. What? Count, Victor. I raised the hammer. You owe her every single one. The first hit landed on the floor beside his knee.
The second on the arm of the chair where he was holding the gun. Splinters exploded upward. The third struck the fireplace mantle. Each hit came closer, slower, measured. Not killing blows. Not yet. They were sounds for him to remember. counting the same way he’d made her count. He was sobbing now, not from the threat of death, but from the echo of what he’d done.
Outside, the generator sputtered its final cough and died. The cabin plunged into darkness. The fire from the house miles below, now the only glow threading through the windows. Felix groan where he lay. C was still out cold. The silence returned. The same silence that had haunted me that first night in my home.
