“I don’t remember,” she sobbed, admitting her fear. “I don’t remember anything but being angry and confused and out of control.” She moved, and I let go so she could pull her head up. “Did you bite him?” she whispered, her eyes begging me to say no.

I was glad I wasn’t wearing that amulet so at least I could pretend Ford wasn’t watching the drama play out. If I said yes, she would assume she had killed Kisten. But to lie was not possible. “I bit him,” I said, the guilty words coming quick so I could get it out before she decided she’d killed him to end the pain inside her. “He gave me a pair of caps for my birthday. He knew you’d made a pass at me. Looking back on it, I’m sure I did it to convince him that I wasn’t going to leave him. That he was important to me.”

Ivy moaned and pulled away.

“Damn it, Ivy!” I exclaimed, wiping at the slowly leaking tears. “You wouldn’t kill him for that! You loved him! Piscary never touched that part of you. He couldn’t! You were never his. He only thought you were! Kisten said Piscary never asked you to kill me, but Piscary did, didn’t he?” I said, watching her. I could hardly breathe, and her misery hesitated as she tried to remember. “He told you to kill me, and you said no. You wouldn’t kill me for Piscary, and you wouldn’t kill Kisten for him either. I know it, Ivy. That’s why you shut yourself off. You didn’t kill him. You didn’t.”

For six heartbeats she simply stared, thoughts sifting through her. Behind her I saw Ford drop his head into his hand, trying not to eavesdrop—but hell, that was his job. She took a deep breath, and all her muscles went limp. “Kisten,” she finally breathed, falling to her knees to touch him, and I knew she believed. Her hands went to his hair, and she started to cry.

The first heavy cry was her undoing, and proud, stoic Ivy finally let go. Huge, racking sobs shook her shoulders. Tears for his death, yes, but for herself as well, and I felt my own eyes fill and spill over as I dropped down to hold her beside his cold stillness. Kisten was the only person who had known the depth of depravity to which Piscary had sunk them, the heights of ecstasy. The breath-stealing power he had granted them, and the terrible price he extracted for it. The only one who had forgiven her for what she was, who understood who she wanted to be. He was gone, and there’d be no one else who could possibly understand. Not even me.