Isla didn't speak on the drive home.
Just sat in the passenger seat, staring at her hands. They'd been washed. Cleaned thoroughly by one of Killian's men. But she could still see the blood.
Could still feel the resistance as the knife went in.
Could still see Richard's eyes going empty.
"Talk to me," Killian said finally.
"I don't know what to say."
"Say anything. Say you're terrified. Say you regret it. Say you hate me for making you do it. Just—talk to me."
"You didn't make me. I chose."
"Did you? Or did I manipulate you into thinking you had to prove something?"
Isla turned to look at him. "Are you having regrets?"
"I'm having concerns. About pushing you too far too fast. About turning you into something you're not."
"What if this is what I am? What if—" Her voice cracked. "What if I'm exactly the kind of person who can kill someone and feel nothing?"
"You're not feeling nothing. You're in shock. It's different."
