"You told me to watch him die," Katalina said, voice low and steady.
Damien Ali coughed and spat blood onto the glass floor. The sound hit the conservatory like a dropped coin.
Lenora stepped forward with a small, glossy photograph between her fingers. "We did what you asked," she said. Her smile was slow and practiced. "We gave them what they wanted."
Katalina's hand tightened around the stem of the wine glass. Her fingers were steady. "Photo," she said.
Lenora held the image up. A face Katalina had seen once in a dream and refused to keep seeing now lay on the paper—Ivan, eyes closed, hospital tubing and bruises mapped across his neck.
Katalina's tongue moved without sound. She kept her shoulders level. "You lied about him," she said.
Lenora's smile didn't fall. "I lied about a lot of things. Helpful, isn't it? People trust pictures."
"Aren't you tired of looking like you love me?" Katalina asked. "Aren't you tired of pretending?"
Lenora shrugged. "Pretending keeps me fed. Protecting you cost too much."
Damien's laugh was small and wet. "Lenora," he said. His voice sounded thin. "Don't."
Lenora flicked the photo like a switch. "You signed the contracts, Mr. Ali. You approved the cover. You know how these things close a case." Her eyes flicked to Katalina. "Final step. We have to see remorse."
Katalina looked at the photo, then at Damien. The room smelled of orchids and antiseptic and
