Only if Connor hadn't suddenly had a change of heart and wanted therapy or the likes of it, Zane mused, watching Esme like a death sentence already signed and waiting to be carried out.
His gaze didn't waver, didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened, a blade honed by frustration and delayed violence.
Only if the latter still inhabited that house of horrors, then they would have simply asked for Esme to be handed to them for a month or thereabout, just enough time to make the bitch's mind, and body even, reconstruct.
But Connor was no longer with them. Connor had decided it was time to saint up.
Zane had been up for it then, but looking at Esme's whimpering frame now—curled inward, shoulders trembling, breath hitching in ugly little sobs—he wished the latter had tarried more in his hobby.
At least then, they would have found out first, why the bitch had confessed.
His jaw ticked.
