Page 118 of This Life of Mine

And for that kindness, for that love, they decided I was expendable.

I’m mixed with grief and fury.

They tried to kill me—to erase the last gift a dying woman gave out of love.

And as the truth takes root in my bones, I see now that Virginia believed I was worth saving, and I love her more for it.

There was a time when something like this would have hollowed me out from the inside.

I learned early how to keep my reactions contained, how to think clearly while fear rattled through my chest. Abuse teaches you that composure is survival. That if you stay calm, stay rational, stay agreeable, you might avoid the worst of it. I matured faster than I should have, burying my emotions beneath control because expressing them never felt safe.

Not anymore.

And now, I get to decide what happens next instead of waiting for it to happen to me.

“What’s next?” I ask, sitting up.

The words come out steadier than I expect. I’m done spiraling. Done reacting. I’m not hiding, not from them, not from myself.

Alex studies me. Measuring. Weighing. I can tell he doesn’t want to answer.

“I’m not going underground,” I add. “I’m not running. I want to help you end this.”

He exhales slowly. “There are only two ways this will go.”

I brace myself.

“Either your hitman lives,” he says, “and whoever sent him knows he failed. They pull back. Hide. Go quiet.” His jaw tightens. “Or we remove him from the equation and wait. His contract expires. Someone else gets sent, and we use that to trace the source. That’s if I can’t get this guy talking. But I’m very good at making people talk.”

The words chill me, but I don’t flinch.

“How would you makehimtalk?“ I say, tilting my head towards the intruder.

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is flat. “You won’t like the answer.”

I study his face. The calm. The restraint. The absence of apology.

“Do you hurt good people?” I ask.

“No,” he says quickly. No hesitation.

“And the bad ones?”

His eyes darken, not with rage, but certainty. “I don’t have sympathy for murderers, rapists, or people who hurt children.” He looks directly at me now. “I won’t pretend otherwise. I…enjoyhurting people who deserve it.”

He lets that sit between us, heavy and honest.

“It’s important for you to know who I am,” he continues. “No illusions.”

The room is silent except for my own breathing.

“Good,” I say simply.

His brow furrows. “Good?”

“Especially the ones that hurt children,” I add, without irony. “If I could erase people like that from the world myself, I would.”

The truth of it doesn’t scare me.