IMOGEN'S POV
"Murder is wrong, Imogen." The words left his mouth in a rasp, barely sound at all, more like a thought dragged out of him against his will. His body refused him now, his jaw heavy, his tongue sluggish.
I laughed, and the sound was nothing like joy. It spilled out raw, bitter, sharp enough to cut the air. "You want to talk about wrong? You carved your way through people like they were nothing, and no one ever stopped you. No charges, no trial, not even a stain on your perfect suit. You've been a ghost with blood on your hands for years. A serial killer dressed as a man."
His chest hitched, a weak tremor, but he could not rise from the bed. His muscles betrayed him, useless as string. He was locked in his own body, left only with his mind, and I could see the panic creeping into his eyes, that old predator's gaze turning desperate.
"But that isn't what this is about," I murmured, softer now.
