We walked out of Mary's apartment, leaving the wreckage behind us. Owen's body remained inside, slumped against the wall, blood still slowly spreading across the floor in a dark, glistening pool. CGI had already been notified. A cleanup team was on the way.
I walked beside Mary. She had changed into a simple white long-sleeved shirt and a skirt that stopped just above her knees. The fabric moved softly against her thighs with each step. Becky came behind us, slower, sword still strapped to her back, the fight showing on all three of us — limps, bruises and torn clothes.
"Did you think we'd end up connected like this," Mary said, filling the silence, "the first time you came into my room in a mask?"
She wasn't cuffed. Becky had decided to trust her, which still said more about the history between them than anyone had told me.
"No," I said, the three of us limping down the corridor toward the elevator. "First impression was a kidnapper holding a girl hostage."
