The crowd hushed, all eyes—blue, green, brown, grey—all landed on Q. Fixated by the man who gave them back their lives.

“I want to thank you for coming to see me today. The gesture is both gratifying and humbling. But I assure you, it wasn’t necessary. You gave me all the thanks I needed when you returned to your loved ones. The only payment I required was making you strong again.”

Murmurs rose from the crowd. A blonde woman darted between spectators, slowly making her way to the steps of town hall.

My heart whizzed, prickling with awareness. My eyes narrowed at the darting form.

Q continued, “Despite the evilness of the world, good has prevailed, and I hope each of you has been able to move on and not let them win.”

The blonde girl fought the crush of bodies. Her hand went to her pocket. Time slowed, moving in heartbeats, dying in increments.

“Franco!” I yelled, pointing at the girl. Petrified she had a gun—some weapon to kill Q.

Q yanked me behind his body, protecting me. Franco leapt down the stairs, imprisoning the girl’s arm. It all happened in a blink—swift, efficient, trapping the would be threat.

But then her blue eyes locked onto mine.

“Please, no more. You’ve done enough! You’re like them. You’re a monster!”

I stumbled backward; my palm went slick with glacial sweat. Q’s hand slipped from around my arm. I reeled away.

No. It can’t be.

My hands clutched my hair as a cloud of torrid memories sucked me under.

“Hurt her, puta.”

“I’m going to rape this one—then you’ll know what it will feel like when I start on you.”

My ears roared. My heart died.

Blonde Angel.

It can’t be!

But it was. I’d stared into her eyes while hitting her. I’d listened to her screams while Leather Jacket tortured her. I would recognise her anywhere. She was a tattoo upon my soul.

She raised her arm, pointing at me. Painting me like the witch who deserved to be burned. The blissfully happy six months evaporated under the weight of what I’d done. How could I forget? How could I pretend I’d paid the toll when I’d killed a woman? When I’d brutally tortured another?

“Tess—Tess?” Q’s voice cut through my horror, dragging me back to the sunny warm day in France. Innocent. Safe. But it wasn’t innocent or safe.

My past had found me.

And now I must pay.

“Her,” I croaked. “It’s her.”

Blonde Angel fought Franco, trying to climb the steps. Her eyes never left mine, locked together in purgatory. She wore such innocuous clothing—a pair of loose fitting jeans and huge yellow jumper. Her hair was up in a ponytail—she looked so young. So young!

My eyes fell to her walking stick, splintering my heart more surely than any bat I’d swung or any terror I’d rained.

“Please—I just want to talk,” she called.

Her voice sent me straight back to Rio—to my dreams. There she’d been reincarnated to die night after night. Here she was real—a figment of my nightmares come to haunt me for my crimes.

Q wrapped an arm around me. I didn’t register his warmth or comfort. I didn’t register anything but bugs and beetles and pain.

“Please—let me pass. I promise I mean no harm,” Blonde Angel pleaded.

Franco looked to me. His chiselled face was dark. “Tess—what do you want me to do?”

Blonde Angel fanned her hands. “I only need a minute.”

I couldn’t say no to her. Regardless if she was there to kill me. I couldn’t’ say no to the woman I’d hurt so badly.

“Let her go, Franco.” My voice was reedy, lost.

“Tess?” Q shook me, but I sank into memories.

“That’s it. Do it. Hit her. Harder.”

Blonde Angel hurled herself up the steps, beelining for me. Her mouth opened, but I heard nothing. Only Leather Jacket lived in my ears.

“You’re so weak, puta. Beg for your life. Beg for it—maybe then we won’t make you kill her.”

Tears.

They sprouted up my throat, trickling from my eyes. My entire body wept for what I’d done to this girl. She halted a foot away; both of us breathing hard, both staring silently. Her tears matched mine—a torrent of emotions on her heart-shaped face.

A story screamed in her gaze.

Confusion.

Hatred.

Sadness.

Forgiveness.

She cried out, deleting the space between us. I cowered, bringing my arms up to protect myself, but her body smashed against mine, clutching me hard.

I froze. Not breathing, hardly existing under the horror I’d caused.

Q grabbed the girl’s shoulder, wrenching her back. “Qu'est-ce que tu penses faire?” What the hell do you think you’re doing? His voice was livid, his body trembling with rage.

I opened my mouth to explain. How to explain? I’d told him what I’d done—what they made me do. But having the evidence standing as judgement was too much.

“I had to see her. I had to tell her,” Blonde Angel sniffed, uncaring tears tracked down her face.

I sucked in a fearful breath. My limbs quaked. “I’m—I’m—” I’m so damn sorry. So eternally, endlessly sorry. I’ll never ever forgive myself.

She shook her head, a smile breaking through her sorrow. “I had to tell you—I…” A fresh spillage of tears ruined her strength. Swallowing hard, she managed, “It wasn’t your fault. All that time, I knew you cared. You accepted more pain to stop us from receiving, but in the end nothing you did could’ve stopped it.”

She reached for me again, burying her face in my shoulder.

Something snapped inside. The grief I thought I’d dealt with gushed forth, purging the remaining darkness in my soul.

“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, clutching her, drowning in tears.

Q stiffened but never let go of my waist. I stood hugged by two people. My past and future. Anchored by my love, drifting on a sea of pain.

The world ceased to exist as I found closure in the arms of my victim. The arms of the woman who I’d watched be raped and traumatised.

Q’s hand shifted to my lower back, linking me to the present where I was good. Where I’d repaid my sins by saving others. He gave me silent support while I came undone on the steps of the Paris town hall.