"Five years ago," I twirled the shard in my hand, its edge biting into my palm, "I gave you too much face."
My eyes dropped to his stomach.
"What's wrong? Didn't losing one kidney last time teach you a lesson?"
I pressed the shard against his cheek, dragging it downward in a slow, deliberate line.
"Since you still don't remember..."
My smile was twisted, sharp and merciless. In a flash, I raised the shard and thrust it toward his abdomen.
But before I could drive it in, a hand seized my wrist, wrenching it back. Pain shot through my arm, and screams filled the air.
Maxwell's eyes welled with tears. He whimpered, voice trembling.
"Noreen... I'm scared."
Five years ago, when I pinned him down and stabbed him again and again, he had worn this same expression—terrified, pitiful, crying out, "Noreen, I'm scared."
The years overlapped.
And then, behind me, came a voice I hadn't heard in half a decade—low, cold, and achingly familiar.
"Colin. It's been five years."
"Tell me," Noreen's voice turned gloomy, "haven't you learned your lesson?"