Free Iron House by John Hart Page A

it was okay, then said something again. It made no sense, but Julian heard the words. “I did this.” Michael’s face was inches from Julian’s, and he was tapping his own chest. “I did this. Do you understand?”
    Julian leaned forward, mouth open. Michael looked hurriedly at the door, then stooped and tugged the knife from Hennessey’s neck. It came with a wet sound and Michael held it so Julian could see. “I did this. Hennessey was hurting you and I did this. When they ask, that’s what you say. Okay?” Julian stared. “You can’t handle what’s coming from this,” Michael said. “Julian? Understand? He was hurting you. I came in. I did this.”
    “You did this…” Thick words. Disconnect. Julian felt his head tilt, and his eyelids fell once.
    “Yes. Me.” Michael looked at the closed door. “Somebody saw you with the knife. People are coming. I have to go. I did this. Say it.”
    “Hennessey was hurting me.” A pause. “You did this.”
    “Good, Julian. Good.”
    Then he hugged his brother once, opened the door, and was gone, blood on his fingers, knife in his hand.
    Julian looked at Hennessey and saw eyes as dull as spilled milk. He backed away, blinked, and people came. They shouted and moved a lot, large hands on Hennessey’s throat, his eyes. An ear to his mouth. Julian saw Flint and other grown-ups. He blinked as they asked questions, blinked again.
    He looked at the open door.
    And did what Michael said.
----
    Abigail stood at the window of the narrow room, dark sky outside, snow still loose on the wind. Frost rimed the glass and everything was damp and cold: the furniture, her clothing, her skin. She saw movement on the drive, a boy, and could no longer bear the thought of children in this stark and bitter place. A coat flapped as the boy ran, and she wondered why he was outside in the storm, to what place he was running. She closed her eyes, and asked God to watch over these children, to keep them safe; and when her eyelids rose, she saw that night had come in its fullness, black and shuttered and alive with wind.
    She looked for the boy, but he was gone.
    Cold wind blew and snow came harder. Her fingers settled at her throat as from beyond the glass she heard a lonesome wail.
    Sirens in the distance.
    Small hearts beating red.

CHAPTER SIX

    Michael had seen this moment so many times: in his dreams and imaginings, in those sweat-filled hours when he could not sleep and the air in Elena’s apartment seemed to have no breath at all. He’d tried to envision a graceful way to tell her the things he’d done, some means by which to speak of regret and hope and aspiration, but there was no window to his soul that wasn’t cracked through or painted black. He was a killer, and could never take that back. What did the rest of it matter? That he had reasons? That he’d never hurt a civilian?
    She wouldn’t care, and he couldn’t blame her.
    He stepped closer, certain only that in all his imaginings, the moment of truth had never looked like this: blood on his hands and Elena on her knees in the brown, brittle grass. She looked so small and unhappy, one hand splayed beneath her, the other twisting fabric from her stomach. Michael could not know the thoughts that pushed through her mind, only that they must be slippery and wet and cold. Thoughts of betrayals, he imagined, thoughts of lies and violence done.
    He put the phone in his pocket and stepped onto the grass. She was five feet away, but could have been a thousand.
    “Are you okay?” Her back was warm in the sun, lean under a dress that felt like silk. She shook her head as low wind stirred and the river smell intensified. Traffic flowed past, and Michael heard sirens far away, the sound of the city. To the north, an ugly smoke rose.
    “I don’t know you.” Her words came without heat, but tasted of ash and things ruined. She pushed herself up, rocked back on her knees, and shrugged off Michael’s hand. “I don’t know anything