Free The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) by Annelie Wendeberg Page B

threatens your life and that of your father. A man you despise. A man you want to kill as soon as the time is right. But you don’t feel threatened now. You even offer your help. This makes you feel guilty. Why?’
    ‘Isn’t that obvious?’
    ‘Because you believe you allow yourself a weakness and you don’t understand that reflex of yours,’ he observed.
    I offered him a compressed smile.
    ‘But does it not require, and even add strength, to explore all depths of one’s own character? The dark alleys, the filthy corners, the diseased limb we want to saw off,’   he said, his eyes intense.
    I held his gaze, trying to see behind the speckled grey of his irises. ‘And you lost yourself in that maze of your dark alleys,’ I replied. ‘You hate ferociously. You desire passionately. You take heedlessly. There is no giving, no loving, no smiling in you. Because you are scared of the susceptibility it may bring.’
    More time passed, time of observation and contemplation, until he finally said, ‘Am I correct in assuming that you did find a way to learn osteopathy?’
    ‘I cannot say I learned it well. I had to practice mostly on myself. But yes, I am able to at least set bones.’
    ‘Try it then.’ His voice lacked its usual commanding sharpness.
    How could he not know he presented me with his most vulnerable part? That fragile connection to his brain. The neck, so easily broken with the correct movement and acceleration, even by a woman. Perhaps, this was the reason — I was but a woman and therefore no threat to his life. At least I wouldn’t be able to take it by force, or so he must think. How very short-sighted.
    ‘Take off your cravat and loosen your collar, please’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Then turn around and place your head where your feet are. Lie on your back.’ My gut was quivering. If I killed him now, my father would be murdered in return. The risk was too high, but the desire so overwhelming I could barely breathe.
    He lay on his back, relaxed and a little expectant. What a curious situation. With him gazing up at me, being at my mercy without his knowledge.  
    I knelt and took his head into my hands. The carotid artery was tapping against the pale skin of his throat. I pictured a quick slash with a sharp blade, the gush of hot blood, the gurgles, the jerking and twisting of a man’s body fighting death, long after his mind had given up. I closed my eyes and pushed my imagination away.
    ‘It does surprise me, though,’ he said quietly.  
    It did surprise me, too. Although he apparently got what he wanted — my trust — he had to give me a little of his, too. But I had an inkling that even without this game of give and take, I would have treated him nonetheless.
    Without reply, I let my hands work around his cervical spine, pressing at numerous small knots. Now and again, he suppressed a wince. His head lay in my palms. I rotated it from left to right and right to left, my fingers probing the sides of his neck. His atlas — the first vertebra supporting the skull — appeared to be severely misaligned. I willed myself not to regard the identity of the man I held in my hands and focused solely on the matter at hand.  
    His shoulders and neck were so stiff that it took me a good deal of time to work some flexibility into them. I felt him relax; his breathing grew regular and deep. It was time. With a quick clock-wise rotation I jerked his skull towards me. Two loud cracks announced the return of the atlas to its natural position. He sucked in air, producing a hiss, obviously realising the dangerous moment that had escaped his control. He stared at me with a mix of terror and amazement.
    He was about to push himself into a sitting position when I placed my hand on his brow and said, ‘Remain there for a little longer. Your body is so accustomed to the misalignment of your vertebrae; it will need time to adjust.’
    He made no reply, but did as I said. I excused myself and left the