“For Heaven’s sake, no,” she answered quickly. "But, I half suspect, of your father. Emile’s fist crashed into her temple and stars exploded in her vision. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. It is useless to talk. "You begin to have doubts, eh? A handful of money between you, and nothing else.
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