Blood Ties

Chapter3-Attack

I watch her before I move.

She's standing near the water, phone in her hand, shoulders tight like she's bracing against something that isn't the wind. People always think they're hiding it better than they are. They mistake stillness for calm.

I know the difference.

She looks older than the last time I saw her. Or maybe just harder. Life has a way of sanding people down until only the sharp parts remain.

Good.

I didn't come all this way to hesitate.

The knife is heavier than I expect. Not in weight — in meaning. It drags at my hand like it knows what it's for. I test my grip, adjust it once, twice.

This isn't rage.

Rage is sloppy.

This is focus. This is something I've rehearsed in quieter moments, when the house was empty and my thoughts had room to stretch.

She turns toward the rocks.

Of course she does.

She's always been drawn to edges. Always testing how close she can get without falling. I used to think that meant she was brave.

Now I know better.

It's not courage. It's defiance. A refusal to step back even when every instinct says she should.

I follow at a distance, careful with my footing. The sand gives way to stone, uneven and slick in places. The ocean keeps up its steady rhythm, a cover I'm grateful for.

Waves erase a lot of things.

Footprints.

Sounds.

Evidence.

She pauses.

For half a second, I think she's sensed me. My muscles tense, ready to act, but then she just rubs her hands down her thighs like she's trying to steady herself.

That familiar flicker of irritation rises in my chest.

Always pretending control.

I close the distance.

It happens faster than she'll remember. One step. Then another. The moment itself is clean — the angle right, the force measured. I don't hesitate, don't announce myself, don't give her time to turn it into something else.

The knife goes in where I aimed.

She makes a sound — small, startled — and I feel it travel up my arm, the resistance, the give. I let go immediately. Staying attached would be a mistake.

Lingering always is.

She stumbles forward, hands clawing at nothing, and drops against the rock like it's the only thing holding her upright.

I step back.

Blood appears quickly. Too quickly. It spreads across her shirt, dark and wet, and for a moment something tightens behind my ribs.

Not regret.

Not guilt.

Something closer to recognition.

I've seen that colour before.

I turn away before she can fall completely, before she can see me if she hasn't already. I don't check if anyone is watching.

I already know they aren't. People look at the ocean when it matters. They look anywhere but where they should.

As I walk back across the sand, my hands are steady.

That's how I know this was necessary.

Some wounds don't stop bleeding until you reopen them.