The house is quiet in their absence. Anton clears the last of the glasses and disappears, leaving behind just me and Kane in the parlor with the banner sagging on one corner and half of a very good, very bad cake on the table.
“One more thing,” he says.
“You already did too many things,” I retort.
“And yet I persist in doing more.” He hands me an envelope. Plain, black, sealed, and too thick to be a letter.
I open it.
It’s a photograph. Printed, matte, five by seven.
Of me.
On his bed, three weeks ago. The candles are in it, warm and low. I’m on my back with my head tipped toward the camera. The blindfold’s on. My wrists are cuffed and up above my head, the chain arcing off the top of the frame.
My legs are apart. There’s no sheet, no shirt, no arm across my stomach, no hand coveri
