I felt the heat of tears forming behind my eyes. I wasn’t supposed to cry anymore, wasn’t supposed to bop around like a teenage girl, but I couldn’t help myself and the tears overwhelmed me, fell down my cheeks in a steady stream. I threw myself to my knees and grabbed Sampson’s hands.
“Oh, please, please tell me you didn’t. And if you did, I can help you. I can get you away from here. I know you didn’t mean it. I know you couldn’t control yourself. You’re a werewolf, after all, and it’s not your fault—”
I choked on my own words. I choked on the image of the woman—Tia Shively—of the terror, the confusion that was in her eyes for that split second before they went cold—before the life slipped out of her body. My chest felt tight and I struggled to breathe.
“I’ll get you out of here,” I whispered again.
A tremor started in Mr. Sampson’s hands and he pulled them out of mine and then stood up quickly, brushing by me. He raked a hand through his still-wet hair, and when he turned and looked at me his eyes were dark—clouded—shielded with something I couldn’t recognize. Hate? Anger?
When Mr. Sampson spoke, his voice was gravelly. “You really think I could do something like that?”
I pushed myself up, the tears still falling, silently now. “I know that you wouldn’t have meant—”
“Really?” He whirled and faced me full-on and I could see now that the look in his eyes was anger, disappointment, tinged with disbelief. “You think that I could tear an innocent person to shreds like that? Three innocent people?”
The tension in the room ratcheted up the temperature by ten degrees, and I was rooted to the carpet, my mind ticking—do I run, do I protest, do I stay?
I chanced a glance up at Sampson and when I did his eyes locked mine. What I saw ran through me so deeply it cut to the bone.
His eyes were glassy.
Red rimmed.
He pressed his lips together, but I saw the twitch, the power that it took for him to keep his cool. “I can’t believe you, of all people, would think that about me. I’m not a monster, Sophie. I thought you knew that.” His voice was low, soft—but it hurt.
“I’ m—”
“No. If you think—I don’t want to make you wonder. If I’m an animal in your eyes, you should chain me up.”
“No!” I swung my head, feeling my hair flop against my cheeks. “I didn’t mean—I don’t think—it’s just that . . .” I let my words trail. I didn’t know what I thought or what I meant.
“You should do it.” Sampson’s voice was even. “If you can’t trust me, you need to lock me up.” He offered me his wrists. “Right?”
I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to tell him of course not, that I trusted him implicitly, but something ate at me.
Sampson shook his hands. “If it’ll make all your doubt go away, go ahead.” He looked sad, but tried a smile. “I don’t blame you if you do. I understand. Sometimes I can’t believe what I am either—and I know what people like me are capable of.”
Chapter Twelve
My heart slammed so hard against my ribs I was certain there would be a bruise. I licked my lips. My saliva was sour and the blood that coursed through my head was unbearably hot, loud.
I wanted to be the hero. I wanted to know I was doing the right thing, but this was all there was: Sampson, standing in front of me, arms outstretched. Three women dead. I felt my soul going ice cold, felt my body close in on itself.
“Okay.” The voice that came out of my mouth, that punctured the silence, didn’t sound like my own. “Just for tonight.” I said it as a kind of buffer, but Sampson just nodded.
“Where?” he said without looking up at me.
I drew in a slow breath, hoping the surge of oxygen would give me strength. “Down in the basement. The chains that—that used to be in your office are down there.”
“You’ve been waiting for this.”
“No.” I felt my eyes flash. “I’ve been waiting for you. Not like this—it was just—I wanted to keep something of yours. After you left . . .”
Sampson gave a humorless bark of laughter. “Ironic.” He jutted his chin toward my one hanging cuff. “Is that to cuff me for the walk downstairs?”
I shook my head silently and opened Will’s door.
We walked the four flights down to the basement in chilly silence, stopping on the landing just in front of the battered metal door. It was rusted, graffitied, and slightly dented, its shabby appearance betraying its strength.
“Well?” Sampson asked.
I had come this far, but was suddenly feeling unable to take the next step. My feet were rooted to the cement underneath us. Then I felt Sampson’s hand on my shoulder.
“It’s okay, Sophie.”