CHAPTER 55: PLAYING THE SYNDICATE GAMES
"Put down the cane," I said, my voice dropping an octave as I stared at the shadow in the hallway.
My fingers twitched against the fabric of my coat pockets, my palms suddenly slick with fresh sweat. The figure did not drop the cane. Instead, the silver handle caught the faint amber glow of the oil lamp as she took another slow step into the living room, the wood under her slippers giving a tiny, sharp squeak.
Patricia did not turn her head. She just kept staring at the floorboards, her old hands trembling violently against the wool shawl on her lap.
"She is not going to hit you with it, Aria," Patricia said, her voice dropping into a tired, dry rattle. "She can barely lift her arm past her shoulder on a rainy night like this. Her joints are full of old fire from that facility."
Ariana let out a sharp, jagged breath beside me, her leather jacket rustling loudly as she backed up until her spine hit the stone edge of the fireplace.
