What Felix Took From Me

I keep replaying the moment the blue door crumpled under Felix’s boot. Not the evidence, not Tamsin’s breathing body, not the chaos at the gate: the paper. I knew exactly how foolish it was to carry it, and carrying it anyway made losing it feel like something Felix personally broke inside me. I wanted him to know what he had taken. Worse, I wanted him to be crushed by it. I am petty enough to hope the drawing stuck to his sole all the way home.

Tamsin being alive made the room feel colder. I had already accepted Felix’s story about her death because accepting it was convenient, because the alternative opened doors I did not want to enter. Now one of those doors has Tamsin on the other side, and Tamsin gets to hate what was done to her while I am left with the obscene privilege of knowing I suspected sooner.

The transfer record is backed up in three places. That should make me feel safe. Instead, I keep checking the files as if one of them will contain an instruction telling me what to do next. I wanted an excuse to drive away before the answer became personal. Sending Tamsin the buried fact mattered, though, and I cannot file that under mistake.

The envelope with Felix’s name remains unopened. Tonight it feels less like restraint and more like bait I am too proud to admit he laid for me.

I warned Marika anyway. I am getting dangerously good at staying connected to people. If Felix builds another handover, my name may appear beside his. I should be packing the truck. I am not.