And now Mac Murphy was the one standing behind the camera?
It was enough to make bile burn up the back of Dorothy’s throat.
Her fingers curled around her glass of hooch. It took every bit of willpower left inside of her not to pick the glass up and hurl it at the television. If Mac himself had been standing before her, she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist.
Mac continued, voice solemn, “It is my great misfortune to tell you that our beloved Crow, Roman Estrada, has been murdered.”
A tense silence fell over the crowd, everyone turned toward the television screen. Dorothy had a feeling she knew what was coming next. She gripped her glass a little tighter.
By you, she wanted to scream. He was murdered by you.
“Roman longed to help the people of this city,” Mac said. “He managed the incredible feat of traveling back in time, and he used that power to provide us with electricity, heat, and much-needed medical supplies. Because of him, New Seattle is better off today than it was yesterday.
“Unfortunately, not everyone shared Roman’s desire to make this city of ours a better place. Late last night, during a trip to the future, two people plotted and executed Roman’s assassination.”
Mac and the woman in black suddenly disappeared from the screen, and a photograph of Dorothy and Ash appeared in their place.
Dorothy stared, openmouthed. She’d never seen this photograph before. It seemed to have been taken on the docks outside the Dead Rabbit, late at night. The colors had blurred together, almost as though they’d been rendered in watercolor, a hazy mix of dark purples and blues and blacks. And in the middle of it all, clear as day, she saw herself and Ash, leaning close together, like they were about to kiss. Ash had a hand raised to her face. Her eyes were closed.
Dorothy touched her cheek in the same spot where the Ash in the photograph was touching it. Her mind tripped, trying to figure out when she’d been there, when this could have happened.
But, of course, it hadn’t happened. Not yet.
Mac was speaking again. “I am, of course, disgusted by the events that have taken place. I’ve always considered Roman a close friend, an ally to the cause. And, more than that, he was a true asset to our city. There might not be any way to change what happened to him, but I believe in my soul that there’s a way we can make things right.
“And now, it’s time to put my money where my mouth is. I’ll be offering a reward for the capture of the traitors in question, Jonathan Asher and Quinn Fox. If any of the fine citizens of this city were to bring me one or both of these traitors—dead or alive, hell, I’m not picky—I’d make it my personal mission to make sure they’re brought to justice and made to pay for their crimes.”
Mac paused for a moment, grinning that horrible, toad-like grin. “And, of course,” he continued, “I’d make that citizen very, very rich.”
Murmurs broke out among the bar patrons. Dorothy felt a sudden thrill of fear. How stupid it was of her to come here! If anyone realized who she was, she’d be taken to Mac at once. She needed to run, to vanish.
She slid out of her seat, thinking she could sneak out using the window in the women’s room, same as she did the first time she came here, when the bartender in the baseball hat suddenly appeared before her.
He looked skittish, nervous. He wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“Miss Fox?” he said in a low, urgent voice. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”
7
Dorothy felt her heart beat against the back of her throat. Her palms had started to sweat.
Surely this tiny, baseball cap–wearing boy didn’t think he could just deliver her to Mac?
Not if she had anything to say about it.
She reached into her cloak, fingers curling around the hilt of Roman’s dagger—
“Ah, not so fast, there.” The bartender produced a gun from his jacket. This wasn’t terribly surprising, bars in New Seattle were rowdy, dangerous places, and Dorothy knew that most of the bartenders were armed. This one at least had the decency to look uncomfortable holding a gun.
Still, it was a gun, so Dorothy froze, one hand still clenching Roman’s dagger.
“Why don’t you hand that over?” the bartender said.
She felt the corners of her lip twitch. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
“The only arrangement I’m interested in is the one where you hand over whatever you have stashed up your sleeve and walk, calmly, down this hallway here, and I don’t have to—to shoot you.” The bartender motioned toward a back hallway with his gun, his cheeks slowly going pink. “Does that . . . does that sound okay to you?”
Dorothy’s fingers twitched. She could see no way out of this that didn’t involve a full-on brawl, which would alert everyone in the bar to the fact that she was here and likely lead to at least twenty other people joining to help the bartender take her down. Not odds she loved. It would be better to get this small, twitchy boy on his own and deal with him then.
She removed the dagger from her cloak and held it out to him.
Great. Now she was unarmed.
The bartender made her walk ahead of him, his gun half-concealed beneath his jacket so as not to alert the other patrons to the fact that there was something going on.
He probably doesn’t want to risk losing his precious reward, Dorothy thought, smirking. She wondered if her sleight of hand was as
