Brussels, August 1898
Little Fox,
You look so sad, pretending to be a person as you walk these streets. Your costume strains at the edges. Your friends don’t see it, but I do. Part of me forever hopes you’ll give up, even if I’d be devastated. It feels less lonely, knowing you’re out there.
Do you blame yourself for the death of that girl?
He would have killed her regardless, I think.
You’re probably innocent in it. But evil has a way of infecting everyone who touches it, no matter how tangential or accidental.
He heard what you were looking for. He saw an opportunity, and he took it.
Funny that it was his attempt to be clever that undid him.
If he’d killed her without fuss, no one would have sent for you. He would have gotten away with it.
Does that comfort you? Do you feel sated with this bit of justice meted out? Or does it ring as hollow as the space between your ribs? Gone is gone, nothing will change that.
Best get back to work. These detours take up too much time. Yours is running out, and mine cannot. I don’t want to do this without you.
Kind Regards,
Diavola