Walter Dexter had the same eyes.
“How can I help you, Mr. Dexter?” Juliette asked. She folded her arms. There was no point keeping up small talk when it was unlikely Walter Dexter truly cared. It did not seem like he had fared well either. He had no briefcase; nor was he wearing a suit. His dress shirt was too big, the collar loose around his neck, and his pants pockets were practically fraying into threads.
“I’ve come with something of value,” Walter Dexter said, reaching into his coat. “I’d like to sell you the remains of my son’s research.”
Juliette’s pulse jumped, each thud inside her chest suddenly picking up in pace. Archibald Welch—the middleman who ran Paul’s shipments—had said that Paul burned his notebooks after making the vaccine.
“I heard that he destroyed it all,” Juliette said carefully.
“Indeed, it is likely he would have thought to discard his primary findings.” Walter pulled a bundle of papers from his coat, neatly clipped together. “But I found these in his bookshelves. It is possible they were so unimportant that he had not the idle thought to even deal with them.”
Juliette folded her arms. “So why do you think we would want them?”
“Because I heard he passed on his chaos,” Walter replied darkly. “And before you ask, I have nothing to do with any of it. I am boarding the first ship out of here tomorrow for England.” He shook his head then, an exhale rattling his lungs. “If the madness starts again, I will not remain to see how this one plays out. But I figure you, Miss Cai, may want to counter it. Make a new vaccine, protect your people against its spread.”
Juliette eyed the merchant warily. It sounded like Walter Dexter didn’t know this madness was a targeted matter, dropped on its victims like a bomb.
“He claimed to have done it for you,” Juliette said quietly. “He took you into a period of riches, but now you are here, back where you began, and your son is dead.”
“I didn’t ask for him to do it, Miss Cai,” Walter rasped. All his age shuttered down on him, weariness sagging every line and wrinkle on his face. “I didn’t even know what he was doing until he was dead and I was paying back his debts, cursing him for trying to act the savior.”
Juliette looked away. She didn't want to feel pity for Walter Dexter, but it twinged at her anyway. For whatever reason, her mind flashed to Tyler. At the heart of the matter, he and Paul were not so different, were they? Boys who tried to do the best for the people they cared about, not concerned for the collateral damage they might wreak in the process. The difference was that Paul had been given real power—Paul had been given a whole system that bowed at his feet—and that made him so much more dangerous than Tyler could ever be.
Slowly, Walter Dexter extended his arm through two of the bars in the gate. He almost looked like an animal at the zoo, foolishly reaching out in hopes of some food. Or perhaps Juliette was the animal inside the cage, taking poison being fed to her.
“Take a look and see if it may be useful,” Walter Dexter said, clearing his throat. “My starting price is written at the top left corner of the first page.”
Juliette received the papers, then unfolded the dog-eared corner, revealing the price. She lifted her brows. “I could buy a house with that amount.”
Walter shrugged. “Buy it or not,” he said simply. “It is not my city that is soon to suffer.”
Five
By all technicalities, Benedikt Montagov was grocery shopping. In reality, he was more or less collecting items to destroy, trading money for fresh pears, then taking one bite before squeezing the rest into oblivion, throwing the mushed core onto the pavement.
Benedikt was a terrible cook. He burned eggs and underprepared meat. In the first month, he attempted it at least, resolute not to waste away like a pathetic ghoul of a person. Then, as if a shutter had come down, he couldn’t step into the kitchen at all. Every meal he made was one that Marshall hadn’t. Every flicker of the gas, every puddle growing by the sink—the more that Benedikt took notice of the space that Marshall had once constantly lounged around, the emptier it grew.
It was bizarre that that was what had broken the dam, pushing through every wall Benedikt had put up to suppress his mourning. Not the absence of sound in the morning, not the absence of movement by his side. One day he had been operating in numbness, shoving aside the art supplies abandoned on the floor and going through each step of his routine with hardly any trouble. The next moment, he entered the kitchen and could not stop staring at the stovetop. The water started boiling and still he could not look away, until he merely crumpled to the floor, sobbing into his hands as the water evaporated into nothingness.