The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) by Jamie McLachlan

any questions you may have had?”
    “Yes,” I hiss, when in reality I’m more baffled than ever.
    We stare silently at one another, both of us fuming and unwilling to show any sign of submission by glancing away. When he drops his head forward, I’m immediately paralyzed. My resentment dissipates, quickly replaced with wide-eyed anticipation for his next move. Despite the slight scowl marring his face, he intends to kiss me. I’m incredulous, especially since he had just spent his breath explaining in great detail the extent of his annoyance over me.
    His lips are so close to mine I can already taste the alcohol on my tongue, but instead of closing the distance, he pauses a breath away from me. “You smell like him .”
    The tone of his voice is acrimonious, so I respond in turn. “You don’t smell too good yourself.”
    Our breaths mingle together in hostility as neither one of us moves, his lips still hovering an inch away from mine. A part of me wants to clutch his hair and draw him close, while the other part of me, sitting in the dark corner, insists I walk away. But my body obeys neither command, leaving me momentarily trapped beneath a spell of paralysis.
    His eyes flicker away from my lips, and his voice has returned to its usual calm tone. “Do you enjoy taunting me, Moira?”
    I lift my chin a little higher. “I could ask the same of you.”
    “Then we should call it a night.”
    “My thoughts exactly.”
    When he still refuses to move an inch, I force myself to turn away and casually ascend the stairs. In reality, I want to run up the rest of the way. But I manage to remain calm enough the entire distance to my bedroom and even successfully close my door without making my frustration known. The euphoric feeling I had acquired after my time with Mr. Hayes has now vanished. The realization I have to stay here until the Phoenix is found fills me with dread. It means I’ll have to endure weeks—possibly even months—in the detective’s presence with him demanding so much but yielding so little.

6
    I don’t consider myself a sadistic person, yet I’m once again standing before the legislature building about to watch someone die. A loud bell resounds through the square as the clock high up on the tower informs the citizens of Braxton that it’s noon, but the people standing around the platform that has been momentarily erected before the government building aren’t paying attention to the time. Their thoughts are solely focused on the man in chains who is staring defiantly at the mob. Several emotions swirl around me, and my head throbs from the external tension. The crowd’s full of rage, Anthony’s indignant, his strong features set into a grimace, and, combined, the emotions press upon me and make me ill.
    Why did I come here? Was it to offer the condemned person comfort as I once had done for Rachel? No, this man doesn’t deserve any compassion I may have. Did I come here to stand amongst the crowd to bear witness to his death for the two women who lie buried in the cemetery—the very ones who were unfortunate enough to be his victims? It certainly feels closer to the truth. Or have I come here to see him punished for what he was about to do to me? Yes, that’s definitely a part of it as well. Still, I can’t shake the feeling there’s something more. There has to be, because surely I didn’t come here just to watch someone die.
    Anthony’s pain will be brief, not enough to compensate for the agony he had imposed on Ginny, Rebekah, and their families. He won’t feel an ounce of remorse for his crimes. In fact, he resents the crowd, especially the detective and I. We are the reason he is at the mercy of a noose and will soon no longer exist, and he still refuses to account for his transgressions. I loathe everything about him, yet I can’t seem to summon my hate. I try, reaching down into the pit of my most volatile emotions in search of anger, disgust, and condemnation. Nothing. I