Malachi bit down harder on his lip, and only lifted pressure once a thin trail of blood had trickled down.

Would he like to kill his mother, not hypothetically? End her the same way he had ended his father, or – take his time with it, the way he hadn’t been able to before?

That begged another question: did he really want to kill anyone at all?

“Yes,” he answered, quiet. “I would.”

His gaze swept the street, and when he was sure no one else was near, he reached over to let his fingers brush lightly over the doctor’s wrist. The touch was fleeting, minimal. He wasn’t even sure why he did it, besides the fact that he wanted to.

“She lives in London, though. I’d just as soon never see her again.”