Sipp Morning (H 1.4)

"He knows you know," a Whisper informs you amid the howl of the wind carrying your hair.

"Lie to him. Hide your power. He'll leech it from you," one warns. "Remember the nails!"

"What you know is why you're here," another impresses on you. "If you know nothing, he'll shove you off and be done."

The Whispers make everything feel more dangerous. They war in my head and I'm caught in the middle. I resist the urge to close my eyes to focus on quieting them.

"Benson and Hedges think you did it," I say after a moment. "Why?" I find myself leaning back from the edge a bit, half-expecting him to push me off the roof for even asking the question.

I flinch when he moves, my stomach falling like I'm in freefall, but he doesn't send me flying and I let out a soft breath.

If the Whispers are right, and they usually are, Lucky Strike knows I can do something, but I don't know how much he knows. It is a game of cat and mouse. I am certainly the mouse, but a mouse with voices in her head and a nose for survival.

I meet his eyes. "Why are you telling this to the person who's here to wash dishes and put up with everyone's insults?"

My jaw flinches when he mentions Kiwi's name, my throat tightening when he confirms aloud his suspicions about my power. The vice grip intensifies as he extends more claws - the prison sentence, the homelessness, the joblessness. I'm given a choice between a nibble of cheese for a party trick or a neck-snapping trap that will be equally fun for the audience.

"It's not much of a choice," I echo softly. I look away from him, down to the waters below. "Was it Salem's mother? The one who could see things?"

I hesitate, not sure if I should pry, or end this while I'm still breathing. But when I remember the way Salem shrank into her covers last night when she told me her mother left too, I have to ask, "What happened to her?"

My emotions flicker below the surface in a dozen dazzling colors. A flash of sadness for the little girl left behind. A streak of fear that my fate will be the same. And a flare of anger that lingers.

'You killed her?' I demand, my fingers pressing into the rooftop for a completely different reason than before. 'Is that your plan for me too? Drive me to the edge, then over it?'

Realizing I've been outwardly quiet for too long, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I don't blame her." Once out, it feels too honest and admits more than I intended. I consider adding more to cover my blunder, but if Lucky remembered how I dodged his question last night about his mother's death, he won't miss this either. Covering would only make it worse.

"You reap the whirlwind," a whisper says.

"It will take you away," another one finishes.

The Whisper's answers remind me of something Blackjack says - play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Lucky Strike is forcing me into a very stupid game, but refusing to play would mean losing - losing everything. I look back at him and nod. "I will. It would be helpful to know how she died. And where."

Seeing the bullet makes me think of Kiwi, of desperately trying to dig the bullet from his body being the bar. My gaze flicks to the Tower, thinking of the elite living there. I bet one of them could get shot and survive. I bet they wouldn't use chopsticks for their emergency surgery. They'd have a dozen people bringing whatever supplies were needed to save a life - a wealthy life.

I take a breath and return my focus to Lucky Strike. He holds such reverence for the bullet in his hand and my survival instincts sense a chance to seize an opportunity. The mouse makes a move for one of the cat's claws.

"May I have that?" I quickly look from the bullet up to his face and add, "Not forever. But having it to help focus my...sight could help." It feels foreign, speaking about the Whispers aloud. I stumble over the right words to use. "Sight" doesn't feel exactly right, but I don't try to correct it.

I swallow when he brings up the scalpel. Lucky Strike does have a way of always bringing things back around, in his own time.

"You've already threatened to take my job, my home, and my freedom. I don't know what else you think I have to offer here. I can't even give you the clothes off my back. They're already yours."

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth as he scans me, holding back the barrage of words and feelings bristling against him. When he demands one of the paltry possessions I have left, a surge of frustration breaks the barrier. "No," I say, the word sharp and short. "If you don't want to give me every opportunity you can to find your mother's killer, you can sleep with that guilt. I'll find them, because I have to, but it'll take longer. Just know you're the one giving them their freedom in the meantime."