He moved the note out of my reach and commented coldly, “If only you had been this anxious to hear from me when I came by yesterday, or the day before, or the day before.”
“It wasn’t personal,” I quickly explained. “It was only because I couldn’t…”
“It’s okay,” he said mercifully, giving me the note. “I understand. You needed time to digest.”
I unfolded the paper. It was written in messy black ink that was smeared and blotted all over the page. It read:
Sweeper,
You didn’t give me much time to make a decision before coming here and forcing me. I’m leaving. Before I go, I want to tell you something. I think it was only the bullets in my head clouding my reasoning that made me believe I could be with you without drinking your blood.
There’s more. I wanted to kill London eight years ago
