A small hotel a few blocks from the shore was closed for major renovations. A chain-link fence and several signs marked it off as a hazardous area. Two cranes squatted at opposite corners, one of them beneath a gaping, tarp-covered area on the sixth floor of the building.

Construction workers were normally on-site during the day, but not at night—nor would they be here tomorrow. Only one company did any construction work in this town, and a more urgent repair job farther inland would put this project on hold for at least another few days. And since the interior was gutted, security wasn't a chief concern, either.

For the first time in his life, Zacharias was truly thankful for his father's occupation and less-than-private work schedule.

After checking one more time for anyone watching, he threw himself at the fence and scrambled up as fast as he could. He dropped to the other side rather unceremoniously. Steadying himself and trying to wipe some of the moist dirt off his shorts, he surveyed the area again and hurried for the front door. Or rather, the front doorway. Apparently the fancier new door had yet to come in, and some dismantling crew had gotten a bit excited. He could hardly complain.

Hurtling inside, he panted and came to a stop, his footsteps still echoing for a moment. Aside from a distant section of carpet that must have continued to meet the hotel's standards, the whole area was bare. Even the ceiling lights had been ripped out, some circles of metal and exposed wires hanging in their place. Sawdust and nails were scattered and occasionally piled across the bare, discoloured cement of the floor.

He could make out a far wall and a few steps of the hallway beyond, but nothing farther. With an open door behind him, it wasn't yet safe enough to use his torch.

Still not safe. Still not safe.

His breath hitched as he checked behind him and hurried towards the hall. Only when he stumbled over some hidden piece of something on the floor did he take his torch from his bookbag and turn it on. A thin piece of particle board had been the culprit.

Resisting the urge to check behind him, he hurried ahead to the stairs and lift. The latter definitely wasn't in use, and he had no idea how to get into the shaft. The stairs would be good enough.

The intact carpet on the steps helped him speed to the third floor. Was it far up enough? Was anything enough? No floor would be safe if they really wanted to search the place for him. But perhaps they wouldn't. And if they did, one of the cranes was directly outside a room window. It wouldn't be easy to get down, but that just put another obstacle in the way of his hypothetical pursuers.

All of the doors and door handles were intact but deactivated. The rooms had stripped-down floors and furniture pushed up against any wall where they wouldn't get in the way. There were bed frames, but no mattresses. The beige, houndstooth-patterned couches, however, were more than good enough.

Zacharias picked one of the corner rooms with the crane looming outside of the window. The glass was still present, but so were the sheer curtains; he wouldn't be noticed if he didn't light the place up. He let the door click shut behind him, unlocked the window, and collapsed on the couch. The loud thump he made startled him, but he crossed his arms in front of his chest and tried to shut his eyes. Relatively speaking, he was safe now. Safe and exhausted. After everything that had happened in—what? Less than an hour?—he had every right to be.

The adrenaline finally began to ebb, the shaking in his limbs fading. His stab wound sent jolts of pain across his leg no matter what he tried, and any movement sent his arms and torso throbbing. He had no energy left. All had been drained. He was lying there helpless, hoping that this would provide him with some recovery from the night's events.

The injuries would heal well enough, given time. He didn't know how long he could afford to spend here. Honestly, he wouldn't be comfortable staying another night. It might become too obvious where he had taken shelter. Running more would probably exacerbate his injuries, but what choice did he have? It was far too late to surrender for what he had done.

For murdering another boy.

He buried his face in the upright cushion beside him as his breathing shook.

Even if he couldn't recall the whole fight, he had certainly killed that boy with his own hands. The knife he'd had was the murder weapon, he had been enraged at the boy before losing hold of himself, and the boy's blood was sprayed over his now-discarded clothes. A few more glimpses of the struggle itself had come back to him over the next few minutes. The counterstrike that drove the knife into his own thigh. The smell and heat of the first blood that hit his face. The fabric of the boy's shirt ripping as he drove the knife deeper, deeper, deeper into the stomach beneath it.

Once again, Zacharias couldn't stop shaking.

The urchin had killed his brother and had been killed in return. It seemed... fair, didn't it? Of all reasons, the urchin had murdered Constantine to take his supplies. He must have been a horrendously greedy little ragamuffin. Even if he really needed the things in the bag, strangling an innocent boy wasn't a valid means for any end.

But was stabbing an urchin to death really any better?

Shivering, Zacharias shuffled himself more tightly into the corner of the couch, his breath warming the fabric against his face.

If that boy had indeed deserved death, did Zacharias deserve it now? Their motives for murder had been different as sword and shield, but he had still killed a human being. Someone like him. Someone, for all he knew, who had also fled his parents' home and was trying to stay alive—just like Zacharias was right now...

The urchin needed to be punished, but this? This was not the retribution assigned to him by the powers that be. It was only Zacharias's choice. Not justice. Just revenge. He had killed a boy, and not even for a noble purpose. Only from rage and spite and grief.

Why was he hiding now? Did he think he deserved to evade his judgement? If he had been so dedicated to bringing the boy his punishment, shouldn't he have been just as strict regarding his own fate? Why should he try to escape what he had wished upon another? He had no right. He had no excuse.

He couldn't keep this up, this running. It would never work out in the end. It was him against every citizen and authority in the town—he would be caught and dealt with no matter how hard he tried.

Pulling himself away from the warmth of the couch, he rose wobbily to his feet and walked to the door, laying his palm on the cool handle.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to turn himself in. All he had to do was open the door, walk outside, and wait to be found. And then what? Arrest. Surely not execution, at his age. Life in prison? It could be possible. But—

But...

But what if it wasn't like that? What if he only had to serve a few years? What if he got out with a fine or something on plea of insanity and—and...

...was immediately returned to his parents?

The skin on his knuckles was a pale white as he clung to the door handle for dear life.

Just open it.

Was there... was there some noise in the hall just now? Police? His father?

Open the door. Just do it. Get what you deserve...!

Shaking, he continued to grip the handle but stayed frozen in place.

Open the door! Don't you care at all for the word of the law? Turn yourself in! Open the door!

Open the door, open the door, OPEN THE DOOR!

His hand only moved when he slid down to his knees sobbing silently.

It was worthless. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He was far too afraid. Worthless, worthless...

The entire thing was worthless. All the preparation and hope for a bright morning where he and Constantine were free—and now he was anything but, and his brother was dead.

He crawled to the tiny suit closet and shut himself inside when his crying got too loud.

Constantine was dead. Strangled. Didn't that take a fair amount of time? Had he struggled? Had he been too startled and afraid to do so? Had he fought his hardest, only to be overcome? What were his last thoughts? Fear of his oncoming death? Despair at his inability to escape with his brother, whom he trusted to protect him? Or just overwhelming pain as the fingers dug into his throat?

How could I have failed him so terribly?

The upcoming dawn could be the brightest England had ever had, with nary a cloud in the sky, but it would be just as worthless. The plan had failed. Zacharias would never spend another day with his little brother. They wouldn't find a new home, they wouldn't go on with their schooling, find jobs, find wives, make their own families that would be so, so much better than their old one... Never even eat another meal together, run another race, have another scuffle... Nothing. No more, of any of it. None of the big hopes, and none of the little ones. A new but no less terrifying life for Zacharias, and no life at all for Constantine.

How could I let it come to this? Why would anyone want to harm Constantine? Why would I want to murder a boy? Why did any of this happen...? This isn't fair!

After he had cried himself to further exhaustion, he pulled himself back to his feet with some difficulty and slid the closet door open. No one in the room, at least. Was the hall empty after all...?

He went straight over to check; somehow that failed to trigger any alarms in his head. There wasn't enough power to run them anymore, it seemed.

He pulled the handle down and opened the door silently, peering out for a bit without using his torch.

Something rustled off to the right. Tensing, he pointed his torch in that direction and suddenly let it blaze. If nothing else, he could try to blind the—

The cat. A rather large tabby cat, sniffing around the hall. It hissed at the light, but Zacharias flicked the torch off and nearly slammed the door shut.

He swore he wouldn't own a cat for as long as he lived.