Published by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this document are © Augustine Stuart, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

About an hour later, I heard suspicious rustling from upstairs, and then a creak and a bang.

I went to the kitchen drawer and took out my handgun. My father had given it to me when I was ten, after an agent had killed my mother. He told me that I had to be ready to use it on anyone who wasn’t from Innsmouth.

I knew the noises were from Clara, and I suspected that she had gotten the old window open and was now out on the ledge. Not the most creative escape attempt— but she was desperate, I was sure.

I made sure the handgun was loaded, then went out the front door. Stepping back a few yards, I could see where she was standing on the porch roof, hands gripping the window ledge.

“Get back inside,” I called up to her. “You won’t get away that easy. You think I didn’t think about the window when I put you in the guest room?”

“I’m not going back in there,” Clara hissed down at me. “Shoot me now. I’d rather die than be wrapped up in this.”

I cocked the handgun and pointed it at her.

“Gladly.”

Aiming carefully, I steadied myself and shot.

Clara went down, blood flowing from her ankle. My ears rang from the shot. I think Clara screamed— but I couldn’t hear it. I casually lowered the gun and went back inside and up to the guest bedroom.

I opened the window a little wider so that I could get out onto the roof. Clara was lying on it, still half-trying to crawl away. I grabbed her arm and hauled her back inside, then shut the window.

She collapsed to the floor, hands grasping at her bleeding foot.

“I’ll get you bandages,” I said. I still couldn’t hear my own words for the ringing in my ears.

Clara looked up at me. The hatred in her eyes was intense.

“Fuck you,” she mouthed.

I gave her a slight shrug. I did what I had to do. My family needed Clara. I needed my family. So here we all were.

I went down to the kitchen and put away the gun, then returned to her room with bandages. I wrapped her ankle, ignoring her cries of pain, then gave her a couple Advil and a NyQuil.

“Just sleep,” I said. My hearing was starting to come back. “Don’t let yourself worry about tomorrow.”

She gave me a look full of contempt, but took the pills and the glass of water. I watched her as she lay back on the guest bed, bleeding through the bandage and onto my clean sheets.

“It’s easier this way,” I said softly.

“Maybe for you,” she replied. “How can you even live with yourself?”

“It helps when the people you work for killed my mother,” I said dryly. “It helps when you demonize me.”

Then I turned and left the room. Tomorrow would come too soon for Clara. Too soon for me, too.

Because despite what I had said, there were some things that you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy. And one of those things was the Esoteric Order of Dagon.