By E. A. Haltom
She traces her finger through a large bead of blood on the table, creating a gummy, maroon river that ends in her distinct fingerprint. There is no need to worry about cleaning up. Not this time.
Voices carry over from down the hall. Arguing.
Her nostrils sting with the bitter scent of gunpowder and singed hair. Comforting in its familiarity. Her hands feel light, empty without a gun in them.
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