There should be more blood.
He lay there, sprawled across the floor, his lips parted as if he were about to speak. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t even breathing. His left eye was partially open, revealing a half-moon of jelly-white eyeball.
Her breath caught somewhere deep in her throat and stuck there, a hard knot just below her vocal chords. She pressed her hand against her chest and swallowed, over and over again. She wouldn’t be sick. She couldn’t. Not here. Not now.
When someone dies, there should be more blood.