“I went to see Richie Montrose,” she said.
Nix stood tall, still handsome though the years had almost caught him. He carefully placed the shovel down, slow and steady. Nix stared off toward the horses. “Smart animals. Only have one less bone than us, you know that?”
She shook her head.
“They can see three hundred and fifty degrees around themselves. Mostly monocular. The depth perception is poor. They only see the surface.”
“Sometimes that’s all you need.”
“That’s right, kid. You see a body, you find out who and how. The why don’t mean shit when all is said and done. Not in the eyes of the law.”
Saint wiped sweat from her head quick, her gun still locked on him. “But I still need to know.”
“Aim a gun at someone and the truth will come out.”
“And here I am, aiming a gun at you,” she said.
He smiled once, quick, like she had grown up under his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not my story to tell, Saint.”
“I fucking hate this day,” she said, and though her eyes blurred with tears she was tough and did not let them fall.
“Can I at least grab my hat? Then you can walk out with a little of the old me.”
She managed a smile. “Sure, Chief.”
Later, that night when she closed her eyes, she would wonder about each move she had made. And, if she knew, whether she would have done a single thing different.
She watched him walk into the stable, and she did not react until the door slammed closed and the bolt slid across.
Only then did she move.
Saint sprinted to the door.
And she screamed and she begged, and she hammered the sawn timbers till her hands tore.
Till her throat burned.
Till she heard the single gunshot.
And she turned and pressed her back to the wood and slid down to the dirt.