She has been waiting for a very long time.
“This won’t make it right,” he says, almost begging, his voice trying to hold her like a hand around her arm. He’s only known her for two days, she thinks. Where does he get off preaching at her?
“I know,” she says instead. “But no one else will do anything. So it’s up to me.”
“What about justice? What about innocent until proven guilty?” His eyes are large, blue, almost too pale. Too pretty. She’s never liked pretty men, much less idealistic men.
“Please.” That’s all he says. His body is interposed between her and the other man.
She shrugs and flicks the safety anyway, pulling the gun up with a steady hand. “There are only two sides these days,” she says evenly. “There’s no such thing as innocent.”
“If you kill him, you’ll have to kill me too.”
She considers that. She pulls the trigger.
Neither of them had truly mattered to her. Not even the man in the back. When all you have is a symbol, sometimes all you have is a symbol. But even killing a symbol is a catharsis of sorts. And killing someone who truly believes in such a thing—well, that is better yet.
