The mess is worse than I expected. I reload the gun, the motions smooth now, almost instinctive, and wait for Milo to get home. He comes in about an hour later, jingling his keys like it’s a normal day, like he isn’t about to lose it all in the doorway. I shoot him before he even gets his shoes off, the blast ripping through his chest, sending him crumpling against the kitchen counter. His body slides down, leaving a streak of blood on the cabinets, his mouth still half-open like he was about to tell me about some conspiracy theory he’d read on the internet
