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She imagined telling Ashley (the youngest and most physically able) that she suspected they were sharing oxygen with a child molester, and Ashley understandably blanching. Lars would notice this, yank a gun from his baby-blue jacket, and kill them both. Ed and Sandi would be witnesses, so they’d die, too. Four bullet-riddled bodies in a glossy pool of blood. All because Darby opened her mouth.
Darby had sketched possibly her finest-ever rendering of a human face. It was nearly flawless. She’d studied Lars, every slouching inch of him. His blond whiskers, his slack overbite, his mushy chin and slanted forehead. The pronounced V shape of his hairline. She’d even captured the dim glaze of his eyes.
He’d been through dozens of Lars’s pets—turtles, fish, two dogs, more shelter-rescue cats than he could count—and whether it was bleach, bullets, fire, or the meaty click of a knife striking bone, there was no dignity in death. Every living creature dies afraid.