He walks past her, puts his ticket and passport into his pocket, closes the box and hefts it over his shoulder. “You can live here if you want,” he says. “The rent’s paid.” “I can’t live here.” This was a good place, though, he thinks, looking around the small apartment. The happiest, best place of his life. This place, this time, here with her. He stands there trying to think of the words to tell her that, but nothing comes out. “Get out,” she says. “Go murder somebody. That’s what you do, isn’t it?” “Yeah.” He gets out in the street, it’s raining like hell. A cold, icy rain. He pulls up his
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