“How—how did you kill him?” “He’s dead. Does it matter?” Not always. But for her, it does. I answer by raising my hands, showing her my empty, blood-stained palms. She stares at them, and whatever armor she’s had pulled around her all day suddenly falls away. “Jesus, Nick, you didn’t have to—” “Yes, I did.” Whatever’s in my voice makes her look at me, her eyes softening as we remember the same words. “…to kill someone with your bare hands is an act of love.”
