Silence set in between us, thin and bleak like a quality of the moonlight. The woman said:
“I was only protecting my rights. Roy owed me faithfulness at least. I gave him money and background, I sent him to Harvard, I made all his dreams come true.”
We both looked down at the dreamless man lying in the road.
“Are you ready to come downtown with me and make a formal statement about how you protected your rights over the years? Poor Tom McGee is back in jail, still sweating out your rap.”
She pulled herself erect. “I won’t permit you to use such language to me. I’m not a criminal.”
“You were on your way to Laura Sutherland’s, weren’t you? What were you planning to do to her, old woman?”
She covered the lower part of her face with her hand. I thought she was ill, or overcome with shame. But she said:
“You mustn’t call me that. I’m not old. Don’t look at my face, look into my eyes. You can see how young I am.”
It was true in a way. I couldn’t see her eyes clearly, but I knew they were bright and black and vital. She was still greedy for life, like the imaginary Letitia, the weird projection of herself in imitation leopardskin she had used to hide behind.
She shifted her hand to her heavy chin and said: “I’ll give you money.”
“Roy took your money. Look what happened to him.” She turned abruptly and started for her car. I guessed what was in her mind: another death, another shadow to feed on: and got to the open door of the Rolls before her. Her black leather bag was on the floor where it had fallen in the collision. Inside the bag I found the new revolver which she had intended to use on Roy’s new wife.
“Give me that.”
She spoke with the authority of a Senator’s daughter and the more terrible authority of a woman who had killed two other women and two men.
“No more guns for you,” I said.
No more anything, Letitia.
The End