But the inability to rest was thanks to more than those distractions.

She closed her eyes again, but her mind was racing too fast and would not be still. She gave up and sat, removed the blankets and as quietly as she could, she stood up. Mysha was beside her, snoring very lightly, her breath going in and out with a light snuffle. Beatrix stepped over her legs and pulled aside the tarpaulin that covered the door. She went outside.

Something was different. Unusual. It was quiet now. The argument had subsided, the car had passed on and the dogs had either found something to eat or had moved away.

She looked up. The moon was shaded a burnt reddish-orange, the light reflecting through the smog from the burning gas and the sand in the air. It reminded her of a blood moon. Beatrix had seen one before, in Africa, so long ago that it seemed like another lifetime. There had been fresh blood on her hands then, the corpse of the Zimbabwean arms dealer still warm in the sand at her feet. He had dealt death and misery all around the continent, and he had, without doubt, warranted her attention. Beatrix had never given him a second thought, but now she found herself wondering about his situation: Had he had a wife, children, loved ones? Did that make any difference?

A blood moon.

How appropriate.

She sat in the sand and watched the sky for thirty minutes, the incremental progress of the red stain as it seemed to darken and swallowed the whole of the moon.

She reached into her pocket and took out the torn strip of photographs. She unfolded it and looked at her daughter and the way that she was looking at her. She touched her fingertips against her sweet face.

Her thoughts ran away with her. She was thinking about the decisions that she had made. Once Isabella had been returned to her care and could no longer be used against her, she had made the decision to wipe out those who had done her wrong.

To extinguish them.

But was it a decision? A decision required alternatives, different paths that could be taken in lieu of the one that she had chosen. Did she have a choice in any of this? Were there other paths? How much room was there for free will?

She had spent almost a decade nursing her grudges, dripping poison into the open wounds that had been inflicted by the five men and one woman who had found their way onto her list. The wound had festered and become septic. There had never been any chance for it to heal. After long enough, the need to avenge herself on them had become reflexive, as instinctive as the scratching of an itch.

She had never stopped to think about whether there was another course that she could take.

She stretched out her legs to ease the ache and considered. She could stop, she supposed, and ignore what had been done to her. Not forgive them, and never forget, but just let the hatred go and abandon her short future to fate. But too much had already happened for that to be possible. There were choices, but those choices had consequences, too. Her own decisions were one thing. She couldn’t influence theirs. She could go back to the riad, but they would find her. She could flee and hide somewhere else, but they would find her there, too. Perhaps the cancer would finish her before they did, but that was no solace.