I leaned close. “Who do you love?” I whispered in the bloody snow.

“No one,” he replied tiredly. “Never did.”

I nodded, unsurprised. Then I shot him. Double tap to the left temple, classic gangland hit. Next, I picked up the KA-BAR knife and matter-of-factly carved the word “snitch” into the dead man’s skin. Had to obliterate the three Xs I’d formed earlier in his chest, which would’ve led a savvy detective such as D. D. Warren straight to my doorstep.

My face felt strange. Hard. Grim, even for me. I reminded myself of that tidy basement with its lingering scents of bleach and blood, of the pain Purcell would’ve happily inflicted upon me, if I’d given him the chance. It didn’t help. I was meant to be a cop, not a killer. And each act of violence took something from me that I would not get back again.

But I kept moving, because like any woman, I was good at self-inflicted pain.

Final details: I returned to the house long enough to help myself to Purcell’s cleaning supplies. Working with paper towels and bleach, I obliterated all traces of my blood inside the home. Then I traded my boots for his, tramping around in the mud and snow until my footprints were gone and only Purcell’s remained.

Lastly, I retrieved Brian’s Glock .40 from my duffel bag and wrapped Purcell’s right hand around the pistol grip to transfer his prints. Purcell’s .22 went into my duffel bag, to be tossed in the first river I passed. The Glock .40 went inside Purcell’s house, taped to the back of the toilet as he’d done with the first firearm.

Sometime after the sun rose, the police would find Purcell’s body tied to the house, obviously tortured, now deceased. They would search his house, they would discover his basement, and that would answer half their questions—a guy in Purcell’s line of work was bound to die badly.

While searching Purcell’s house, they would also discover Brian’s Glock .40. Ballistics would match the slug that killed police officer Shane Lyons to that firearm, providing a theory that Purcell had once entered my home and stolen my husband’s gun, which he later used to kill a highly respected state trooper.

Purcell’s murder would go to the back burner—just another thug meeting a violent end. Shane would be buried with full honors and his family would receive benefits.

The police would search for the weapon that shot Purcell, of course. Wonder about his murderer. But not all questions were meant to be answered.

Just like not all people were meant to be trusted.