Dirait-on.
The talk reaches her incompliant ears long before she predicts. It stings, wounds her. It's not bad enough that he is gone, but now she lives with the constant anguish of daily gossip. The lies and truths that reach her brain are not always spoken, but they are always alive.
In the eyes of the bank teller, she is Keefe's murderer. Reflected in the cashier's face is his belief in her affair. An affair with him—inconceivable.
He—the one who threatened her, verbally and with the eyes. The steely eyes of a heartless body, of a soulless allusion. The eyes of manipulation, of immorality, of dread. He was the pit in her stomach, the croak in her voice, the stone in her throat. He was the shadow walking behind her on every corner, he was next to her in her bed.
With her.
Haunting her.
There would be no more talk after. No longer would she be plagued by their unforgiving, sideways glances as she crossed the street. The sneer in their voices would be replaced with timid acknowledgement, with the realization that while she'd done it, she had reason.
She wouldn't be the slut who slept with the terrorist. She wouldn't be the woman who murdered Charles Keefe to save her father. She wouldn't be the victim.
Not again.
No more talk.
She nods at the security guard, holds up identification. She is righteous in the eyes of law enforcement, the girl who halted evil.
I halted evil once—one time—but it won't stop. It will spread, he will spread it, make sure of it. It won't stop until he stops.
The guard leaves, leaving her inside. He looks up, his face a mask of confusion. Mild disregard, loathing, contempt.
"What are you--"
His words come too late. He slumps to the floor, sliding from his cot as his evil head connects with the cement floor, and the metal falls. There is no blood.
Evil has no body.
She leaves then, humming to herself an old French melody. Dirait-on. So they say.
What will they say now?
