She couldn't talk. Couldn't breathe. Could barely think. Minerva just stared at the spot where Artemis and Holly had disappeared. They had vanished into thin air. Now, Minerva, Minerva chided herself, they're not dead yet. For all you know, they could still be alive in the demon world, coming back any second.
But her subconscious knew better. One word kept replaying in her mind. Murderess. That's what you are, Minerva. Just—a—killer. You killed Artemis fowl. You killed him! And then that word again. Murderess. Murderess. Murderess.
Minerva straightened her spine and clenched her jaw. No need for anyone else to know. Only the most expert body language interpreter would recognize her slightly squinted eyes, her ever-so-slightly clenched lips, her barely sagging shoulders : signs of grief, shame, anger. She kept her face emotionless as she walked slowly off to catch her flight home.
That night, as she walked into her room, nobody knew. She had played the part practically to perfection. But as she slumped down off the bed — she didn't deserve the soft mattress and fluffy comforter — she was sobbing. The tears she had been holding back all day flooded out, and with each turn on the floor, she wept harder. Her dignity was still intact, if barely, fragilely held together by a few fraying strings of daily routines and pride, and she would not let anyone hear her. But if her parents had walked in, they would have found their strong, arrogant Minerva entangled in a thin sheet on the floor, weeping a river of silent tears as one word replayed through her mind. She was a murderess. Murderess. Murderess!