"Oh," she said, "Jim. You're... uh" she looked him over, taking in his stunning Westwood suit, "looking well."
"Molly," he said, feining sadness, "I'm still heartbroken."
She remembered that hint of Irish in his words, but she didn't remember him being so fake. "Right," she said after a while. The silence was awkward. "I've got to go, Jim. Work to do."
"Hmm, I'm sure." His expression was almost comical the way it lacked all sincerity. "Goodbye, Molly. Again."
She brushed passed him without speaking. It was hard not to noticed the blood plastered all over the back of his suit. His cold eyes followed her for a moment and he began to walk away, still uncaring.
He only stopped when she did. He glanced over his shoulder. This would be interesting, was she really going to confront him? Perhaps beg him to explain how plain Jim from IT was a criminal mastermind?
She still had her back to him. "Jim," she took a deep breath. "I have one last thing I want to say to you."
"You say that like you'll never see me again." He sounded cocky.
"I might, but we won't be talking." When she turned his eyes were immediately drawn to the metallic shine of a gun in her hand. He frowned.
She shrugged, "You won't, at least."
Molly's expression was different, completely foreign. Her eyes were warm like they always had been, like they'd been when she bit her lip and told him that it wasn't working out between them, but at the same time she didn't have a trace of sympathy on her. She seemed composed, calm.
"This isn't right," Jim said coolly. "I would have noticed."
"And you thought I wouldn't notice what you really do." She sighed, raising the gun and aiming it at Jim's head. "I'm sorry, Jim... but this is British Browning L9A1, and I'm never happy to see you."