--couldn't--
When the door opened, Billie already knew.
Not knew, of course. How could she know?
She just knew something. Something with him, something happened. Knew something.
The uniform clung to her like a second skin, loose and tight at the same time. The walls were grey, so grey Billie was afraid that, when she got out, it would be all she could see. The other women, the ones with hard faces and dull eyes and silver hair, had permanent glares of disdain that only came with stolen freedom and witnessing too much.
Billie knew, knew, like she knew what the man would say, that she should hate him, hate Johnny. Wish she had never met him, wish she had stayed at the coat counter, wish she had told him to go dance with someone else, dance with himself. Hung up on him. Walked away. Stopped herself.
So many things she should have done. So many things.
She knew alot of things, more then people gave her credit for. She would not be naive and say this was his doing, the reason she was in this terrible grey place. It wasn't, because it was her, all for him and all for her and all for them. And, just like she knew this and knew why the man had come and knew why they brought her to the conference room and closed the door. She knew knew knew. She knew too much.
So she couldn't be angry when the man sat her down and then sat down himself, right in front of her. She couldn't be angry at herself or anyone else, because anger is only surprise. She couldn't be surprised anymore. By anything.
Still, her voice cracked.
"They got him, didn't they?"
The man seemed both surprised and relieved, like a huge burden had been lifted. He didn't have to tell her, the killer's girl. He could walk away with a smile on his face and go and forget about John Dillinger.
He sat up stiffly. "Outside of the Biograph theatre."
The tears burned hot and thick at the edge of her eyes, and she hardly heard the door shut.
She knew she should hate him, but she couldn't.