You're not a killer.
But she could be, finger on the trigger, the weight of the gun heavy in her hand. It was cold as she picked it up off the ground, held it out from her body, and pointed it at the skinny, sad boy who had killed her dad.
She could be if she just pulled her finger back, one single, inconsequential motion that would end it all…
You're not a killer.
She could already smell the acrid smell after the gun went off: the smell of revenge. She could hear the sick squish as the bullet pierced his chest, slicing through skin and muscle and bone. She could feel the stickiness of the blood that would spatter across her face as she stood there and fired again and again, until she knew he was dead.
You're not a killer.
But she could be. She could do it, could squeeze the trigger, feel the kick back as the gun went off, see the surprise on fucking Cassidy Casablancas' face as he realized that the girl could do it, that girl Veronica Mars, the one he'd stuck his limp no good dribbling dick into over and over as she drooled on the silk covered pillows, her body pushing into the mattress of the guest bed. He wasn't safe just because he could keep a secret, watch her from across the lunch courtyard, and remember what it felt like to fuck her unconscious body. That girl, the one with the sad eyes and the smile that never looked genuine, the one that woke in the middle of the night screaming. That girl could kill him.
Veronica.
She kept seeing her dad over and over, lifting a sweating, plastic glass of ginger ale, emptying small foil packets of too-salty crackers into his hand, smiling and chatting with one of the Nevada sheriffs, telling him stories from his hey day when he had his finger on the pulse of the Neptune underworld. She heard the same stories he always told, of drugs and prostitution and how he had one of the biggest busts in Neptune history, never telling about the end and the shame. She kept seeing his face as it was ripped apart by fire and twisted metal. He never died right away, he always suffered, screaming, calling out her name. It played over and over again in her head until she wanted to scream too.
You're not a killer.
She could do it. Bang, bang and you're dead, just like cops and robbers when she was a kid but this time she would mean it.
Veronica.
Everything was strangely quiet on the roof. Just the sound of the wind as it whipped through the darkened streets of Neptune. Even through the quiet, she couldn't hear Logan's voice, just saw his lips moving as he stood in front of her and she wanted to tell him to move, to tell him that she didn't want to kill him too, but she couldn't find her voice: it was smothered by tears, choked back into the darkness of her sorrow.
My dad is dead.
He would understand if she could say it out loud because he knew loss too. He'd known loss his entire life, from the father whose soft touch came from a belt and a mother who loved her booze more than him. His loss made him understand hers. He would step aside and shrug a little, let her point the gun and pull the trigger. Because he understood.
But he didn't.
Instead Logan kept telling her what she already knew, kept reminding her of what she's not and what she is, over and over, because she was the only thing he had left and he wasn't going to lose her again. Not now.
You're not a killer.
Why not, she wanted to scream back. Why couldn't she take this one insignificant, inconsequential thing when Cassidy…Beaver…had already stolen so much from her? What was his life anyway? He'd end up here in the long run, strapped onto a gurney, an IV pumping poison into his arm, and she would watch him, look him in the eye and never let him forget that he killed her father. She was just shortening the journey.
Wasn't that her right?
She just wanted to do it before she lost all courage, to watch him jerk at the impact of the bullet, see the surprise on his face as he crumpled to the ground, stare at the blood that flowed out onto the rough tar paper of the roof. Would it be like Lilly's, staining the ground, sticky and dark, a red flower flowing from under her lifeless body?
Would it haunt her dreams?
What if she walks away? Then what happens? Another trial, days sitting in a sweltering court room feeling the sweat trickle down the back of her neck, heart pounding as the jury files into the room one by one, their heads hanging down. Another not guilty, another jury foreperson not willing to look her in the eyes as she read off the verdict bought by high priced lawyers and their well-honed ability to twist the truth.
She wanted to end it now.
Veronica.
Her name was a whisper, a shaky breath between Logan's lips as he watched her, took another step toward her and then another. Her hands started to shake and suddenly the gun felt unbearably heavy in her hand.
Not like this.
It wasn't Logan's voice this time. It was her dad, telling her what she'd known all along. He didn't want it to happen this way. He wanted his little girl to grow up, to go to college, to fall in love. He didn't want her to throw it all away for a brief moment of revenge.
I love you.
Her hands dropped to her side and his arms were around her, cradling her, pulling her tightly against her, whispering in her hair that he would never let her go.
You're not a killer.
Fin