She heads out the door, and he stares after her, mouth half open, vaguely aware the phone is not ringing. She is back in the kitchen before he realizes it is unplugged. “I’m sorry it has to end this way,” she says, leveling the gun at his chest. The fluorescent light of the kitchen reflects off the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

It is an interesting feeling, he thinks, as the shot rings out. More surprise than pain. He drops to his knees, glances down at the wound in his chest, and crumples, lifeless, to the floor. She places the gun gently on the counter.

He smiles as he steps around the corner from the living room into the kitchen. He silently walks up behind his wife, picks up the gun from counter. She shrieks, spins around, looks at the body to make sure it’s still there.

“What, you think you’re the only one who knows about the factory?” he asks coyly. “You almost got me.” He aims the gun squarely at her forehead.

“Too bad you save your receipts.”