Drip, drip, drip…

Jonas looked around at the scene and tried to piece together what had happened. Chloe was dead. About three feet away he could see her eyes looking blankly out of the window. Gone was all the anima, the life and soul that he had so cherished in those bright, clear orbs. He choked back his tears and looked around to see if there was still danger, was the Weasel still there? No, he was gone; Jonas breathed a little easier.

The Weasel had looked like trouble from the moment he had walked into the diner, his shifty stance, beady eyes, greasy hair and dirty clothes had all put Jonas on his guard, but he had expected to be escorting the guy from the premises, not fighting him for his gun after he had pumped three rounds into Chloe’s chest.

He reached up to the side of his face to feel the sticky coagulating blood from where The Weasel had hit him with the coffee pot and realised that the dripping was from the same broken pot on the table above him. How was he going to tell Hobart?

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