She was surprised at how difficult it was to wash off the blood. Once it had dried beneath her fingernails and matted the fine, blond hair on her delicate forearms it had required some scrubbing to get it off.

The rusty, metallic tang of his blood was still strong as she crossed the threshold from the bathroom back into the hotel room filled with faded and obsolete things. She tiptoed quickly, pressing against the far wall opposite the bed where he laid, and snatched the backpack from the credenza, stopping in front of the mirror to compose herself a bit.

Fuck. Now what? She thought staring into her own blue eyes.

She should have felt bad about killing him with his own knife, but she didn’t.

She took out the keys, shouldered the pack, and walked briskly out the door.

As she slid into the front seat of the silver ‘64 Cadillac that had been her prison for nearly eight hours, she heard the wail of sirens and saw the flashes of red and blue light in the distance.

The bastard had deserved it. Really.