Girl with the Gun

Letting go is an art.

And I am not an artist.

I'm a killer.

I don’t kill for pleasure, though there is some of that. Lady Justice is tantamount to my god. I serve her single-mindedly, but there is no blindfold. I am prejudiced, human...so human.

Would the world be safer with me under lock and key? One less terrorist wreaking havoc. Or more dangerous? One less soldier fighting for justice.

Blue barked, pulling me from my thoughts. He pushed his large head against my hip, urging me toward the door with a soft whine. Mulberry stood in the hall.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I said.

He didn’t answer, just stepped closer so that our bodies brushed. His face was right above mine, his chin angled down, as I stared at his collarbones.

He fisted the short locks at the base of my skull and pulled gently so that my chin rose and our lips touched. His kiss was achingly familiar and electrifyingly new. The smell of him brought back memories I was afraid to face.

The pain of my brother's murder lanced through me; the paleness of his skin, the vivid red of his blood as he died—the gaping wound his loss left in me.

Everybody I love ends up dead. And not some gentle kiss into the night. They leave this world in violence and suffering; they end in misery.

I couldn't watch Mulberry die.

But did loving him and denying it hurt more than the grief I feared?

P.S. The dog does not die.

Beware: If you can’t handle a few f-bombs, you can’t handle this series.