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Finishing my Guinness, I thought that my career as a murderer was over. Not because I had lost the stomach for it, but because there would never be the need. I would never allow anyone to get that close to me again, to hurt me in the way that Eric had. I was a grown woman now. I had survived the vulnerability of childhood, and the danger of first love. There was comfort in knowing that I would never be in either of those positions again, that, from now on, I would be the only person responsible for my own happiness.
We understood that survival was everything. It was the meaning of life. And to take another life was, in many ways, the greatest expression of what it meant to be alive.
Over their years of separation they had come to mean less and less to each other, and that might allow them to live together. They didn’t love each other enough to hurt each other.
No, the ache in my chest was that I felt alone. That there were no other humans in the world who knew what I knew.
