But the barrel of Jack’s pretty little Webley cuts her off the moment she stops turning.
In fact, it’s sticking between her eyes.
“Oh, you lying, theatrical little snot! You -were- faking it…” she replies; but only her snort is indignant- her manner is not. Her fingers play across her own weapon. Then she sighs. “You just wait till my husband gets home. You are sooo going to wish it weren’t Halloween!”
Jack licks his lips, savoring the dryness of his flesh as he tastes the whiteness of his teeth on his tongue. Then he says, “Oh, I don’t think he’s coming.”
Come on, you stainless steel rat, he tells himself glibly, the man you love with more than you have is a vegetable and here’s your one chance to make soup out of the one who did it.