DOTTIE LOOKED DOWN AT the blood on her husband’s hands, then up to his face, wet with tears. “You finally went and did it, huh?” She shook her head and clucked her tongue at him. All Roger could do was sob. He wiped his nose with the back of one bloody hand and smeared a red streak across his left cheek. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” She put an arm around him and pushed him inside, clear of the door. She peeked out into the hallway in both directions to make sure there were no busybodies like Mrs. Eastway in the hall. It had been a good fifteen minutes since Roger came home. She’d bathed him, bundled his bloodstained clothes and wrapped them in twine, refilled his brandy glass and given him what she thought to be ample time to calm down. “So, what happened, Roger?” He began crying all over again. Dottie put her palm over her eyes. Weak. The man she’d married was weak. Even killing another man was no act of strength or bravery. It was weakness.
