He moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to get rid of a bad taste. It still didn’t make sense. “How did I kill this man’s family?” he asked. “How?” Ronson blurted. “Fuck me! You have to know that.” “Pretend I don’t,” Wallace snapped. His voice was sharp and hard and tinged with violence. At the same time, his finger quivered above the trigger, so close it could easily slip. A simple spasm; an accidental twitch. Ronson gulped and a wash of panic rippled in a wave from forehead to chin. He glanced to the side table where his pipe had been smashed to powder. “Mm-maybe we could have a drink? I’ve got—” Wallace lashed out with his foot, sending the small table crashing into the wall. Ronson winced. “OK. OK. It was a bus crash. Last year in Canada.” He looked up at Wallace.
