He wasn't without a conscience, he'd just learned very early on in his life how to separate what needed to be done from any feeling or emotion. If he hadn't been able to do that, he'd either be dead or insane. As far as jobs went, this one had been a relatively clean one. No blood. No mess. Some booze, some pills, a little creative persuasion, and a match. Nothing to it. He allowed himself one last look back. Smoke was starting to drift out into the night sky along the roofline. How he wished he could stay and watch the show, but the risk was too great. Revenge was more satisfying the longer it took anyway. Trent felt it as soon as he walked into the station at the start of his next shift. It was in the air, in the faces of the guys in the house. Tragedy. “Ted?” he said, as his friend came out of the kitchen. Ted's face was pale, his eyes sunken. Jesus, God, what now?
