The Suspect

It occurred to him that she was there for the duration.

It’s a good thing, in the main—responsibility. But I’ve a feeling, now, that you can carry it too far, or get it all wrong.

The point is, though, he told himself, you killed somebody, and you can’t remain unpunished. He sat very still, thinking about it. It was perfectly true. But it wasn’t all there was to say about the situation. It wasn’t as though he was a danger to anybody, sitting here free. He probably wouldn’t live long enough to get to trial anyway, the way they dragged those things out. Yet he knew he was rationalizing. The plain truth was that he didn’t want to make a public spectacle of himself, and he didn’t want to go to jail. They’d catch him eventually; that pale-haired Mountie would catch him for sure, somehow. There was no need to force upon himself today something that was going to happen anyway, in the impartial fullness of time.

Books are my work, my comfort, and my joy.

His body had become horrified, garrulous commentator on calamity.