She felt like she was in a world of no justice for the most horrible of people.”“But killing them?”“The first man she killed,” I told her, �...�He was trying to kill me. She slit his throat. Sometime later, it was clear to her that she had saved my life. She felt good about saving my life; the killing became an act of good. The second murder, the man killed was a priest who molested little girls. Ruined their lives. Murder wasn’t the plan, but it was the outcome. She- we- felt like what had. Although I couldn’t name that tune, it must’ve been lively. She swayed and shimmied to the beat. After a minute or two, I stood in the doorway, leaning shoulder against the frame, and waited for her to see me. As if feeling my presence, Becky turned from the stove in my direction. Her humming stopped and her face reddened. Carrying a bowl of scrambled eggs to the table, she said, ‘You’re just in time. Breakfast is served.’ ‘Smells delicious.’ Watching her, I added softly to myself, ‘Looks. More

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