"Well," he says, still looking at the trees. "That's something."

He refocuses on her, but his own gaze hasn't softened much. It's not particularly hard, either, just matter-of-fact and unmoveable.

"Murder by bullet to the head rather than murder by being taken to pieces, then. You know." He reaches into his pocket, but doesn't draw anything out. There's a dull rattling that doesn't sound anything like the bullets from the gun clacking together.

"Not that many people around that he actually gave a damn about. You were probably one. Saw the records."