I didn’t know his name, and I still don’t. Someone told me once but I forgot it instantly. He was just a corpse now. Old news.

I dropped the gun beside the body and then burned my gloves and clothes in the back lot. No gunshot residue, no fingerprints.

I needn’t have bothered— the cops didn’t give a fuck. Their apathy finally did me a favour. They just listed him as a suicide with suspicious circumstances.

It seemed that even the good cops, the ones that are genuinely good and don’t just put up a front… deep down inside, whether they want to admit it or not, a tiny tiny part of them cheers when the bad guys kill each other off.

But I stopped all the self-congratulatory backslapping when I got the letter.

It was from Dad. He gave me a big list of the people who were really responsible for my brother’s death. The people who had ordered the scumbag to take the shot in the first place.

Dad’s name was on it.

So was Mom’s.