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Enjoy an excerpt:
It would be so easy to kill her.
So simple to pass by her on the streets, take her breath with the same ease I’d take her wallet. I’ve been on the streets for two years and I’ve learned how to pick pockets and steal apples, which alleys are safe to sleep in and which ones to stay away from.
And I know how to use a knife.
How easy it would be bump into her. Instead of slipping my fingers into her purse, I’d slide my blade between her ribs, and I would whisper, “This is for Emily and Danny and Emma.”
And she would look at me, startled, shocked.
And I would smile and walk away, leave her bleeding on the streets and the red stain of her life dripping from the smooth edge of my knife.
But I can’t.
Death would be too easy for her. A cop murdered on the streets. She’d get a hero’s burial and people would cry. The department would decorate her and the Police Chief would make speeches about her “sacrifice and loyalty to the people she served.” Newscasters with their helmet hair would use their The World is Ending voices and talk about the need for better policing. People would rally for tougher laws. Cops would roust the homeless.
I live with these people.
They’ve been rousted enough.
I won’t bring pain and torment to their already tortured lives.
Besides, if she died on the street, no one would know the truth of her.
The lies of her.
I will not kill her.
She will not die.
Not by my hand.
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