He looked at me with a sort of heaviness, or grief. I think he tried to smile to keep things light but it just looked like a grimace. As we stood in the rain, watching her, wounded and utterly alone, he said to me, gently, au moins elle mourra tranquille.
I wanted to ask him: is her blood on our hands? Is this on us? Is mercy killing really any different from killing? Is this on us?
But I didn't say anything. I avoided his eyes and took the elevator, while he trudged up the stairs.