She whistled a tune as she got up and began to clean herself up in the en suite.
I broke my own post-coital bliss when I recognised it.
I quickly ran through the possibilities. She had said she was a painter, maybe that meant she was also a music writer?
Or maybe she'd heard it in some obscure compilation on YouTube?
...
No, that can't be it. It wasn't a song, it was just a tune the man who killed a lot of people I cared about would hum a lot.
I pulled a gun and fired a second too late.
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