“It’s all over,” he told her. “Think what a story it’ll make for our kids. How I came to murder you and left marrying you.”
She kissed him, then sat back and lighted another cigarette.
“Let’s start packing,” Frelaine said. “I want—”
“Wait,” Janet interrupted. “You haven’t asked if I love you.”
“What?”
She was still smiling, and the cigarette lighter was pointed at him. In the bottom of it was a black hole. A hole just large enough for a.38 caliber bullet.
“Don’t kid around,” he objected, getting to his feet.
“I’m not being funny, darling,” she said.
In a fraction of a second, Frelaine had time to wonder how he could ever have thought she was not much over twenty. Looking at her now
“I don’t love you, Stanton,” she said very softly, the cigarette lighter poised.
Frelaine struggled for breath. One part of him was able to realize detachedly what a marvelous actress she really was. She must have known all along.
Frelaine pushed the button, and the gun was in his hand, cocked and ready.
The blow that struck him in the chest knocked him over a coffee table. The gun fell out of his hand. Gasping, half-conscious, he watched her take careful aim for the
“Now I can join the Tens,” he heard her say elatedly as she squeezed the trigger.
