Because when killers were caught at the scene of the crime, they obviously admitted that they committed it. David glared at Silas, although he balked momentarily at the exact moment Luke did. When he looked at the woman and noticed that... she wasn't already dead when they'd arrived. No, she'd just died. Fuck. Fucking shit.
But as quickly as the angry veneer had dissipated, it reappeared again and David re-straightened his arms, keeping his gun pointed.
It would've been easy to end this. Really easy. The whole string of murders, over with one well-placed bullet. David wasn't a perfect shot, no, but at this range, it was hard to miss. But if there was a chance—the slightest chance—that he hadn't done it... his mind flashed back to April, with Leah and the government men. No. David wasn't a murderer. He'd killed in defense of others back then, but he wasn't a murderer.
He'd been about to make a threat, tell the guy to walk, hobble, whatever the fuck he did, and lead him to O'Brien's where they could figure out what to do from there, when George stepped in front of them.
"What're you—" he stopped when she started talking, eyes narrowing as she suggested they let him explain. Yeah. Perfect. Let the crafty psychopath come up with some kind of story. Good fucking plan, George, he thought.
Heaving an irritated sigh that came out as more of a frustrated grunt, he looked at Silas with a mix of annoyance and fear in his eyes. Dog still growled, ready to attack even at the slightest wrong move, and that put him at ease. Just a little bit, anyway. "Well, you heard her. Let's hear it," he snapped.