There’s a scowl on Torrie’s face at Lita’s light tone. Like she’s just any other patient that walked in. But the irritation is momentary, gone before it really settles, and even she knows it’s not really about the tone at all. It wasn’t like she never had a part in how their friendship fragmented anyway.
Torrie’s careful as she moves, sliding the remains of her jacket off before she lays back on the table in just her top. It’s red all down her side. She rolls her eyes at Lita’s question also, her head to the side enough that she’s certain both Solomon and the doctor have caught the reaction. “I took a fucking picture, it’s in my back pocket,” she retorts, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, unfair to her former friend. “Big, dark haired and foreign,” she adds more seriously. “But I don’t think he’ll be causing any more problems, since I shot him too.” Even if she didn’t stick around to check for a pulse, he didn’t get back up and chase her down.
That action in itself she have made her take pause. Whether he was scum or not, she probably took someone’s life, and that’s a big thing. Torrie wonders if she really should feel worse about it than she does? Shouldn’t it make a difference in self defense.