Re: Queens: Wren & Saint.
Wren knew how this ended. Scenes like this, and they'd seen too much. The quantity of white bricks on the table meant this business was not a small one, was not tiny, and they knew how to clean and cover tracks. They knew, and Wren knew how this ended. She was still young, still pretty in her yellow, and Saint would go easy into nothing. She knew she wouldn't be so lucky, but it didn't scare her. Her thoughts were on after. On Luke, on his life, on where he would go and on what he would do. Her thoughts weren't on the dead children, because maybe they would go when she did. Maybe Luke would be alone, and she wished she'd told Jack more about what was wrong, what was so very wrong.
Then there was sound, then there was movement, and she didn't look away. She didn't try to stumble to her knees, and she didn't say anything. Heart in her chest, because there were so many witnesses, so many witness, and she knew exactly who it was. Even with the blur of movement, even before any moments of stillness, she knew.
She didn't worry about dying. She didn't worry about anyone else dying. She wasn't even worried about him being hurt, because he wouldn't be. She knew that, somehow. Somehow, even though she pretended all those years between New York and Las Vegas hadn't happened, and even if they pretended normalcy in their little house with the white walls, she knew. Thomas had trained him to be lethal, all while asking him not to be. And she knew, and she knew, and she knew. She wasn't worried, not yet, not now, not about that.
But there were so many witnesses, and she'd kill every last one herself if there was any danger of him going to jail. He couldn't go to jail, he couldn't, because maybe there was DNA here, in this door, something that followed from Vegas. Maybe, because she didn't know about anything bad here, any deaths here, any attacks here. But she didn't trust the hotel, and maybe things carried.
Maybe someone would recognize him. Maybe someone he'd arrested, maybe even the children would recognize the officer dressed in black.
And then there was Saint.
Saint.
Saint, who was undoing the ropes around her wrists, and she slipped her hands free and stood, finally. Men bled, but no one was dead, and she wasn't sure if that was good, and she wasn't sure if that was bad. She left the blanket, Saint and the children, and she walked into the middle of the white-powder fray, like some fearless thing in yellow.