She heard the soft tinkle of breaking glass. He was coming for her. She was’t afraid, she was just tired of running. The gun felt heavy in her hand, as she listened for his footsteps on the stairs.
He tapped on the door. “I just want to talk.”
She held up the pistol and waited.
Slowly, he opened the door, a huge black shadow against the bright background. He held up his hand, fingers splayed. “Give me five minutes.”
“Three,” she said.
“I was wrong. Forgive me,” he said.
She shot him through the heart, twice, and watched him fall. When she was sure he was dead, she got up and stepped carefully over his body.