While she's pacing the room, he's lingering near the door, weight poised on the balls of his feet, still like he's held up by a string, just watching her. The way she can't keep still, the way guilt is rolling off her in waves. But feeling bad after the fact doesn't change what happened.

Drain cleaner. German bullets. She keeps saying how stupid she was, and he keeps thinking if there's anything Veronica isn't, it's stupid. A hand rakes back across his scalp, balling into a fist at the end of its arc and releasing again. She's not stupid, but she trusted some psycho piece of shit he'd really like to get his hands on right now, and she did this stupid thing, and people died.

"That's two," he says softly, because the number seems less important than everything else, but in his book responsibility doesn't end at who handed over which cup. Just standing there letting somebody get killed is almost the same as killing them.

But only almost.

(This guy's manifesto-- well, he'll think about that in a minute.)

"Would you have pulled the trigger if you'd known it was gonna hurt him?" He asks finally, not moving from in front of the exit. His chest feels like lead. "Would you've handed your friend that cup of Drano?"