Directed more by some entropic and unknowable inertia than by free will, Dora felt herself take two uncomprehending steps backward until her backside met the stove, which squealed briefly in protest.
The smoking gun in her right hand was spent and had become heavier somehow, as if it had swapped cold lethality for substance. She let it fall, refusing to acknowledge either it or the spreading pool of blood spotlighting Martin like a mandorla on an Orthodox icon.
Mama’s voice worried inside Dora’s head: Baby, did you mean to do it?
As hot, bitter tears spilled over the back of the hand clutched to her mouth, Dora answered: I don’t know.
It was God’s truth.