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A Worse Idea 144

Prometheus chewed his bottom lip. “Good.” He shook his head. “Good?”

“She got what she deserved. Shade didn’t deserve…” Anne couldn’t bear to say it. “But her killer did.”

“Bet Janet’s killer thought the same thing. Hell, Janet might’ve thought the same thing when she was killing Shade. When does the killing stop? How does it stop, other than by saying, ‘No killing.’”

“It doesn’t,” Anne said. “The worst of us get killed. That’s what the death penalty’s for. Then you hope the rest of us make it.”

Prometheus looked at her, wanting so badly to believe a lie — the lie that the wretched can be saved, that he had enough control over this world to prevent it from doing wrongs. “Did you kill her, Anne?”

She raised her gaze to meet his. “No.” Tears welled in her eyes.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Shade had a lot of friends, and I’m sure there are a lot of people who would want to get revenge on an assassin. Someone could be trying to frame me. Or this all could’ve been tied up with the mistakes the Killer’s Gallery made. But you’re choosing to believe it was me.”

“I–”

“You know why? Because you think you’re better than me. All superheroes do, deep down.” The tears broke away from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes were as red as her hair, and she had the look of a woman who was being cooked alive by her own emotions. “All I ever needed was for someone to believe in me.”

“Look, Anne–”

“The cops don’t have me under investigation, do they? I haven’t heard anything about Metahuman Affairs arresting me. Then why should you be so damn concerned? Don’t you think they know what they’re doing?”

Prometheus struggled to breathe.

“You get so emotional when chasing after the bad guys. Is that so different from the revenge you see in me? Am I the problem? Or do you just want me to be the problem? Want me to be like you, so that you don’t feel so damn terrible about yourself?”

“Anne.”

“Do what you have to.” Anne stood up. “Look for the evidence you’re never going to find. Chase down your fucking assumptions and see where it gets you, you goddamn asshole.”

“Open the fucking garage door,” she said, walking towards it.

He did, letting her go.

“You should investigate every goddamn inch of my life. Who cares about my privacy, my dignity? You’ve got a hunch to justify.”

She walked out the garage while Prometheus sat there, stunned.

He never did investigate Janet’s murder.

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