No. [easily.] Death would come for me months later, in the spring.

[there's a little flicker of a thought, though. an image of a white man pinned down with a dagger at his throat, trying to convince her that he could still be useful with his slimy words. trying to tempt her with questions and no answers— don't you want to know which one tried to burn you alive as a baby? which one killed your mother?

and then it's gone.]

Don't be sorry, Rich. [she shakes her head, sighing. saying she's used to it probably doesn't help, but... she is used to it. it's just how it is. people don't always get what they deserve.] ... It was a long time ago. Before I was even old enough to remember it. Now if someone tries to kill me, I simply kill them first.