He’d killed a man.
Didn’t matter which way he tried to spin it or justify it in his mind. He’d killed a man. Until the day he took his last breath, Murphy knew he would wake up every morning with the knowledge he had blood on his hands; he was responsible for a man losing his life. He had no confidence at all that he’d be able to live with it easily. Guilt already scratched incessantly beneath his skin, a constant itch he feared would never ease.
“Murphy?” The soft voice he’d gotten to know well over the last few weeks cut into his thoughts. “It’s the right thing to do,” she whispered.
“I know,” he answered, patting her small hand resting beside his on the table they sat around. “It’s just…I never thought I’d be here.”
A deeper, gruffer voice replied, “Not a one of us did, Son.”
They
