Chapter 20The hole you dug, the bed you made, the cards you're dealt, the prison you built, the corner you painted yourself into. All the phrases of self-blaming ever invented cascaded through his mind.
She yanked his arms behind him and cuffed him. “Everything slow, Maris. You move too fast, you die. Get to your feet.”
The pistol remained at his neck as she pulled up on the cuffs. He yelped, standing with her, the shoulder strain exacerbated by his recent alley encounter. The hot point of her blasma pistol burned against his neck. The hot point of her breast burned against his back.
The multitude of pithy things he could have said all seemed trite. “You won't get away with this,” was a cliché out of a detective potboiler. “We'd have made a fabulous pair,” was a romance-novel rubber sta
