Somewhere along the line, things have grown more and less crisp, the lines between black and white blurring into gray and then resolving so that I am standing, clearly, on the wrong side. It was easier when I worked alone. The take was smaller, but I attracted far less notice, and I did not have to worry about anyone second-guessing my motives.
It was easier, but it was far more lonely, and it wasn’t until I saw the poor boy’s expression when he found out who I’d been working for that it hit home.
They knew I was a thief.
Now they knew I was a murderer, as well.
