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The reds and purples outside the taxi window remind Evie of a nightclub she once went to. Back when she was young and stupid and high out of her mind. The blurry lights flicker up above, almost like pumping fists moving along to a silent club track... and in the quiet, she picks at a hangnail and tries not to remember his face.
She fails.
Even here, in the city, when she closes her eyes, all she can see is red staining her hands and cold, blank pupils staring off into the distance. What was it that JD said to her, after he found her kneeling beside Angus's body in tears? Something about jobs, doing hard things and not letting death get to her...
"If you wanna blame someone," he'd said. "Blame the person who shot him in the back."
So, Evie did. She blamed the man who shot him in the back, and then she went and shot the man who shot Angus in the back. And then he was eaten by a bloody crocodile in a fucking river. After holding her hostage for three hours in a bloody shack along with the bloody prime minister amid literal pools of blood.
It's funny, a little, how ridiculous it all is. How a girl whose life has been marked by death is afraid of it... crying at a body at a crime scene like a child. Acting like each victim is her first encounter with violence and then shooting a man dead center, watching passively as his life is wretched away.
"Uh, miss. Where did you say you wanted to be dropped off?"
Evie wipes her cheeks, clearing her throat as she locks eyes with the taxi driver. "Division and Hamilton is fine."
"You sure? I can take you to your address."
"Yeah, I'm sure," Evie replies.
She needs to get out of this vehicle... she needs to walk it off. Habits die hard, she sighs, and when the car stops, she tugs her duffle bag out from the seat beside her and tightens her backpack straps.
"Thanks," she murmurs, rounding the fare to the nearest dollar. He thanks her, even tips his hat, and soon, the taxi is gone. All that's left is Evie, her bags, and a few sprawling leaves making their way up from the reserve.
She used to walk at night all the time, something she stopped years ago. Yet here she is, dredging up the past again and again.
"Back at it, aren't we?" she whispers.
Her feet shuffle to the silent beats of an unsung melody. If she were younger, she'd be dressed differently. She'd have a song in one ear and an earbud hanging out of the other. She'd be loud and brash and infuriating and wild.
She'd go out and forget about it all.
But tonight, she's sober.
Tonight, she remembers all of their faces. And tonight- with only the stars and the wind to keep her company- she walks home alone.