‘What did I tell you about killing?’
She takes another sip. He doesn’t want an answer, he’s pausing for rhetorical reasons.
‘You mustn’t go out to pluck random people off the street. What if someone sees you?’
She laughs. It sounds like a cough.
‘As if,’ she mutters. ‘I was thirsty.’
He points at the bottle of Glenmorangie.
‘Doesn’t quench it.’
‘Don’t get lippy.’
His voice’s gone squeaky with agitation. And he thinks he can control her. He paces to calm down.
‘I hope it didn’t ruin your appetite. We have another job.’
Killing’s okay when he tells her to.