“Grief doesn’t look good on you.” You whispered into his ear in that sickeningly jesting tone. Dutch said nothing, ignoring your presence. He already felt himself falling apart at the seams — he didn’t want to believe he was so far-gone, that he was beginning to see an apparition of you.

You died in that wretched Saint Denis bank robbery.

He saw it.

He witnessed the bullet pierce just beneath your ribs, the skin ripping and bones cracking.

So, why were you still around?