She pressed his police special to the side of his right temple and pulled the trigger. The noise, louder than expected, and the explosion of parts painting a gory path across the pillow shocked her. She dropped the pistol. Her ears rang. Swollen eyes and cheeks numb from the beatings snapped her back. You son-of-a-bitch. She knelt and picked up the revolver. Blood covered the muzzle and her right hand. I wish you’d been awake instead of in a drunken stupor. I shoulda waited. You woulda shit your pants when you saw what I was gonna do.
At the bathroom sink she washed her hands and wiped the handle of his pistol. Using a small towel, she took the gun back to the bed and put it in his hand, his fingers around the grip. Using the towel to cover her hand and arm, she lifted his and pointed the gun toward the opposite side of the room. It was easy to make his finger pull the trigger. Now, you got powder burns. Let’s see you talk yourself out of this, asshole. No one can tell which shot was fired first. You’re never beating me again!
She returned to the sink and cleaned it thoroughly with soap and bleach. She rolled up the small throw-rug next to the bed, took it downstairs to the boiler room and shoved it into the firebox. When she was sure nothing was left but ashes, she went back to the room and sat in the old chair closest to the window and waited. A minute later a black and white pulled to the curb. She glanced back at the bed. A terrible realization crushed the satisfaction she’d begun to feel. The pistol lay cradled in left-handed Danny’s right hand.