"It's true, and I'm sorry it's true," I told her.
"It can't be true."
"That's what you'd like to believe," I said softly. "But the fact remains that your father is a killer."
"I'd rather die."
"Florence, the choice between death and dishonor is not yours to make. Whether you live or die is up to your father, who is guilty of placing you in this awkward position by turning his talents to evil."
She stared at me. "But—how could you—?"
"There was no other way but to bait this trap emotionally."
"So cold and cruel—"
I nodded. "So were the pioneers who saved one last bullet for their wives."
How could I tell this hurt girl that I had looked time and again into the minds of killers and found them far worse than the deeds they committed? When the official record states that upon such and such a date, so and so was punished for his crime, how is he punished for the harm he did to those who placed their trust in him? I hate them because they force me to reveal them for what they are, making me an agent of their betrayal.