She thought she saw his face soften. She imagined that something had passed between them,
that maybe she had quite literally knocked some understanding into his head.
Maybe he saw something in her face too, Mariam thought, something that made him hedge.
Maybe he saw some trace of all the self-denial, all the sacrifice, all the sheer exertion it had taken her to live with him for all these years,
live with his continual condescension and violence, his faultfinding and meanness.
Was that respect she saw in his eyes? Regret? But then his upper lip curled back into a spiteful sneer,
and Mariam knew then the futility, maybe even the irresponsibility, of not finishing this.
If she let him walk now, how long before he fetched the key from his pocket
and went for that gun of his upstairs in the room where he'd locked Zalmai?
Had Mariam been certain that he would be satisfied with shooting only her,
that there was a chance he would spare Laila, she might have dropped the shovel.
But in Rasheed's eyes she saw murder for them both.
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