Wicked satisfaction was bittersweet.

“Yes,” she hissed back at her, stepping forward in sync with her back and bearing teeth between red painted lips.

And then there was her name, uttered like a prayer to wash away the history. To go back to pretending they were just two cowering women in their dead-end fates. To act as though there were any path but six feet, or God knew how many feet under water for the meek.

There was that hurt look, and her anger burned through like fire through a match. Quickly, leaving a withered, charred thing in its wake.

“I did it for us.”

That assertion had sounded a lot stronger in her head. More rage, more volume, instead of what might as well be the last weightless wisp of smoke from a burnt out match.