“You can’t mean that.”

“She killed him for the reason I ought to done killed you. I ought to not let you treat me this way. Pete might not have been like he was, I hadn’t let you hit on me.”

She cocked back the hammers on the shotgun.

“Now don’t do nothing you’ll regret, Marilyn.”

“I already got plenty regrets.”

She went away, came back with a knife in one hand, the shotgun in the other.

“Now, honey, easy with that,” Jones said.

“Don’t call me honey. Don’t never call me that.”

She cut the sheet with one quick run of the knife, stepped back, flung the knife onto the floor and pointed the shotgun at him.

“Get up. Put your clothes on, take your shoes and socks with you. Don’t come back ’cept to get the rest of your clothes. And don’t make it tonight.”

Jones sat on the edge of the bed. His body was marked with red striping and he was bleeding from numerous wounds. There was a bruise over his right eye that looked like a grease smear.

“You can’t throw me out of my own house.”

“I can shoot you all over it. I can do that. Shoot you here. Shoot you over there. I can handle guns. You know that.”

“You wouldn’t do that, hon-”

“Don’t you dare say it. Put on your pants. Sight of you naked makes me sick.”

Jones took a deep breath and gathered up his pants, stepped into them, pulled on his shirt. He started to put on his socks.

“Do what I told you. Take them socks and shoes with you. Don’t stop for nothing else, or you’ll stop forever.”