She leans forward at her desk, touches the computer screen as Avon's face swims to its surface, and watches the reports of his activities drift by in a long stream of data. His companions. His whereabouts. His obsessions.
He's still chasing Blake. She feels a pang of regret, a thin-whetted needle to her heart, at the thought of how different things might have been if Avon had not been caught in the backdraft of Blake's flames.
Such a waste to kill such a man.
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