She had come to talk trade.
to get these messy matters into her own hands.
Even if that meant within the next minute she wouldn’t be breathing.
At least she would go with a clear conscience...

Everything has a price...

The transaction was smooth.
Its tone as light and airy as Egyptian cotton,
And just as expensive...

A simple slip of the wrist,
A slide of the hand.
That was all it was going to take,
And then it would be over.

If all they wanted was an accident,
...Then why the pretty package?

It was obvious then that she had placed her trust too carelessly.

No sense in pretending it didn’t happen.
Her alibi was stale and starting to smell like rotted flesh.
The kind of stink that won’t leave your clothes,
So you burn them...

Ashes were never messy.
Just one gust of wind and poof!
The evidence is gone,
You’re slate is clean.

Not guilty.