Her smile soon vanished into the shadows, like a frightened rabbit, missing the lights of the car.
The blood dripped down her cranium, down her cheek, pale, blotched from former tears.
Her hands shook as her optics focused on the blood that stained her hands. It was fresh. It wasn't like a crust of blood, no, it slipped away slowly from her hands, but it still lay in her flesh.
She looked up, her face weakened, her face in pain. Yet, the person on the floor did not answer her call. He was dead already, face blank with no expression at all crossed upon, no words etched upon his lips.
"I...did nothing...I...am innocent..." she did whisper, lips quivering, eyes wavring, breath wavering.
"This... wasn't meant to be!"
Her scream echoed into the nearby fields as she fell to her knees into sobs, angry sobs, sorrowful sobs...
Mister Hartley died that night. Maybe he was killed by the hounds of the darkness, which lurk like hungry sharks beneath the moon's watchful eyes. Maybe he was killed by the sitting crows, who bow their heads, as if in knowledge of this death.
Or maybe it was the woman who knelt down beside him, with his blood on her hands and clothes, with her dagger in his back... In the back of her husband.
Thus, Blanche Hartley stood to her feet, with sniffled murmurs to herself, because staggering home, crimson inked staining her once pure white soul.
That relationship, though...killed her already. She was empty, dead...
That night, she got her revenge.