Back in the office he tried to reconstruct the evening. The early part was fine-colorless in recall. Later, after midnight, was hazy. Then gone. The ceramic heater worked well enough on his feet but he kept his coat zipped.
The bills were stacked on the desk in denominations; the first step before counting the take. It was his system. The bloody bills he set aside. Was it all his, the blood? The gash on his head wasn’t that deep. His knuckles were just bruised.
He opened the drawer and popped the clip on the pistol again. Still hadn’t been fired.