Wine and Gun

His lips pursed a few times before finally squeezing the answer out of his mouth.

He said, "Okay."

There was blood on Albarino Bacchus' fingers when the knock sounded.

In front of him was a hand lying on a stainless steel workbench with a very elegant drainage system. It had not been chopped off for a long time, and it had not rotted, but the vein network on the back of the hand appeared faintly. It was at this time that the door of the wooden house was knocked.

At this moment, the wood house in the woods is filled with a strong smell of blood, which is obviously not in line with the hospitality. Albarino looked at the door: nothing could be seen from the window on the wall by the door, and the trees outside the house were covered with luxuriant branches, and only a few rays of light could fall into the shadowed branches. , it looks almost black outside.

Albarino frowned slightly, and then hissed softly because of a bruise on his face that had gradually turned black and purple. At this time, the knock on the door rang again in a good-natured manner, obviously because he would not give up until he opened the door.

Albarino sighed slightly, then grabbed a boning knife on the workbench and walked towards the door.

——The moment he opened the door, a Glock 17 pistol was aimed straight at the center of his eyebrows. Olga, who was leaning on crutches, put her weight on her good leg and looked at him with a smile.

"Hello, Albarino."

At this moment, Albarino still has a hand behind his back, holding the coldly glittering knife in his hand. He looked straight at Olga Molozze—the latter looked no different from before the coma, only a little thinner, unlike the man who lay pale and sickly—and then he He also smiled, this is a helpless, casual smile, his eyes glittering like fireflies floating among the tombs.

"Let me guess - are you finally merciful and trying to solve Butt's troubles?" Albarino asked, "Is there a heavily armed SWAT team behind you? Card did that?"

"I just want to have a good talk with you." Olga replied with a smile, "As you know, the opportunity to talk to a pervert murderer is a rare opportunity for a criminal psychologist."

Albarino stared at her: "But people who suddenly find out that their friends are perverted murderers don't want to limit themselves to friendly conversations."

For some reason, Olga chose to laugh at this time.

"But do you really think I'm that kind of person?" she asked lazily. "It wasn't until the last moment, until the murderer revealed his identity in front of the audience, that he discovered the truth of everything - just like the crappy cop in a story like "No Survival"?"

Then she did something Albarino never imagined she would do - she released her fingers slowly and dramatically, and the pistol fell from her hand with a clatter, on the wooden floor There was a crisp sound.

"After all, I came to Westland for you four years ago," Olga Molozze said softly, "Sunday Gardener."

four years ago.

"I want you to reconsider my advice," said Lavasa McCard, who was as stubborn as ever about something that most people consider a virtue.

"What advice? Don't stay in the behavior analysis department, but can teach at Quantico?" Olga asked as she swept the items on the desk into the cardboard box. Most people who love storage saw her rough You will feel a choking in your chest, "You are always worried that one day I will turn against the suspect on the spot at the crime scene, but do you trust me to teach those FBI newbies?"

"I admit that I think you have a problem with your work attitude, and it's a bit self-defeating to refuse to admit that we have any differences in this area." McCard frowned tightly, and there was something very urgent in his voice. "But, Molozer, there's no denying your achievements in research, this loss—"

"Loss? I'm still sending my resume to other universities, it's not that I'm leaving the industry from now on." Olga snorted.

"They use your methods to catch more prisoners who haven't been caught. But if you insist on teaching at the university..." McCard whispered.

"I understand what you mean, you don't think it's 'practical' enough, it's a fee for talent, because you're an incurable pragmatist." Olga smiled lightly, and she put the cardboard box away. Close it, seal it with tape, and then say the next sentence. "But research doesn't just use one destination, and I explore them not because they're useful, but because they're unknowns -- that's where our biggest difference lies."

She was holding the suitcase in one hand and scooping the coat from the chair with the other, staggering from taking too many things. McCard looked at her back, and by some strange impulse he opened his mouth, and an emotion took control of his tongue, and he said, "Olga—"

Olga's footsteps paused: "Huh?"

McCard was silent for a moment.

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