She gets to her feet and turns to the door, and knows abruptly that she cannot go in. That is why she was weeping on her own stoop, it would seem: not trauma or wounded pride at all, but simple despair. She can’t go in. She can’t go in, because her home belongs to the enemy. The feeling of safety it provides is an illusion. What might a storyteller do with her assassination, right now, tonight? A piquant twist, surely, removing a thorn and preparing the way for a revenge drama starring a hand-picked officer.