Hermes sat with his head in his hands.
Why hadn’t he gone with them?
You’re guilty, he told himself. You’re a guilty idiot.
And he wasn’t being easy on himself. He was a moron. A cowardly, selfish moron.
Once a thief, always a thief, he thought.
Then he stood up, so abruptly that his chair clattered to the floor.
“No point to sitting and feeling sorry for myself,” he muttered. “Might as well go and see if I can sweep up the remains.”
Hermes went to his bedroom, glanced out at the early morning sun, and located a suitcase.
“If there are remains,” he added in an undertone.
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