Blame it on the Sunset — W. Matthew Hart

One month ago, this place looked the same, but someone who had hurt me was sitting on a jetty and aimlessly looking out toward Monomoy. The breeze was from the southwest, and the sun was setting. The person I was looking for paid no attention to me as I approached. The silencer on my Colt revolver served its purpose as I discharged two bullets into the back of that Son of a Bitches' head.