Short story: Whisper

Tense, Michèle Fleischer was gazing at the shabby briefcase, where Klemens had just stuck the passports. He raised his head swiftly and looked at his wife anxiously through the strands of greasy uncombed hair.

“What now?” her coarse whisper hurt his ears.

“Wipe the blood off your hands,” his lips were barely moving. “I’ll bury the bodies.”