Sounds like a souring marriage already, resentment potent in Will's shaking voice. This, whoever it is, seems to have consumed much of Will's waking hours.

'He,' apparently, and...that pings a little bell strung up somewhere in the forest of Rust's mind. His eyes on Will sharpen and deepen their hold on the man's image, attention honed in on him like a weapon. 'Killers.'

It's that man, that Will went to jail over, isn't it? He says it before Rust can even ask. Chesapeake Ripper.

The room goes firmly silent, eerily still for the volatile weather causing such a ruckus outside. The light emitting from the lamp behind Rust seems to, in all its subtlety, have more animation and life than Rust for a hot ten seconds.

Rust needs a cigarette. His movements are not sudden, but the reanimation feels sudden enough when he moves to stand. He moves away from Will and toward the nightstand with the stout lamp, where, within its immediate downcast halo, sits a pack of Camels and his zippo.

"That killer who got you locked up." A cigarette becomes wedged gently between his teeth, lips resting around the soft paper. The metallic flick of his lighter and the hissing of the wheel take up the momentary silence as Rust ignites his cigarette.

A burst of smoke into his lungs later, and Rust is turning back to saunter toward Will again. "Does he know?"