[ he'd expected absolutely nothing less from Stiles, but still the question has him narrowly avoiding hissing a breath in response. his knuckles whiten against the steering wheel. he does not look at Stiles. when the words come, they're hard edged and tense, but there's an underlying weariness there, a sigh that never quite escapes, enough to say, perhaps, that it's been a while. ]
no subject
She was murdered. Here.