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HE WAITS UNTIL HE sees her hang the CLOSED sign in the window a little after six thirty.

The Uncommon Florist is tucked into a far corner at Bridgehampton Commons, directly across from Staples and down the row from Dunkin’ and Barnes and all the orchids, purple and white, big and small, on the long table that stretches along one of the walls in the front room.

But he doesn’t feel badly for her.

She did this to herself.

They all do, none of them ever considering that actions will have consequences.

Robby has tied her to a chair in the back room, knowing he will untie her later and leave her on the floor in the front room, as if this is some kind of smash-and-grab robbery gone wrong, the cops will never know how little cash there actually was in her register.

His Beretta is in his hand now.

There is tape over her mouth, but at least she has finally stopped struggling.

Beth Lassiter is just crying now, her red, terrified eyes fixed on him, as if she’s afraid to look away.

He has pulled up a chair and is sitting close to her.

“I will remove the tape so that we can have a civilized conversation,” Robby says. “But I want you to know that if you scream, I will shoot you right now. Nod if you understand what I’m saying to you.”

When Beth Lassiter nods, vigorously, eyes focused on the gun, he reaches over and removes the tape, trying not to hurt her as he pulls it off her.

As soon as he does, she says, “I can have the money by the end of the week. I told Jeb that.”

Robby sighs. “But that was a lie, wasn’t it, Beth?”

“No,” she says. “My sister … in San Francisco … her husband is rich.”

Robby is sadly shaking his head. “There is no sister,” he says. “There is no money, apart from all that you lost because you were dumb enough to bet on baseball in the first place, and then keep doing it once you were in the hole.”

She starts to sob now, chest rising and falling, almost unable to breathe.

“Beth, Beth, Beth,” Robby says, patting her knee. “You should know as well as anyone that there’s no crying in baseball.”

“I … just a little more time,” she says, barely able to get the words out.

“And if it were my decision to make,” Robby says, “I would give you that time. But my employer has decided to make an example out of you.”

“But if I’m dead, you’ll never get the money,” she says.

“Unfortunately, my employer sees no reasonable expectation to get it with you alive, even if he takes everything you own,” he says. “Which, frankly, and without being too hurtful, isn’t much at this point, is it?”

The last thing she sees before he shoots her are the flowers, as if she’s somehow done the arrangements for her own funeral.

After he’s staged the robbery scene to his satisfaction, he lets himself out the back door and begins walking back across the parking lot to his car. As he does, one of his favorite songs from Les Mis is back inside his head.

“Lovely ladies, ready for the call,” he sings. “Standing up or lying down.”

As always, Robby tells himself, you never really can go wrong with a show tune .