Roman, Grace, Amanda, is looking down at her hands. The stench of blood hits her and she looks away.
She feels… relief. That's what she thinks it is, anyway.
The killer is gone. Margaret, Mike, is safe.
She can't get rid of the scissors, no matter how much she wants to. They'll be needed as evidence soon enough.
(She thinks Pete called the police, but she isn't sure. There are sirens, though, growing louder. It's L.A. They could be for anybody.)
And so she holds onto them. The murder weapon she never used.
(She closes her eyes and she's holding her wife's body, which drips with still warm blood.)
(She closes her eyes and she's dancing around the parlor with her. Her Margaret.)
"I'm not Roman," Mike had said. He was right, he was Margaret.
And this time, he is safe. Frankie is dead.
Roman, Grace, Amanda, lets out a breath held for forty long years.