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Retribution is not a pretty word. It chews you up, puts blinders on your eyes, dulls the senses. Benton has seen men who broke themselves over it and men who broke others, has almost broken over it too, an eager wave of helpless fury.
Clearly, maddeningly, the retribution Ray seeks across the threshold of Beth's home, shoulders curled around his guilt like he wants to protect it from fading, is for his own crimes. Benton knows he can find it, hopes against hope he leaves it be.
Wither and wane. As he watches Ray, all defeat and no glory, splayed over the bed dull and heavy and still dressed, watches the uneasy rise and fall of his chest, the deep shadows under his eyes, he reminds himself—it's all that's left for Ray's grief now. To wither and wane.