Joan shakes her head, eyes briefly rolling upward. "The poor-pitiful-me thing doesn't work when you're the one with the gun." And about a hundred pounds advantage in a fistfight. Lucky for Joan, she fights to have fought, not to win.

"Lying wouldn't get you anything," she says after a moment. She wants him to be lying, it'd back up her low opinion of the scuzzy asshole, but when she looks at it with the rough, raw logic Luke had valued, she can see the futility of it.