My heart is still hammering against my ribs, not from Dad’s sharp, brutal speech, but from the terrifying phantom echoes of last night… ghosts that the men just don’t seem to comprehend. Not even a little bit.
Two hours.
For two hours, the comms were dark. We sat in that f*****g living room surrounded by glowing screens, listening to static, knowing shots were fired, knowing someone was screaming in pain, knowing someone was bleeding out in the dirt on Old County Road.
For two hours, I sat on that sofa beside Jade, staring at the blank infrared feeds, convinced that when the elevator doors finally opened, it would be to the news that my father was dead. Or my brother. Or Locke.
I close my eyes, squeezing them shut against the memory of Stitch’s bloody gloved hands digging a bullet out
