In the dark corner of the warehouse, guarded by two nervous mercenaries who shift their weight rhythmically from boot to boot, Willow sits on the floor. Her knees are pulled tight to her chest, her hands clutched over her mouth to muffle her violent, shuddering sobs.
The guilt radiating off her is thick enough to choke on. Every time Knox touches the phone, every time Becca spits venom at me, Willow flinches as if a whip has struck her back.
Slowly, deliberate in my movement, I shift my gaze away from Knox’s camera and look into the dark corner.
I catch Willow’s eyes.
She freezes. Her tear-streaked face pales further as she waits for the wrath she believes she deserves after telling Knox about the baby. She braces herself, her slim shoulders pulling inward, expecting hatred.
Instead,
