“Mia—”
“You shot Stefano.”
“He saw me.”
The words are so simple.
So calm.
Like that explains it.
Like shooting a man because he recognized you is reasonable.
“You shot him,” I say again.
Rory’s jaw flexes. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
His eyes flick to Livy, then back to me.
“I didn’t want her to see that.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have shot him in front of her. Or, you know, at all!”
Livy’s hand finds my shoulder and curls into my shirt.
Rory takes another step down.
I notice the bandages then.
Both his forearms are wrapped from wrist to elbow, thick white gauze peeking beneath his sleeves.
The edges are stained yellow-brown in places. But what sticks out to me is the spot near his elbow where the bandage has slipped. Something mesh-looking covers the skin.
A skin graft. Over burned skin.
No… Way…
“What happened to your arms?” I ask slowly.
He looks down like he forgot they were there.
Then his expression softens.
“That night got messy.”
My mouth goes dry.
“What night?”
“You know what night.”
The basement seems to tilt.
The fire.
Smoke.
