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Rhys slashes his mouth, his gaze flicking to something beyond my peripheral vision.
"She can handle it," George says from somewhere close by.
Rhys's grip loosens, and he helps me shift to a half-sitting position leaning against his chest. I can see the entire room—my prison cell.
There, in the center, is a body in a pool of blood. Emily's body. My mother. I feel nothing. I don't remember her being my mother, and after everything I’ve learned the last few days, I don't want to remember. I no longer fault Tristen for what he did. I let my gaze linger a moment longer, scanning the room. Tristen is talking to a man by the door, and George is next to us, but his focus is also toward the other men.
I turn back to Rhys. "You shot her?"
Rhys shakes his head. "No. She got to the gun first."
My mouth parts.
"She was on top of me, the gun against my side, but she didn’t get the safety off fast enough. Turner killed her."
Wha—?
