Page 59 of Choices

“The cat ate him,” Rocco says, his bottom lip protruding.

“Who’s Goldie?”

“My fish!” she screams, her legs giving out and knees hitting the floor.

Sobs rack her body.

The grief is too extreme for a fish.

Panic fills my chest. “Kitty, I’ll get you another.”

“Get out.” A calm comes over her, and it scares me worse than the outburst.

“Kit…”

“G.E.T. O.U.T.” Her hands rake through the glass, fisting pieces that cut into her skin. “GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT.”

The door bursts open, and Callan’s voice echoes through my skull. “What the fuck is going on?” I feel like I’m standing on the other side of a veil, looking in at the chaos I created while being helpless to stop it.

To heal her.

To fix it.

She’s the fishbowl, fractured in pieces because someone was touching what they shouldn’t have.

Blood drips through her fingers, trailing down her arms, and I’m frozen. A crashing force hinders my movements. Remorse consumes me. I’m a coward.

“Cutter!” Callan barks.

“I broke her.”

“What?” He’s by her side, holding her by the wrists.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat. “The glass—it broke.” I choke on the words.

“Why are you standing there? Go get Rogue.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” I say, gulping down the shame soaking into my bloodstream. I did this to her.

“I’m really fucking sorry.”

“There are three guards—two at the shutter door, one circling the perimeter. Two cameras, both at the front of the building,and we can take them out remotely,” Callan informs us. We’re on the verge of a small hill overlooking a building just below us beyond a small gathering of trees.

Night stretches out across the sky, blanketing the landscape in a thick cloak, enveloping us in its smothering heat. The sun set hours ago, but the warmth of its rays still clings to the air. Beads of sweat stick to my spine, making me restless.

Thoughts of Kitty consumed me all damn day. Rogue gave Kitty five stitches down her middle finger, and the rest were all superficial scrapes. The real damage isn’t on the surface, though. It’s bone-deep.

“As you can see, the neighboring warehouses are legit businesses with nightshifts coming and going. We have to go in quiet,” he continues. “Cutter, you’re up.”

Opening the tool bag, I pull out my overalls and yank the waterproof—a.k.a. blood-proof—suit up over my clothes before pulling on gloves.

“All he needs now is the hockey mask,” Dodger grunts.

“That’s Jason. You’re thinking of Michael Myers.” Monster cracks his neck, his gaze laser focused on the men below us.

“Who’s the one trying to kill his mother the whole time?”

“It’s his sister,” Monster corrects.

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