Chapter 12
“That wasn’t a bad movie, for what it was,” Max said as he and Deacon left the theater Sunday evening. Other than Max attending Deacon’s workout class that morning, it was the first time they’d seen each other since Monday—the day after Tony’s arrest.
Although they’d talked by phone, Deacon had refused to come by the house after work until Max’s stitches were removed. “You need to go to bed early, until you’re fully healed.”
Max had pooh-poohed that idea but Deacon had been inflexible. “No more stitches, and hopefully less nightmares.”
Max had had three of them in the last five days. Short ones, thankfully, but intense. They all involved him trying to escape a faceless attacker wielding a large machete. “Why a machete, I have no clue,” he’d said to Deacon after telling him a
