Nineteen
Dewey hadn’t been joking when he said he didn’t think he’d ever be warm again. The cold had taken up permanent residence in the marrow of his bones. It had, he decided, as much to do with who he was with as the punishing cold of the winter night.
Grady was an interesting character. Interesting, even charming on the outside. Soulless on the inside. The cold came from him. Like an icy fog, it oozed out of him and wrapped around anyone near him. Its purpose seemed to be the freezing out all sense of right and wrong. It sought to store his conscience in the deep freeze.
Dewey could feel it working on him. There was such a sense of unreality that it was easy to feel disconnected from what was real and right. He’d felt this before. He’d danced on the edge of evil for many years, work
