POV: Darren
The holding cell smelled like piss and desperation.
I sat on the metal bench, still wearing my blood-splattered suit, my hands cuffed behind my back. The police had been rough during the arrest—unnecessary, really, since I'd already dropped the gun. But I supposed shooting someone in a parking lot didn't earn you gentle treatment.
Storm's blood was on my hands. Literally. Dark stains on my cuffs where I'd touched the gun after firing.
Proof of what I'd done.
Proof of what he'd driven me to do.
"Blake." An officer appeared at the cell door. "Your lawyer's here."
They led me to a small interview room where Richard Chen sat with his briefcase and his expensive suit and his very worried expression.
"Tell me you have a plan," I said, sitting down across from him.
"A plan?"
