Jim had taken a few hits here and there, like most teenaged boys in his neighborhood. He hadn’t been stabbed. He thought he could understand what it would feel like, right now. The ache in his chest wasn’t bleeding, but it throbbed like his life’s blood was pulsing onto the floor.
He staggered back until he hit one of the overstuffed couches—and why Mike had overstuffed couches in his office, Jim didn’t know, but it was a problem for another day. “Did he just say what I think he said?”
Debbie’s eyes were narrowed, and her lips thin. If Jim didn’t know better, he’d say she was mad at him. “This can’t be a surprise for you. He told you he was tortured.”
“He didn’t say r—that word.”
“Did he have to spell it out? Torturers like power and control. It’s in their best interests to reduce thei
