Kelsey Schmidt
Anthony cutting my father’s hands to pieces? To be honest, I feel zero worry. I don’t harbor a single ounce of care or pity for Kennedy. The night Anthony pulled me out of that suburban house, I saw firsthand what he did to my father, and my chest hasn't felt a single prick of guilt since.
Right now, Anthony’s men are still bustling in the guest room next door, bolting down the heavy frame of the racing simulator. I can hear the dull thud of tools and muffled voices echoing through the walls while I sit cross-legged on the edge of my bed. Part of me is dying to peek in and watch them set it up, but I keep myself glued to the mattress. If I look too eager, it might draw too much attention to them.
I don’t want to be involved with what they are doing. Anthony’s men also don
