I laughed, a raw, ragged sound that tasted like metal in my mouth. My fingers went to my hair and pushed it back, as if I could smooth away the memory. Pain flared across my cheek; two days ago replayed behind my eyes like a busted film. I hadn’t slept.
“Here—have this.” Sun thrust a glass of whiskey into my hand. The liquid hit my tongue warm and harsh; I swallowed it in one motion, the burn steadying me.
“You told me he was psycho,” Sun said, voice low and furious. “But I didn’t know—this serious.” He jabbed a thumb at his nose. “He would’ve killed us if he’d had the chance. How old did you say he was again?” His words clipped off into a scoff when I didn’t answer, and he collapsed onto the couch with a hiss.
I watched him wince, the room humming with the ache between us. “Right,” he
