Chapter 5: The Boy at the Bars

The cellar was concrete, and they left me a bucket and a light bulb, which in Ashford terms was practically a suite. I sat with my back to the wall and took inventory the way I do before a surgery. Wrist: cuff damage, tendon inflamed, functional. Cheek: superficial. Ribs: two cracked, courtesy of Gregor last month. Suppressant: fifty-nine hours. Fifty-nine hours until my blood came up like a flare in the dark and every hunter in this country turned toward the Moretti estate. And there was...