A laugh bubbled from a tight throat under a head that was tensed more for vomit than laughter.
It was the laughter of disbelief, though it was belief that led Cal Gryson to this place.
As his gun shook-and it didn’t feel like his, it felt like a thing he should not possess-his best friend looked back at him with eyes that could have been eight years old, when they met on a playground, waiting to slide down a slide.
When the strained, gurgling laugh that wasn’t one ounce funny ended, Cal said “You son of a bitch” to a guy whose mother had given him Christmas gifts for decades, so close was Cal to her son.
Phoebe Gryson slunk back against the wall, inching away from the gun waved loosely in the direction of Joe. She made no effort to mask her nudity. She didn’t grab a sheet, nor cover the breasts that nursed the two children she had with Cal.
She held her hands out, as though Cal was a cop and she had been caught in a robbery.
Phoebe trembled.
Cal trembled.
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