“Did something happen recently that triggered this? Perhaps a stressful situation? An outcome you don’t approve of, maybe?” Fuck. I stroke my fingers over the bullet on my necklace, fast, uncoordinated. “What is that something, son?” Dad asks cautiously. “Someone. Maybe.” “Who is it?” “Not important,” I lie through my teeth, my movements turning jerkier and more out of control. “In that case, get rid of them.”
