Sutton stalked toward the treadmill, wearing a look that said she was supremely pissed off. “What’s wrong?” I hit stop on the machine and jumped off. “What’s wrong?” she parroted. “What’s wrong is I want to know why the hell you’re trying to kill yourself!” My eyes flared. “I was just going for a run.” “That was not a run. That was trying to escape the hounds of hell.”
