McHugh lay farther up the road, as if he’d tried to run. He had the classic look of a strangulation victim: bulging face, protruding tongue, petechial hemorrhages on his skin and in his eyes, and the broken-doll tilt to his neck. His eyes were wide, and his hands seemed to be reaching for his stomach, where Ian had taken a shard of glass and sliced him from crotch to collarbone, then reached inside and pulled. Yanked anything he touched. There was more of McHugh on the roadway than inside him.
OH. MY. GOD.
