“Was he an epic shit-stain?” “Understatement.” “Then I get it. I had a foster dad in that category.” I hesitated. “But why keep killing after that?” His green eyes turned to mine, and there was a brittle resignation in them. “Once he was dead, all the targets on his back shifted to mine. All his enemies wanted to rip me apart and all his former associates wanted to snuff me out. I kept killing to survive.” I let that sink in, feeling the weight of it. Could I have survived something like that? I doubted it. “So you’re right,” he added, returning his attention to his gory sewing. “We aren’t
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at 17 :(
