“It wasn’t your fault, Holt.” I jerked around to face Nash. “It wasn’t,” he pushed. “It was two sick teenagers who never should’ve had access to weapons.” My nostrils flared, and my breathing turned ragged. “I. Was. Late.” “And I made you late. Do you think I wanted Wren to get shot? That I wanted her to almost die?” I shook my head in a rough movement. “I made her a promise. Me. If I’d been there—” “Then they would’ve shot you, too.” “I could’ve protected her.”
