Taylor’s mother arrived only minutes later in her car and to her credit, she looked terrible.
“What is going on?” she asked right away, her voice shaky, and Garrett didn’t blame her, coming onto such a scene.
Her husband was tied up and unconscious, his face a bloody mess; her son looked like he could kill—or had already—with bleeding knuckles and blood splattered across his shirt; and Garrett himself, sitting next to Taylor, was bruised, bleeding from scrapes on his face, and smeared with dirt, while a grim-faced Nanna tended to his face from a little first aid kit she’d pulled from her purse. Garrett didn’t know what he looked like exactly, but Nanna and Taylor’s mirrored expressions watching him made Garrett think it looked pretty bad.
Before Mrs. Hitchens had even finished asking t
