I was still sitting on the floor, wrapped in Carson’s arms, my body was sore, my heart still racing in response to the whole event.
Carson helped me up slowly. “We should clean up,” he said.
I nodded, my voice gone. Broken chairs, shattered glass, blood stains—everything around us looked like a war zone.
We cleaned in silence for a while, then Carson’s phone buzzed again.
He picked it up and stepped away to answer, while I sat on the couch, hugging my knees, when he returned with a dark look.
“What is it?” I asked.
He sat beside me. “It’s Fred,” he said.
“What about him?” I asked slowly.
Carson rubbed his face. “He was never running. He wasn’t scared. He played us,” he said.
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The files… the book… They were real. But he was never trying to help. He g
