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The woman didn’t care.
Wolfe sprinted in front of us and caught her just before she landed. He laid her gently on the soft grass.
Cassander’s chest heaved, the tears still flowing down his cheeks. He jerked his gaze away from her and started walking away, shouting over his shoulder, “No one contacts me. I’ll contact you.”
Mr. Mason’s black hair was askew atop his head and shook it out of his eyes. “Is there a chance he’s fine?”
“There’s always a chance,” Wolfe claimed.
Theron walked toward the fire.
He stared.
Stared.
