Then she shoved him with both hands.
“You know who found him?”Another shove, tearing at his shirt.
“The fuckin’ law.”
“You know where they found him?The old rail line.The rail line.”Her voice splintered.“You know how long he laid there dyin’?No—no, you don’t know shit, do you?”
He let her hit, let her scream, each word landing like a fist to his fucking kidney.Right up until he couldn’t take another goddamn—
“You think this is on me?”His roar tore loose, shoving her back.“You’re the one who left!You’re the one who never came back—never picked up a goddamn phone!”
“Fuck you,” she screamed, pushing up against him—all five foot nothing and still in his goddamn face.“You had him here—right fuckin’ here—and didn’t do a damn thing to stop it!”
“All right, enough!”Margie shoved between them, one hand gripping Cassie’s arm, the other pressed to Nash’s chest.“That’s enough.Both of you.”
Cassie twisted in Margie’s grip, still fuming.“He’s gone, Nash—and you were right here drinkin’ and laughin’ and playin’ king of fuckin’ nothin’ while he—while he—” Her voice cracked, stumbling over the words.“You should’ve been with him, you should’ve stopped it, you should’ve done somethin’, anything—!”
“Cassie!”Margie caught her wrists and held firm.“Look at me.”
Cassie didn’t even blink.Her whole body strained forward, every ounce of fury fixed solely on Nash.And him—he couldn’t drag his eyes off her if he tried.Two storms colliding, neither backing off, the room around them nothing but blur.
“Nash,” Margie snapped.“Back up.”
“An’ Cassie-girl, I ain’t gonna say it again—look at me.”
At last, Cassie’s eyes cut to Margie, albeit still red-rimmed and wild; her hands trembling in Margie’s grip.
“I know what you’re feelin’,” Margie continued.“Feels like a fist on your heart, squeezin’ till you can’t breathe.Stomach churnin’, head spinnin’, like your body’s tryin’ to crawl out of itself.And you need someone to blame.Someone to spit all that grief back into.But girl—you been gone a hell of a long time.And there’s things ’bout Con you don’t know.”
“Get your hands off me, Margie,” Cassie managed to grit out.
“I surely will not.Not until you stop breathin’ fire and let me speak my piece.Hell, I’d say you owe me that much—seein’ as how I never got so much as a postcard from you all these years.”
Cassie blinked at the older woman, as if only now remembering she was there.Her mouth opened, closed, breath shuddering as some of the fight drained from her.
Margie released one of Cassie’s wrists, slipping an arm around her waist.“Now come with me,” she said, turning toward the hall.“I’ll get you a drink for them nerves and you’ll hear the whole story.After that, you can decide who you’re mad at.”
As Margie and Cassie disappeared, the commons erupted—
“Did Con OD?”
“Why’s she blamin’ Nash?”
“Was it a hit?”someone muttered.
“Black Vultures?”another voice cut in, sharper.
A few heads turned at that—low murmurs stirring before getting swallowed by the noise.
“Everybody out!”Nash barked, his voice cracking like a whip.“If you ain’t got a patch, you ain’t got reason to be here.”
Still gripping Connor’s cut, he ducked behind the ruined bar, finding a half-full bottle of bourbon—one of the few Cassie hadn’t smashed.Sweeping shards of glass off a stool, he dropped onto it.
For a long moment he just stared at the bottle, hand tight on the neck.
Connor was…dead.
Cassie was…back.
