Cane's POV
The world was just a buzz in my ears. The picture in the window—Armstrong's clean face, that satisfied nod—was burned onto the back of my eyes. I couldn't move from my spot against the cold glass wall. My legs were concrete.
Henry's hand closed on my shoulder. It was firm. It pulled me back. I let him. He tugged me around the corner, away from the window, back into the shadow of a big, sculpted hedge.
His face was close to mine. "What is it?" he whispered. His eyes were sharp, scanning my face. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
My mouth was dry. My tongue felt thick. I tried to form the words. Armstrong is alive. He's in charge. He's the boss. They wouldn't come out. They were too big, too poisonous.
"I might have," I finally croaked. The sound was barely human.
"Who?"
