I stood in the open space between the six doors with nothing on and looked ahead.
The hard white light ran the length of the corridor without warmth. Painted stone. Sealed entrance at the far end. Six doors, half of them holding people who had already cost me something.
Monica had taken everything I thought I knew and turned it face down, and the part I couldn't get past was that she was right. Not all the way. But right in the way that sticks — the kind of right that sits under the ribs and doesn't move when you breathe.
He wanted it stopped. He just didn't want to be the one who paid for it.
That's the one kind of man I'll never respect.
The anger came up slow, from somewhere under my ribs, and it had nothing to do with anything I'd done.
