Amos cried out, startled, the image of the dead young man hanging static beside him, shadowy and indistinct and unexpected. I found myself hurtling forward as the killer suggested despite knowing it was a terrible idea, arms outstretched while Oliver did the same. Amos swung the gun around to threaten the old man. Pinpricks of irritation, irrational at a time like that, spiked my temper that he'd chosen the old man as his biggest threat, not the redhead who was going to kick his ...