Dee gasps in horror. "Was he shot?"

"Fell." Stryker's eyes never leave mine, like he's trying to tell me something. Or warn me. I glance toward Diogo who's frowning at him, no longer amused.

Oblivious of any tension, Milla says, "You should come to our group and speak to the volunteers about your experiences. I'm sure they'd love to hear all about it."

"Yes, definitely," Dee chimes in, taking a gulp from her wine glass. "We'd love it."

"Volunteer group?" ...