DEVLIN

This whiskey is shit.

That’s all I focus on. All I want to think about.

I want to complain about the precinct’s whiskey tasting like cheap trash and bad decisions while forgetting all that’s happened today.

Sarah. Mike’s grandma. She was the only soft thing in a childhood full of knives and nightmares. She baked cookies when Marshall shipped me off to whatever boarding school or camp or war zone he decided would “fix” me.

She let us hide in her kitchen when he came ...