Joan pouted when Matheus took away her chainsaw. She stomped down the hall, throwing obscenities over her shoulder. David, her victim, trailed after her, weaving from side to side. He’d tucked his bloody stump into his shirt.
“And don’t just dump him downtown!” Matheus yelled after Joan. “Make sure he gets someone to eat!”
He tossed the chainsaw into one of the projection rooms, and walked out to the back parking lot.
Alistair leaned against the Jeep, his arms tight over his chest. He stared at the cracked pavement. The flickering streetlight made shifting patterns of jaundice and shadow over his face. Black didn’t suit him. He looked his age, the nonagenarian bleeding through the coating of youth.
Guilt twisted in Matheus’ stomach. He knew why he’d gone to talk to Milo first, why he’d let Quin convince him to linger in the motel room. He cleared his throat.
Alistair glanced up, but his expression didn’t change. Matheus received a glimpse into the life of a windowpane.