Celeste;
Blood splatters everywhere. Dripping from the couch, the refrigerator in the far corner, the brick wall of the fireplace. The stench is so thick it makes my insides roil.
Caruso stands in the middle of the chaos, stains of red all over his bright T-shirt. Rough smears mark his jeans.
His hair is tousled like someone who's been in a fight.
Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, and it's all it took for him to plunge this place into the hell I'm seeing right now.
Grunting sounds echo from a short distance.
And if I was shocked before, I goddamn want to keel over and retch my insides onto this bloodstained floor now.
A man lies sprawled on the ground, his body bent at an inhumane angle, bullet holes riddling him—except from chest to face.
His lips are split, and both eyes are burst and bleeding so profusely I doubt he sees anything at all.
"What the fuck, Caruso?" I don't know when it slips out, rolling off my tongue in a horrified gasp.
