Oh my God, how could I have been so stupid? He wanted to scream. But he didn’t, drawing deep, even breaths instead, trying to calm himself.

He’d been frustrated when he’d noted that Daisy’s orange Beetle wasn’t in the parking lot, but she’d been live on the air, so he knew she was inside. He’d been annoyed when she hadn’t emerged from the building, but he’d still been okay. He’d been logical. Thought driven. His emotions had been in check.

When the damn receptionist had told him to leave a message for “Poppy,” and that she’d call him back at her earliest convenience, he’d only been mildly irritated.

He’d still been clearheaded when he’d come up with the idea to send her flowers, hoping she’d come to the door to receive them, but another woman did. Probably the bitch receptionist who’d told him to leave a message.

Still, the flowers would have been useful. He could have spotted her leaving the station from across the street. Also, the flower arrangement was so large that her vision would be impaired. She wouldn’t see him when he shot her.

What he hadn’t expected was to see Gideon Reynolds carrying the flowers from the station, as cocky and arrogant as he’d always been, even when he was a kid. And then Gideon Reynolds had thrown the flowers into the dumpster, vase and all.

He hadn’t expected his mind to flash back to the image of thirteen-year-old Gideon, covered in blood after shoving Edward McPhearson so hard that his head hit his own anvil. So hard that McPhearson had died.

And he hadn’t expected that image of Gideon’s face to morph into Waylon’s at the moment that DJ had smothered him to death with a pillow.

He definitely hadn’t expected the swell of rage that exploded inside him or the suppressed pop of the gunshot that followed. It was as if he’d been taken over, his actions not his own.

Gideon had staggered back against the dumpster, clutching at his chest, and DJ had felt that rage become a visceral jubilation.

He’d done it. He’d killed Gideon Reynolds. The fucker had finally paid.

But then the man had stood, chest heaving. Because he was still breathing.

Breathing. Gideon didn’t deserve to breathe. He needed to die. He’d needed to die seventeen years ago when he’d killed Edward McPhearson.

Just like DJ’s father had died for helping Gideon escape.

DJ remembered the look in Waylon’s eyes as he’d breathed his last.

The fear.

The guilt.

The acceptance.

Because Waylon had known that he deserved to die.

A sound cut through the storm in his mind, a wail, an animal howl. For a moment DJ wondered what it was that could make that sound. Until he realized.

It’s me. Shocked, DJ covered his mouth, his whole body shaking. His face was wet.

Shit. He was crying. Sobbing.

He hadn’t cried since the day he’d turned thirteen years old. Not since Edward McPhearson had welcomed him into the smithy as his newest apprentice. He’d been so proud of himself. Until Edward had . . .