Another man stepped inside the Pork Pit, closed the door behind him, and turned around. Even above the roaring in my ears, I could still hear the bolt click home. Locking us in.

“Dad!” Finn yelled.

Finn started toward his injured father, but the man stepped in front of Fletcher’s prone form and backhanded Finn. The teenager flew across the room. He too hit a table, bounced off, slid to the floor, and was still. I stood behind the counter, eyes wide, not believing this was really happening.

Not now. Not again. Please, please, not again.

“You should have taken the job, Lane,” the strange man growled.

He was a giant, almost two feet taller than me, with a wide, stout chest that reminded me of an iron park bench turned sideways. His black hair ringed his scalp like an upside-

down bowl, while a curly goatee covered his square chin.

“I told you… Douglas,” Fletcher rasped. “I don’t… kill… kids… ever.”

“You should have made an exception. Because now you’re the one who’s going to die.”

Douglas slammed his booted foot into Fletcher’s side.

Fletcher groaned and coughed up more blood. I gasped. The giant’s hazel eyes snapped up to me, settling on my nonexistent chest.

“Well, well.” He smacked his lips. “Hello, pretty girl. We’ll have some fun when I get through over here.”

“Leave her alone,” Fletcher said. “She’s just a kid.”

Fletcher tried to get up, but Douglas leaned down and punched him in the face. I heard his jaw crack across the room, and he fell back to the floor with a sharp grunt of pain.

Finn still hadn’t moved from where he’d fallen. I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

“You know,” Douglas said, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “I’m going to enjoy beating you to death, Lane. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten my hands good and bloody.”

My stomach lurched, and for a moment, I thought I might vomit. My mother, my older sister, Annabella, my baby sister, Bria. In the last few months, I’d lost everyone I’d ever cared about. I couldn’t lose Fletcher too. I just couldn’t. He’d been the only person who’d shown me any kindness, any compassion.

He was the only one left who cared whether I lived or died.

But what could I do? Douglas wouldn’t stop until Fletcher was dead—or he was. He’d said as much, and Fletcher was in no position to fight back. Not now.

In that moment, I knew what I had to do if I wanted to save Fletcher, if I wanted to save myself and the fragile little bubble of life, of normalcy, of security, that I’d built at the Pork Pit.