I watch the knife pass hands with cold detachment. I'm only half listening, anyway. Instead, my eyes are on Mike's face. After years, more years than maybe either of us know, we can't read each other's minds, but when his hand closes around the hilt of that knife, I'm not afraid.

There's not a part of me that thinks this is gonna go the way that bastard wearing Mike's face wants it to go. And if I am about to die by his hand? He will make it quick, and I'm pretty sure he'll follow pretty soon after.