probably the boy’s father.

 

Eight…nine…ten.

 

As soon as the boy fell limp, Rogers removed his hand. He checked the pulse. It

was there. Weak, but the lungs were inflating, the small chest rising and

falling.

 

He was alive.

 

Rogers stared down at the little boy. The hair was blond, the limbs stick thin.

The back of his neck covered in large freckles.

 

Rogers’s brain misfired again.

 

What was he doing?

 

You never left witnesses behind.

 

You never left anything living behind.

 

Just finish it. It would only take seconds.

 

Instead, he put the boy back in the front seat of the truck and closed the door.

He pulled his knife free from the dead man and Donohue slumped to the dirt. He