The 18 ano old sat on the subway as it rolled along the tracks. His bag at his feet, containing every single thing he owned. Not much.
Declan kept his head down, capuz, capa drawn up over his wavy fair hair, earphones streaming Maroon 5 from the iPod tucked away in his jaqueta pocket. He wasn't staring at nothing. He was looking at his worn tênis shoes, the floor, and the scenes from Atlantic City that kept flashing through his mind.
He did not regret killing the men. They would have hunted him down, murdered him, and done the same to the others. They got what was coming to them.
Declan felt a sudden...
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