Easton turns to me as he wipes the blood from his hand on his jeans, and with one glance at him, I know we’re not going to get any more out of him.
“Then we’re done,” I say, more than ready for this to be over.
“No! Please! He m-made me do it!” he pleads, his tough act completely forgotten. In one move, I let go of his hair and remove the knife from his neck, throwing it to the ground. He falls forwards as much as the ties allow, a deep breath rattling from his lungs in an almost sigh of relief.
“I don’t give a shit if he held a gun to your head,” I say, and his head snaps up. “You took them from me, and you’ll pay the price.”
“No… I d-didn’t have a choice!” Ian sobs, pulling on his restraints, but I stop hearing everything as I hold out my hand.
“Are you sure?” Easton says, placing his gun in my outstretched palm, but he doesn’t let it go. He’s not asking if the fucker should die. That’s not even a question. He’s asking if I want to pull the trigger. Despite all the tension between us, I’m thankful for what he’s done, and I’m grateful he’s here with me now, but it has to be me. I need to be the one to do this.
Folding my hand around the weapon, I give Easton a curt nod, and the action is enough for him to remove his hold of the gun.
Ian’s lips move in renewed desperation when I raise the gun, pointing it directly at his forehead, but nothing he has to say will change what’s about to happen. My finger flexes on the trigger as images of my parents flash through my mind, along with the intensifying pain at the hole they left behind. And as I stare into the ruddy brown eye of the man who killed the two people who saved my life, the ones who gave me a home and loved me like their own, I squeeze.