(GRAYSON'S POV)
I can barely sleep.
I toss, and turn, and my mind keeps circling the same damn place like a dog chasing its own tail until it collapses. Every time I think I'm drifting off, my eyes snap open again. The scene plays on the inside of my skull like it's being projected there against my will—the text messages, the video, that man's bloodied face, the gunshots before he dropped dead.
My brain won't stop repeating the same question.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
The last time I look at the clock it's after 3 AM. Somehow I doze off after that, because the next thing I know, something's chirping, dinging, vibrating—an endless flood of noise that rips me straight out of whatever shallow sleep I managed to fall into.
I groan and reach for the bedside table, knocking over my glasses, a pen, something else that clatters loud enough to make me wince.
