By afternoon, the Whitesun Hotel had fallen into a silence that felt wrong for a building sheltering so many people.
Doors remained closed along the corridors. Meals sat unfinished, and conversations faltered whenever someone tried to speak about what had happened during the night. Even the children seemed to understand that the adults had no reassurance left to offer them.
Margaret was dead.
People had repeated the words since morning, sometimes as a question, sometimes in disbelief, but hearing them again had not made them easier to accept. There were still people waiting for someone to correct the story.
The attack had come while most of the hotel was asleep.
It had not been Callighan's men forcing their way inside, or strangers appearing at the entrance with guns. The men responsible had lived among them. They had eaten their food, slept beneath the same roof, and survived the journey from Jackson Township with people who had once trusted them.
Brad, Billy, and Kyle.
