No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

rubbing her nose. “I mean … God almighty, how’d you let this
happen? How’d you let it get this bad?”
Ashley was sick of talking. He shoved his way inside, his
eyes watering in the acidic air. Sandi tottered backward,
suddenly alarmed, all of her harsh words momentarily stuck in
her throat. She’d seen the orange Paslode nailer in his hand.
Christ, he loved this thing.
“It’s under control,” he assured her. “It’s fine.”
Lars came inside, too, his baby-blue ski jacket flaring
under a growl of wind, the Beretta Cougar in his hand.
“You’re sick,” the lady snarled, taking another shaky step
back. “You’re both sick. You weren’t supposed to hurt her—”
“We improvised.”
“I was right about you. About both of you—”
“Oh, yeah?” Ashley tapped Lars’s chest. “Listen. This’ll
be good.”
“I knew you were both just hillbilly white trash—”
“Aw, Sandi, you’re hurtin’ my feels.”
“It’s like you’re trying to get caught.” She spat as she
talked, a string of saliva swinging off her chin, still tottering
backward as they advanced on her with drawn weapons. “You
told me … you said you’d give her clean clothes every day.
You said you’d watch her diet. You’d give her books. You
promised me you wouldn’t harm a hair on Jay’s head—”
“Technically true. Her hair’s fine.”
“How can you think this is funny? You’re going to rot in
prison. You and your little fetal-alcohol-syndrome—”
Brother, she would’ve finished, if Ashley hadn’t shoved
her.
He wasn’t angry. It’s all under control, remember?
But it was still a rougher push than he’d intended. Sandi
skidded backward, her shoes squealing, slamming her broad