There were plenty of teenage boys in the holding pen at the jail. But tonight two in particular stood out.
They sat quietly on a bench in the back corner, staring at phantom points on the floor or wall, not talking to anyone, even each other.
Their clothes were expensive; they obviously weren’t from around here, though the blond had a certain streetwise look about him.
But that alone wasn’t enough to keep the other unsavory occupants of the cell from harassing them—it was the aura of shock and confusion about them.
Anyone who ventured close turned and left almost immediately, irrationally afraid of being sucked into the black hole of trouble between them.
Which neither boy was unhappy about, to say the least.
Finally Seth spoke. “Blanks.”
Ryan’s blue-green gaze shifted over to him. “There’s a hole in my shirt.”
“You probably tore it on accident,” Seth countered. He moved his hands in a vaguely karate-chopping motion, even though Ryan had never studied martial arts in his life. “During the fight.”
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