"Warren wouldn't actually hit her, would he?"
Shirley Thorne muttered to herself in the car, her brow furrowed.
It wasn't that she was being paranoid; Warren's state was just genuinely abnormal.
Setting aside his gaunt, malnourished appearance, there was his whole demeanor. Even from a distance, she could see the veins bulging on his forehead in anger, his savage expression, and the fierce glint in his eyes.
She'd seen that kind of look before—on all sorts of criminals.
"Don't worry, ma'am. Our people are in the area."
Florence Langley said reassuringly.
Shirley bit her lip, worried about Susan in spite of herself.
Hating her—even looking down on her—was one thing. But watching her get beaten up by a scumbag was something else entirely.
Under the streetlight, Warren's condition was deteriorating. His eyes were bloodshot.
Susan instinctively clutched her purse, her voice catching as she called out, "Warren... you... still..."
