Trenton ignored the woman, which was actually easier now that she was talking, and he examined the plaque some more. It seemed that there were really only four parts to play; Trenton was not a runaway, a soldier, or a rogue. He tried to swallow the uneasy sensation that crawled like panic from the back of his throat.
Was he really a murderer?
He thought of Aaron, who had most definitely died in his company, and of Boyd who might have been dead for a few minutes, those things were hard to tell. He thought of his brother, dead because of their own game. Then, there were of course countless others that he couldn't stake claim to, but he'd been there when they'd died all the same. That drunk girl who tumbled over the balcony at his party at the Marriott. The friend that overdosed while Trenton was sleeping. That squirrel he accidentally ran down in his BMW last Tuesday.
He felt a little sick, and ran his hand over the back of his neck as he retreated a step from the plaque. He'd never thought of himself as a murderer.
"I've been around when a lot of people have died," he explained shallowly, tonguing the edge of his lip, at a complete loss over how somebody had managed to know about his secrets.