"That's enough," Jules told the air, and the hallway, and the damn hotel that was dead set on driving him mad.
Violet was quiet as graves, but Jules knew she was there, and he knew she'd seen, and he actually felt sorry for the scrap of girl that had gotten in over her head so hard. He knew Tate on sight, remembered those blond curls from the week the city went lunatic.
He pushed himself to his feet. "We're gonna hide 'neath the covers and watch an Elvis marathon," he told the silent girl in his mind.
Figured. He was talking to the child now. Figured.