While Katrina changed, Mitch poured himself a glass of whiskey that he downed before staring at the counter of the little kitchen. He didn't want to talk about it. Anything else he could do, but this was hard. And to her face? Made it ten times worse, no matter that she was alive.
He sucked in a breath when he heard her and turned around. Mitch leaned against the counter, crossed his arms, and glared at the floor before glancing back up at her. "I don't know how else to say it. You...were shot. And you died. Right in front of me on the beach. Which happened over a year ago."