LITMIR.BIZ

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over the file. “You’re damn lucky I’m not reporting you to the old man.”

      “Now, why would you do that, Slate? We get along so well. If I was gone, you’d have to break in another ranger and you know how fun that is.” Wade locked his fingers behind his neck and leaned back in his chair.

      The bruising had faded, but he was still squinting through a severely beaten eye. The man had spent days in the hospital and come back to work with a cloud hanging around him so thick, everyone was pretending they couldn’t see him.

      Everyone except Wade’s partner, Jack MacKinnon, Heath Murray and himself. They were a team. They’d come into Company B at the same time and had a special bond. Didn’t seem like anything could break it.

      Even Wade being assigned the punishment boxes.

      Most of the reasons Wade had been desked weren’t public knowledge. Jack knew more than anyone in the Company and he wasn’t talking. But over beers, both Jack and Wade had considered themselves very lucky to have a job.

      Jack’s temporary assignment to help the Dallas PD hadn’t gone without speculation. It also coincided with his new roommate—of the feminine persuasion. Heath, Wade and himself included hadn’t spent any serious time with the lady...Megan Harper.

      Yet.

      Everyone in Company B had seen the results of “the Harper case,” as it was referenced. However Wade and Jack had gotten involved, it was Wade’s fault for playing a hunch. His saving grace was that whatever he’d done had saved Megan Harper’s life and captured a man whose mental health was still waiting to be evaluated.

      Saying yes to one of Wade’s hunches was usually easy. Hell, this particular ranger had a long line of successful hunches that had played out with many a bad man behind bars. Slate opened the file. He had to admit that he wanted to help.

      “You’d be on your own most of the time, buddy,” Wade said from the next desk. “Of course, if I’m wrong, then there’s nothing to do anyway.”

      Slate nodded, contemplating. Breaking the rules really wasn’t his thing. Then again, he’d wanted to be in law enforcement to help people...not knowingly send an innocent man to jail.

      Yeah, there was a chance that Wade was wrong. But when the man went with his gut, he just rarely was.

      “I’ll do it.”

      “Why does your intonation hold a giant but at the end?”

      “Maybe because there is one. I want the story of why you’re sitting at this desk instead of on current cases.”

      “You interview Vivian Watts—Victor’s sister—and you’ll get it.”

      “That was easy.” But there had to be a catch. The smile on his friend’s face was mixed with sadness. Totally not like him.

      “Not as easy as you think. Watts’s sister moved to Dallas and has been proclaiming his innocence ever since.”

      “This is a problem because...”

      “The trial starts next week. She’s going to want to go public if the Texas Rangers are reopening the case. You’re going to have to keep her totally quiet. Still interested?”

      “If I say no, you’re going straight to Heath with this, aren’t you?”

      “Yeah.” Wade laughed, leaning back in his chair and tossing a pen next to the stack of files.

      “He’s better with a computer. I’m the best investigator you’ve ever worked with. Remember?” Slate stood, grabbed the jacket from the back of his chair, shoved his arms through and stuffed his hat on his head for emphasis.

      “I think we’re remembering that conversation differently. But I’ll let you have your exit, Mr. Best Investigator.”

      Slate left the offices, with Wade’s laughter echoing down the hall. He tossed the folder onto the seat of his truck, questioning what he’d just committed himself to. The page of the doctor’s notes with the evidence notations he’d read earlier stuck out in his memory:

      Other entries in this handwritten journal end with a summary of each subject’s treatment—if any—along with instructions for other staff members. The treatment summary portion of Subject Nineteen’s entry is missing. As in not written or torn from the journal.

      Blood spatter pattern indicates the journal was open to Subject Nineteen’s page and the deceased was seated at her desk, even though the body was moved to and posed in the chair normally occupied for sessions.

      A slash from right to left, indicates a left-handed upward movement, which severed the right jugular. Force is consistent with a person standing behind the victim.

      One case could ruin a ranger’s career or come close to it. Just like Wade. Was he willing to risk it? Was he willing to break the rules for someone he didn’t know?

      Yes.

      Hell, did his career actually compare with the lifetime he’d wanted to protect the innocent?

      No.

      His adrenaline was pumping for once, ready to help someone in need.

       Chapter Two

      Planning the perfect death wasn’t easy, but she wanted one. It was the only way. Abby read the doctor’s diagnosis and recommendations every morning. It was in her bedside table drawer, tucked away from the world but in exactly the same place for her daily routine.

      She awoke, showered, dressed for her day and read the report as her tea brewed. She might be groggy from a poor night’s sleep, but she still put in her contacts and read the torn sheet of notepaper from the journal.

      It took her the same number of minutes to read the other papers she’d collected. Three diagnoses over three years from three different cities. Her tea would be ready for a dash of lemon to help her concentrate.

      Holistic remedies suited her much better than the prescriptions she’d used since her twenties. Stopping the input of chemicals into her body was the best thing she’d ever done.

      It was so freeing.

      Her mind could think on multiple levels like it hadn’t for the past several years. She sipped the last bit of her tea with her blueberry tea biscuit. More brain energy and antioxidants. She’d need to be on her toes this morning for the next phase of her experiment.

      Killing Dr. Roberts had been eye-opening. An epiphany of sorts. Abby no longer was held back by perfectionism. Her death demonstrated it was no longer necessary. The good doctor’s analysis had allowed her to move forward last year. Finding the perfect form of death would take practice, yes. But the doctor’s death had provided enlightenment—of a sort.

      If she couldn’t perfect the act of death herself, she’d enlist others to help in her research. Simple enough.

      She covered her lips and giggled, ready for her day of research to begin. She couldn’t say that she loved this day each week. As Dr. Roberts pointed out, the unfortunate attachment disorder kept her from loving anything. But this day gave her a bit of excitement to look forward to. Moving toward the completion of a project should give a normal person a sense of accomplishment.

      And she was so close.

      The alarm went off on her phone. She gathered her things from the hall table. Purse, lunch and then the clean surgical gloves and mask from their dispensers. She walked to the door and stood there waiting for it to open, then reminded herself that she had the right to open it when she wanted.

      Four years away from the prison they called a hospital and she still had moments where she forgot she was free to move as she wished. It was less than a minute of her life every now and again, but she resented every wasted second it took to force herself to reach out and turn the doorknob.

      Thinking

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