LITMIR.BIZ

       ONE

      Asia Stratton’s gaze remained transfixed on the lifeless eyes staring back at her. Dark pools—so black they appeared to be bottomless holes—silently demanded an explanation for the single bullet wound to the center of the man’s forehead.

      An explanation she couldn’t provide.

      “Asia, drop the gun. Put your hands up,” a male voice ordered.

      She jerked at the mention of her name and squinted against the blinding light veiling the stranger in the doorway. Darkness had fallen, and Nebraska’s icy winter wind blasted through the unfamiliar living room.

      The dead man’s silent inquisition beckoned, and Asia reverted her attention to him.

      “I said, drop the gun,” the intruder repeated.

      His words trickled through the fog in her brain and she gasped at the Glock gripped in her palm. Asia released her hold, and the weapon toppled from her shaking hands onto the dirty carpet. She lifted her arms in obedience, sending a jolt of pain radiating up her shoulder. She cried out, then caught sight of the crimson stain marring her white blouse.

      “Keep your hands up! Don’t make any sudden moves.” In her peripheral, she saw the man enter, taking cautious, steady steps, gun trained on her. His familiar uniform publicized his law enforcement authority. “Don’t move,” he repeated, then kicked the door closed behind him, sending another wave of cold air her way.

      She winced and shivered, keeping her arms raised as high as she could tolerate. The flickering glow from the muted television, combined with the officer’s flashlight beam bouncing off the walls, rivaled the intense headache pounding in Asia’s skull. Dizziness swirled, and nausea overwhelmed her senses.

      The trooper stepped between her and the dead stranger opposite her. “Whose blood is on your blouse? Yours or his?” He turned off the flashlight, then used it to gesture at her.

      Asia swallowed. “Mine. I think?”

      “Lower your hands slowly, keeping them where I can see them.”

      Her gaze traveled up the barrel of the officer’s gun until she focused on his face. Fear morphed into confusion, only to be replaced by annoyance. Of all the cops in the world, it had to be him. Nebraska state trooper Slade Jackson. Her deceased husband’s ex-partner—and her backstabbing former high school boyfriend.

      “Very slowly, extend your hands toward me.”

      An argument lingered on her lips, but the murkiness in her brain had her complying. She momentarily broke her gaze from the dead man. “I don’t—”

      Slade encircled her wrists with cold metal, startling her. “This is necessary for your safety and mine. Protocol.” The click of handcuffs stabbed her with irritation. “I’m supposed to secure your arms behind your back, but with your shoulder injury...”

      He was justifying handcuffing her? She stared at him, hoping to mask her fear. “Are you kidding me? Handcuffs? You’ve known me since kindergarten.”

      Her words had no effect on him. Of course not. Slade was always the rule follower. Procedure Boy. Even when it meant destroying other people’s lives.

      Slade stepped to her side and kicked the Glock out of reach. “Is there anyone else here?” His gaze bounced between Asia and the small hallway behind her. The questions etched on his face no doubt mirrored her own bewilderment.

      “I don’t... I didn’t...”

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