A Triple Thriller Fest Read Free Page B

himself to work at least a few hours each day on his manuscript, and the daily routine had proven to be his salvation in the two years that had passed since Susan’s death. He had settled into a lonely, but comfortable, routine, and it was only a fifteen-minute drive to work—just enough time to clear his head and make the transition from aspiring novelist to county administrator.
    The periodic nightmares in which he relived the horror of Susan’s death were a continuing curse and a cruel mocking of what might have been— should have been. He hated seeing her broken body lying amidst the blood. When he allowed his mind to drift, he missed her terribly, his breath came in short, ragged gasps, and the pain in his chest, more emotional than physical, was, to his way of thinking, indiscernible from an actual physiological trauma.
    But there were also satisfying memories. Even now, while driving or sitting quietly in his office, he often found himself lost in thought, trying desperately to recall her scent, the texture of her hair and the feel of her skin. He would think about how she spoke to him with her eyes, her smile, and the bold and intimate things she would say and do as she draped herself on him, entwining her fingers in his hair, breathing her sweet breath into his ear, growling outrageous threats, slowly building his emotion and desire, and purring in response when he held her tightly in his arms, his face buried in the fragrant hollow of her neck and shoulder.
    Yet also in that quiet solitude–that memory-induced coma–he also missed her softer side, so often exposed as she sat quietly on a quiet hillside at sunset, writing in her journal, the moisture filling her eyes. After some months, he came to realize that her head-turning physical attributes had never been the source of his deeply felt love. He had lost his companion, his partner in life, and his lover, and her absence left him empty, at times inconsolably bereft of emotion.
    His grandfather had been right. Life often wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that less than a year after being married, she had been cruelly and needlessly snatched away from him. It wasn’t fair that he was alone. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t want to be alone, but that he could not, for the life of him, envision being with anyone else.
    Writing the book had at first only been an escape, and so he was more than mildly surprised when a New York literary agent to whom he had submitted early parts of the manuscript had asked to see the rest. Since that telephone call, the pressure had been intense to finish the book, and he had worked late at night and early in the mornings through several drafts to polish his story and put it in final form. He was ready now to send it off, but he was doing so without much confidence. He had never written anything for publication, and he’d heard the horror stories about how hard it is to get a publisher to pay any attention to an unknown author. He had prepared himself to be disappointed, certain his manuscript would generate only a series of rejection slips.
    He was consoled when he considered that the writing had helped him cope with the loss of Susan and also put him in touch with his ancestors. No matter what came of it, Voices in My Blood had served a great purpose.
    The phone rang just as Dan was grabbing his keys and preparing to leave his condo for work.
    “Good morning, this is Dan.”
    “Morning, Dan. It’s Tony.”
    “Well, Sheriff, you’re on the job early this morning. Trying to set up a game this afternoon?”
    Antonio Sanchez was the Yolo County Sheriff, and the two of them sometimes knocked off early to get in a quick nine holes at the Yolo Country Club after work. But instead of responding to the question, Tony said, “Can you meet me on I-5 at the north end of the Memorial Bridge?”
    “Sure. I don’t have staff meeting ’til ten. What’s up?”
    “I’d, uh, rather talk with you in person.”
    “Understand. I’ll be