Yawning, seven-year old Jackson woke up from his nap; smiling, stretching and luxuriating in his sick day.
“Ready to go?” the store manager asks me. I respond almost too excitedly: “Most definitely, I am exhausted.” To say I am exhausted is an understatement. I don’t remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep.
Melanie and Matt drove past their potential client’s house, a white stucco tear-down on a lesser street in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the country.
It must have been a gunshot. I’d know the sound of a .45 anywhere.
Detective Mark Wheeler lay on the grass. The ground chilled his bones as the fog rolled in.
The sparrow literally dropped through the flue into Helen’s cold fire place at just barely daylight. At first, she thought she imagined it.
Detective Harry Crenshaw glanced at the pamphlet one more time. . .
The dog track was never in our plans for the evening. Scott’s system was for jai alai, not dogs, and tuition for the fall semester was due tomorrow, so he needed to raise it tonight . . .