by Kit Ehrman
* * *
By the time Nick's truck disappeared down the road, my side was throbbing, and I was beat. Thinking about Mr. Sanders' little insurance policy, I left a message for Detective Ralston and headed home. As I climbed the steps to the loft, a trace of light lingered in the west, conclusive evidence that the days were getting longer.
I closed the kitchen door behind me and dropped my mail on the counter. The loft was oppressively quiet, the air stale. I dumped everything I'd been wearing onto the floor in the closet. Nothing smelled worse than burnt horse hoof. Even I couldn't stand myself. I took a long, hot shower, sloshed some Jack Daniels' over ice, and downed a Percodan. Between the two of them, the rib pain didn't stand a chance.
