Free Hallowed Ground by Lori G. Armstrong

hands so I could call Kevin. The strange twist in this case left me unsettled. Antsy. I needed Kevin’s opinion.

    Was it really Kevin’s expertise I needed? Or did I just want his attention? Either way, whatever advice he’d impart would have to wait until morning, or whenever the hell I saw him again.
    Depressed, I balled up the sandwich wrapper and chucked it on the floor mat.

    No lights burned inside my house. Good thing Kell wasn’t here. I had no desire to explain my bloody clothes or justify the brutality that creeps into my life when I least expect it.

    My reluctance went beyond client confidentiality. The one time I’d brought up my brother’s murder, he’d gotten a look of revulsion I’d rather forget.

    Right. I had baggage. Who didn’t?

    Kell didn’t, but he had principles in spades. Didn’t take any drugs, only ate organic food, and practiced random acts of kindness. In his shiny, happy bubble guns aren’t allowed, violence is a dirty word, and killing a chicken is as bad as killing a human.

    I’d begun to feel like a pin, waiting to pop his illusions.

    So far I’d managed not to get defensive with him. The hippie-type credo he lived by was good in theory; in reality, seemed one person got stuck paying more than their fair share of the bills while the other person touted their ideology.

    For now, he crashed here, more often on my couch than in my bed.

    I made a beeline for the shower and let the water beat on my head until icicles practically dripped from my nose. The water only washed away the blood; it didn’t go through my skull and numb my brain.

    My bloody clothes on the fluffy pink bathroom rug sent my mind spinning. I needed something to help me wind down.

    Jumbo bottle of Excedrin, birth control pills, and Power-Puff girl band-aids stared at me from inside the medicine cabinet. Pretty pathetic selection of pharmaceuticals. Too much trouble to dig for the cough syrup stashed under the sink by the plunger. And I’d save my cache of Tylenol with codeine for serious injuries.

    I tossed my clothes in the garbage. My gaze landed on the bottle of tequila sitting on the kitchen

    counter. Granted, I’d had a few slugs with Martinez, but they didn’t count; I’d been under duress.
    Plus, the calming effects hadn’t lasted near long enough.

    Two substantial, no frills shots later, I’d relaxed. Drowsy, I slipped between my cool sheets. I’d start keeping a bottle of tequila in the bathroom for medicinal purposes.

    I woke alone when the alarm beeped at 4:30. Still sore, I stumbled out of bed. Coffee brewing, I half-dozed on the couch beneath my grandmother’s wedding ring quilt for ten minutes until the aroma beckoned me. Five cups went down the hatch as I made myself presentable. By 5:30, I was in my car, Godsmack blasting the last bit of sleep from my brain.

    First stop: Black Hills Bagels. Armed with two of everything—bagels, hummus, and onion flavored cream cheese—I pulled into the office parking lot.

    Bingo. Kevin’s car was still there.

    I nearly skipped inside. Juggling keys and Styrofoam to-go boxes, I unlocked the main door and decoded the alarm.

    Thoughtful, showing up early with Kevin’s favorite breakfast?

    Nope. Bribery, pure and simple. I’d need every advantage when I told him about Chloe and Donovan Black Dog. And Tony Martinez. And Harvey. And Rondelle. And the Carlucci angle.

    Crap. Maybe I should’ve bought cinnamon rolls from the Colonial House too.

    He’d left the door to his office cracked. No lights shone beyond the fingers of tangerine sun creeping through the blinds.

    I knocked softly. “Kevin?”

    A groan, then, “Jules?”

    I pushed on the door. “You decent?”

    “Yeah.” Fabric rustled, sofa springs creaked.

    In the dim light I watched as he tried to orient himself. It was an odd sight. Kevin, Mr.
    Meticulous, shoeless, sockless, prone on the couch with his hair sticking up like Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes , and a fleece