Free Risk of a Lifetime by Claudia Shelton

We’ll talk later.”
    She let him steer her as she stared straight ahead. At one point, she swiped away a couple of tears that had the nerve to roll down her cheek. She’d always said women who cried were weak. Not always. He’d learned that emotions can do strange things to a body’s reactions. Tears were just one of many coping mechanisms.
    Sometimes against pain. Sadness. Joy. Or, being glad for another breath, hour, or day. Being tortured made you realize what you had to be thankful for. Surviving made it even more apparent.
    His grip tightened beneath her elbow as he guided the two of them out the door. “Let’s go home.”
    Eyes unfocused on the empty air between them, she nodded.
    The vicious, puckered scars across his chest would need to be explained. Along with the brand. Not today, though. And not unless he felt she could handle what he had to tell.

Chapter Seven
    Hours later, JB stormed into the Crayton Police Department’s new two-story brick building. He’d spent the last hour arguing with Marcy about whether he should stay home and rest or go rattle the police to see what the hell they’d found out on the bombing. Finally, he agreed to make the meeting short and eat a bowl of minestrone soup when he got home. Evidently, she’d added being nearly blown to smithereens as something cured by her famous minestrone, right along with broken legs, gunshot wounds, and the common cold.
    No one better try to convince him the explosion had been caused by the water heater blowing up or a gas main rupture. No doubt that’s what the evidence would show. He’d bet money against it. Whoever was behind what was going on in town had crossed the line when they’d involved his ex-wife.
    “Where’s Deputy Evans?” he asked the grey-haired sergeant behind the front desk.
    “He and that FBI friend of yours are over at what remains of your…uh…” Awkwardness didn’t begin to describe the expression on the sergeant’s face as he cleared his throat. “At what’s left of the tattoo parlor and counseling office.”
    JB thanked the man and bolted to his truck. He should have gone by there first, and he would have if his head didn’t hurt so damn bad he couldn’t think straight. And the nausea rumbling through his stomach didn’t speak well of the night to come.
    A couple minutes later, he parked his truck parallel to the police tape stretched across the street a block away from the scene. Deputy Evans and Special Agent Landon were deep in conversation a few feet away from the broken down building that used to be Marcy’s office.
    Deputy Evans held out his hand as JB approached. “Glad you’re okay.”
    The cop’s grip felt firm and genuine.
    “What are you doing here, deputy?” JB scanned the area for markers.
    “Watching the arson and bomb people do their job. The sheriff will want a full report not just on what they find, but one from me on how they performed.”
    Sounded like something Sheriff Davis would insist on. The man always dug deep and then even deeper once he was involved in a case. Plus, being the uncle of one of the victims meant he was involved on an entirely different level.
    Landon walked into the conversation. “Good to see you’re still walking around. Shouldn’t you be home resting?”
    JB shot him a glance. “Still hanging around I see.”
    “I figure since I’m here on the bank robbery, I might as well see if I can lend a hand on this case.”
    Might be the appropriate thing to do, but JB wasn’t convinced Landon was being entirely truthful. “Maybe you should let the Crayton Police Department take care of their business. They know when and who to call in for cases involving experts they don’t have on the force. Isn’t that right, Deputy Evans?”
    “Right.” Evans agreed as Kennett stared into the air.
    Just thought I might be of help.” Landon walked into JB’s space. “What are you doing here anyhow?”
    JB might have felt like his head might explode, but his