Free If Wishes Were Horses by Joey W. Hill Page B

what happened to you, Sarah? Your  man couldn't handle being married to a  cop? Or you couldn't figure out how to lower the shields when you left the office?”
    The emotions surged up from her unconscious as if he  had reached into her heart
    and yanked  them out, as brutal as a pulp horror film. She took a step  back  into  the  cozy coffee room. She had a brief impression  of his expression, of his arrogance and annoyance with her changing to something  else, but she didn’t want to see it. She  turned away, overwhelmed by feelings gone  from flatline to overdrive, galvanized by  the truth of  his words like the slamming pressure  of a foot on the gas pedal of a race car.
    “Sarah —” he was right behind her.
    “If you touch me, I'll break your fucking fingers. I swear  to God I will.”
    She felt his hands hovering just outside her shoulders, their aura of heat awakening  her skin. He withdrew. She knew he did not fear her threat. Somehow he understood
    how vital it was to give a person  the space to collect shattered shields and lash them  back together. She wondered what had happened to him that he  knew that.
    “I came to get you,” she said, turning to  face  him. She knew her face was too tense,  too pale, from the look of concern in his eyes.   Don't be sensitive, I' ll fly apart. Be  an asshole. Make him one.   “Police business.”
    It took him  a moment to digest that, change gears. “Last night? Sarah—”
    “No. Not exactly.” She hoped. It would be  beyond a nightmare if he was somehow involved in this murder, and he had been in her bed. She wished he would call her Chief Wylde, wished she had the right to make him do so. She  wanted to  march pasthim and leave, but that was no longer an option.
    “I'm here to ask your help on a case, if you're up for it.”
    He looked  startled, and it gave her some  satisfaction to keep him off balance. “I can't imagine what crime could have occurred in Lilesville that would require my expertise.”
    “It's in Marion, just over the line.  It looks like a ritual murder.”
    It didn't hit him at first,  and she knew that was a point  in his favor, unless he was a better actor than she thought he was.
    “A murder, here?”

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    Joey W. Hill
    “Maybe. We're not sure. I figure you might  be our resident expert on some of the  paraphernalia that was used. This hasn't hit  the press yet. We've kept it off the radios.  We want to identify the victim first.”
    “You want…the body is still there?”
    Color drained from his face. Sarah mentally  cursed herself. In a small town, murder  was not an everyday thing, and no matter  how together Justin Herne had  been in her  bedroom, what she saw now was a rattled civilian. She would have done more  handholding if she were asking anyone else  to go look at the  scene as an expert. A  prime example of why it was  so easy for  the personal to fuck with professional  judgment.
    “Hey. “ She made herself reach out, touch his hand which had clenched  into  a white knuckled fist at his side, an unconscious reaction of defense. It wasn’t as hard as  she expected it to be. She had to suppress the unusual desire to lace her fingers in his  and create a stronger link. “I could really use your help. I won't make you get any closer  than you feel like getting. You don't—” she bit back impatience  with herself. “I can't  make you do it. You have a choice. You're just quicker than calling someone in from Gainesville.”
    He looked  down at their hands, and he  surprised her by turning his over and closing his fingers around her smaller hand. His strength was there, but unsteady, as if he drew some of hers into him from their  shared touch. He took a deep breath and suddenly she understood.
    She knew that look, had seen it on faces before. This wasn't the first time he'd seen someone dead from violent means, and it hadn't  been long for him, if that