Free The Final Line by Kendall McKenna Page A

a county jail.
    Sergeant Lopez also noticed Sean’s distress. He set aside the papers he’d been reading. “The victim’s sister found a neighbor to call nine-one-one. The deputies arrived, made entry and found the suspect cradling the victim’s lifeless body, both of them covered in her blood.”
    Sean made a pained sound and ran a hand over his forehead in agitation.
    “What has he said about why he did it?” Corey asked, struggling to wrap his mind around the facts.
    “He hasn’t said much. He was hostile and combative with the deputies.” The sergeant leaned back in his chair. “He claims he doesn’t remember anything, which means he probably had a PTS flashback, caused by whatever it was happened to the two of you in Afghanistan. That could mean he can’t be held legally responsible.”
    Corey’s heart raced and he sucked a harsh breath in through his clenched teeth. He couldn’t remember anything happening that would cause the kind of trauma that would make a good man beat a woman to death and not remember. His disgust for Nygaard made him nauseous.
    “I don’t know what he means,” Corey said sharply. “Maybe if I talk to him he’ll get specific.”
    Lopez’ voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “Ordinarily, there’d be no chance, it would be too dangerous. In your case, Staff Sergeant, I have no doubt you can take care of yourself,” he said with a knowing smirk.
    Sergeant Lopez called out to the deputies staffing the security pod in Prisoner Intake. The raised platform sported video monitors, alarms, and electronic door controls. One of the deputies came down the short set of stairs and led Corey across the long expanse of concrete floor toward Nygaard’s cell.
    Corey glanced around at things he hadn’t noticed before, like the larger holding cell that held multiple prisoners, many of whom were asleep on benches and the hard floor.
    The deputy ordered Nygaard to sit on the bench at the back of the small enclosure. When Nygaard had complied, the deputy signaled the pod to unlock the cell door.
    “No physical contact,” he said. “If either of you breaks that rule, if either of you raises your voice, we’re opening the door and pulling you out.”
    “Copy that.” Corey didn’t take offense. He recognized the desire deep inside himself to put a fist into Nygaard’s face.
    Gears whirred and Corey heard a loud clack. The deputy slid the clear door open and gestured him inside.
    “One more thing,” said the deputy, “the cell is mic’d. There is no expectation of privacy. For either of you.”
    “None is needed,” Corey replied in a low tone as he stepped into the cell.
    As the door clanged shut loudly behind him, Corey braced his hands on his hips and looked down at Nygaard. He looked like shit. He looked like he’d been through a firefight. Nygaard had a black eye forming. There were scratches along both cheeks and on his throat. His hands were bloodied and bruised, his knuckles raw and swollen.
    Corey’s lip curled in disgust. These wounds had not been sustained in combat. They’d been sustained while beating an innocent woman to death. Michael Nygaard was a big, strong, lethally trained Marine and he’d used it all against a weaker opponent.
    “What the fuck did you do?” Corey heard himself ask in a voice laden heavily with loathing.
    “I don’t know, man,” Nygaard replied pathetically. “I don’t know how it happened.”
    “I didn’t come here to listen to your fucking excuses,” he snapped, voice rising. “Why the fuck did you have them call me instead of your platoon sergeant?”
    “You know what we went through.” Nygaard’s leg bounced in agitation. “You know what they did to us and what we had to do.”
    Corey’s heart thundered. He breathed through his mouth as a buzzing started in his ears and he grew lightheaded. He squeezed his fingertips hard into his hipbones through his jeans. Nothing Corey had ever been through made him capable of using his