Free Dead to the Max by Jasmine Haynes

brown, was fine against his scalp. He looked to be in his early forties, a good fifteen or so years older than Wendy had been. Max couldn’t imagine Wendy, a woman of so many colors, with this pale shadow of a man.
    In the next moment, Hal Gregory smashed his wife’s mug against the wood veneer of the desk, shattering the ceramic into a million irretrievable pieces.
     

Chapter Five
     
     
    Max shrieked.
    Hal Gregory’s gray eyes widened. The box slid slowly down his knees to the floor, somehow managed to land flat, its contents intact. Hal then rose to his full height.
    Jeez, the guy was tall. A beanpole, with long, thin arms in a short-sleeved shirt. His bony hands ended in skeletal fingers, a gold wedding band on his left.
    Max didn’t trust a man with long, skinny fingers. Unless he composed music or painted. She certainly couldn’t picture Hal Gregory making anything beautiful or colorful.
    “I’m sorry I startled you.” Max smiled. Death made the need for polite, unnecessary introductions irrelevant. “I’ll get something to clean up that mug.”
    Yesterday, she’d noted a brush and pan in the bathroom. She was back in two seconds flat, afraid he’d leave before she could ask him why he hadn’t reported his wife missing. She’d have to work up to it. Hitting him straight off with the question wasn’t an option if she didn’t want to blow her cover.
    “I don’t know what came over me.” Voice grave and grating on her ears, Hal smoothed shards from the desk into his cupped hand.
    “You’re upset. It’s understandable. Don’t cut yourself.”
    She used the excuse to study his hands more closely. If Wendy had scratched him, it didn’t show.
    “That’s generous, but you can’t begin to understand what I’m going through.” He dusted his hands over the waste basket and began scooping at the other end of Max’s desk.
    Down on her haunches, brush and pan in hand, she stared up at him. “My husband was shot in a robbery. I know how you feel.”
    She never told people about Cameron. Still, the circumstances were extraordinary. If she wanted something from Hal Gregory, she’d only get it if she put something on the line.
    He drew back, his lips compressed. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
    In a different situation, she’d have labeled him a dickhead. His wife, however, had just been murdered. If he wasn’t guilty of the crime himself, then he deserved to blow off a little steam.
    “I’m not mouthing platitudes.” She spoke with her head down, pretending concentration on the mess he’d made. The harder she brushed, the deeper the shards ground into the carpet.
    She heard him sigh, looked up to find he’d closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest. The action wrinkled his blue-and-white striped shirt.
    After a deep breath, he said, “Sorry, but I’m sick to death of all the pity.”
    Max suspected the largest dose was self-inflicted.
    As an apology, it sucked. But Max accepted it as a truce. Her knees creaked as she stood. “I’m sure it isn’t easy.”
    Eyes open again, he pulled away from the wall, rested his hands on the back of her chair. “Hackett let me in.”
    She hadn’t asked and didn’t know why Gregory needed to explain, but took it as a sign he’d eventually spill his guts.
    “I’ve gone through all the drawers,” she said. “I think what’s in the box is everything.”
    She dumped the contents of the dustpan in the trash and came within a foot of the man. He smelled, not badly, just a hint of sweat as if he’d spent a restless night, then skipped his morning shower.
    He stepped back. “Sorry about the way I sounded. I’m preoccupied. I hope you’ll forgive me.” He nodded toward the ceramic dust still coating her desk.
    “It wasn’t my mug, Mr. Gregory.”
    He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. The shadow cast by the overhead light gave the contours of his esophagus a lizard-like quality. The man radiated bad