Free Bonds of Justice by Nalini Singh

question, but his voice had shifted again, the timbre warm, disturbingly intimate in the confines of the car.
    Her hand slipped a little as her palm turned damp. “She lost a certain amount of money when news of Vale’s suicide got out. You have to understand, such an act is highly unusual among Psy”—among most Psy—“and is considered a sign of severe mental illness.”
    Max’s next words hit her without warning. “You’re not telling me everything.”
    How had he known? She stared at the clean lines of his profile, her eyes lingering at his temple. He was human. All his records proved that without a doubt—and yet the way he read suspects, the way he’d just read her, it reminded her again that she’d have to be very, very careful around him.
    If he realized the extent of the fractures inside of her, if he understood the things the otherness had done . . . She took a slow, careful breath. “It has no bearing on the case.”
    The look he shot her was brutal in its demand. “I’ll decide what’s relevant.”
    “Suicide,” she finally said, “is considered an acceptable choice in some circumstances. However, in those cases, the suicide is usually undertaken in a quiet, unobtrusive way.”
    “Suicide’s never quiet or unobtrusive.” His voice was a whip, cutting across her skin. “I’ve seen enough shattered families to know that. But . . . Psy don’t do love, do they?”
    “No.” Emptiness in her soul, an echoing nothingness where there should’ve been family, should’ve been connection, even if only of the coldest kind. “Often, in cases of severe mental deterioration, the choice is between suicide and rehabilitation.”
    Suicide is the better option, Sophia. Another J, speaking to her two months before he was discovered dead in a hotel room, having overdosed on a carefully calculated cocktail of drugs. At least, you’ll die whole. If they take you, they’ll leave an atrocity behind—a creature that should not exist.

CHAPTER 8
    The minor’s parents have willingly surrendered full custody to the state as she does not appear to have the capacity to manage life in the regular population.
    —PsyMed report on Sophia Russo, minor, age 8
    Max had been a cop for over a decade. It didn’t take him long to connect the dots. Staring out at the city streets, he tried to wipe out the image of Sophia slipping softly into the last good night, unable to believe that this smart, steely woman would ever give in to death without a fight. “And do you think suicide is preferable to rehabilitation?”
    “I believe the choice is the individual’s.” A pause. “But if you’re asking if I would ever make that choice—no.” She tapped the screen of her organizer with a little laser pen. “Would you like to talk about the second suspicious death?”
    Convinced by her absolute answer on the issue of suicide, he turned his mind back to the case. “Carmichael Jones,” he said. “Massive coronary in his suite while at a meeting in the Cayman Islands. Maid found him—pathologist ruled he’d been dead for at least two, three hours at that stage.”
    Sophia didn’t say anything for almost a minute. Then, “Do you have all this data in your head?”
    “Yes.” Startled at the question, he glanced over, caught those night-violet eyes watching him with a focus that felt like a touch. “Don’t you?”
    “No, I have other things in my head.” She dropped her gaze to the screen of the organizer, cutting off that topic, but he felt its shadowy echo all around him.
    His hands clenched on the steering wheel. “Do you have nightmares?”
    “Psy don’t dream.” It was the nonanswer he’d expected, but then she added, “It’s easy for them to say that,” and he knew Sophia had looked into the abyss and screamed.
    Even as he opened his mouth to reply, she spoke again, and this time, her words were icily pragmatic. “Carmichael Jones was Councilor Duncan’s main advisor in relation to the property arm of