The fury flares up again in Solis’s eyes. Anguish flits around at the edges of it. I know that mix of feelings, all too f*****g well. “Then one morning, a couple days before the indictments were gonna land, Owen’s wife found him in their garage, hanging from the rafters with a note pinned to his chest that said, I’m sorry. They ruled it a suicide, if you can fuckin’ believe that. Bada-bing, bada-boom, case closed. Except I knew Owen. I knew that man better than I knew my own brother.” Solis’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “He had a six-year-old daughter. He was coaching T-ball that spring, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t suicidal. He was murdered, and Aleksei made it look like something else so nobody would ask questions.”
The beagle whines softly, sensing its handler’s distress.
I do
