He’s taller than I remembered from the wedding, or maybe it’s just that he’s so much taller than me right now, with my back against a stone wall and my hands hanging useless at my sides. Even now, he looks almost presidential.
Some people just have the gift of aura, I suppose. Halfway to the murder of a pregnant woman and he still just has the glow.
“Nothing but a tiny prick in the thigh,” he says. “Less of a scene that way. We’ll get you onto the bed first. The story’s tidier if you’re already lying down when Collins finds you.”
He flicks the side of the syringe twice with his fingernail. A small bead of liquid blooms at the tip and runs down the side of the needle.
He sighs again, that toddler-refusing-to-eat-her-broccoli sigh, and takes a step toward me.
Inside my head, very far aw
