72
Luther tucked his hand beneath his leg when he noticed it creeping toward his brow. His forehead—hell, his whole skull—had begun a slow, insistent throb. He’d thrown the pain pill prescription the ER doc had given him in the trash, but he wouldn’t say no to a bottle of Tylenol. Although it’d probably kill him on an empty stomach.
“Shot in the head, huh?” Grant asked.
“It was just a little piece of the bullet or the jacket or something—I thought it was glass—but yeah, I guess I was. Technically.” Luther grinned. “Too bad I wasn’t on duty.”
He glanced over at the Sheriff, but the man’s eyes stayed glued to the road and the cars ahead of them as if they were about to do something interesting. “About that…” Luther said.
Grant sighed. “Luther, I understand you want an answer about your
