Chapter Eleven
By evening, Callan considered slamming his forehead against the wall. At least it would ease the pounding in his head.
He’d brewed himself a coffee, headed out to sort out another one of Douglas and Warren’s fights and cleared up some paperwork.
Now he sat in front of Lucas’s belongings, hoping the box and a half he’d yet to go through held answers.
With his aches and pains, he considered calling it quits for the day. The loyalty in him wouldn’t let him up and leave, though. Logan might’ve said it didn’t matter to him, but it did matter to Callan. That way, he’d have done his job. Forty years was too long for a killer to roam free.
Callan reached into the second box and brought out shoes. He inspected them in under five minutes.
The knock on the door drew him from his
