Nathan Harland.
Shot six times.
I throw the scotch back and let it trickle down my throat. I savor the burn. I bathe in its numbing, healing aura.
I sit alone, in a corner booth of the watering hole not far from my apartment. Nobody bothers me as I work, scanning my datapad through the news articles that have been run since the murder of Nathan Harland. I've lost track of how many drinks. I shake my head, trying to clear the haze. Trying to clear it of memories of the courtroom, the pictures, the six-shooter on the table... And the connections. The six shots that killed Nathan Harland have me playing connect-the-dots. And as for the possible link to the Blue Wreath...
I try to take another drink, but my glass is empty. My hand is shaking.
I bang my glass against the table.
"No ice!"
