Eleven
When Grace walked into the precinct, she saw Lore first. He was sitting on the edge of his desk, gesticulating as he shared a story with his rapt audience. Heron was standing beside him, serving as the rapt audience. At the right moment, Heron burst into laughter.
Then Lore’s laughter died as he saw her. He straightened, rolling back his shoulders. “Commander.”
“At ease, Duchovny.” She smiled. “We’re all off the clock here.”
The man’s shoulders remained stiff.
To Heron she said, “Where’s Adams?”
Heron didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes were pinned to her red dress. It cut low, exposing her collarbones, throat, and more scars than either of them had probably seen on her before.
“Commander Adams is in the bathroom,” Lore offered, already cutting his gaze away. When Heron remained
