NICHOLAS
The buzz of the prison doors echoed in my head… too loudly if I might add. The shots I’d downed yesterday were coming back to haunt me.
What the hell was I doing here?
I slid into the seat at the visiting table, tapping a rhythmic beat with my fingers. Danny had sent over the file on Emily’s birth parents. At first glance, they looked normal. Too normal. Her father, Roland Harper, was a clerk at a corner store. Her mother, a local schoolteacher.
But the details of their deaths? Brutal. Bloody. The kind of mess that didn’t line up with small-town nobodies.
No witnesses. Emily had been six and was at the neighbors’ when it happened. The Stevens.
There were two attackers. Evidence of a struggle. And somehow, Harper had a high-end military-grade handgun, a piece no store clerk
