I opted to meet Cross at a cafe instead of going to the police station or back to my house. The casual atmosphere might have settled my nerves, I thought, but now that he was sitting across me, it didn't make much difference.
Detective Cross was wearing his usual leather jacket. A gun holster was barely visible underneath it, which just served to remind me of how dangerous my next move would be. As if that was not enough, the bullet wound on my shoulder twitched in pain, and another fresh wave of dark memories hit me.
"I see that you can use a bit of chit-chat, but we are running out of time. You'll just have to forgive me for being straight to the point," Detective Cross said after he took a sip of his plain black coffee.
Why do most police drink that black sludge? It was as cliche as
