Nine
Nick glanced around at the sterile white walls of the room, then at the scarred table top between him and his lawyer, Hal McInerny. At a towering six-foot-six with a heavily muscled frame, dressed casually in Wranglers and a crisp, button-up Western shirt, and missing the stereotypical leather briefcase, Hal didn’t look much like a lawyer, but Nick knew he was in capable hands with this old friend of his family.
Nick dropped his gaze to his wrists; he could still feel the hard edges of the handcuffs against his skin like the cold fingers of a phantom, and he absently reached to rub it away.
“How are you holding up, kid?” Hal asked.
“All right, I guess. I’m angry, obviously. Bored out of my mind. And I could take an hour-long shower and still not feel clean.”
“Nothing too surprisi
