“He’s a target,” she supplied.
Connors nodded grimly. “You become a zero, and so does he. You squeeze the trigger, and the bullet pricks the bubble.”
“Pop.” She gripped his arm tighter. “But that’s war. You’re licensed to carry. Have you ever killed someone for…personal reasons?”
Connors didn’t answer as he wrested his arm from her grasp. What was she asking? Did she want the dirt on her husband, or did she want him under the dirt?
The office line rang, bringing Connors back to the present. It was Dr. Ramsey Stewart from the Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office, returning his call. The doctor’s voice was animated, almost giddy, to discuss how freshwater amoebas had entered Roger Dubose’s brain via the sinus cavity and turned his frontal lobes to jelly. When Connors asked about the s
