Silent Night Suspect. Sharee Stover

plucked away her fingers then led her back to the chair. “You have to sit down. We don’t need you losing more blood.”

      “The date?” Asia insisted, searching his eyes.

      He cocked his head to the side and blew out a breath. “December twenty-second.”

      “Are you sure?” The room swayed, and Asia’s hands fell heavy in her lap.

      “Of course I’m sure.” Slade adjusted his mic wire, clearly frustrated. Well, he wasn’t the only one.

      “No. That’s not possible,” Asia mumbled. “It can’t be.” Her thoughts traveled to her color-coded salon appointment book. Pink for haircuts, blue for pedicures—and December twentieth in bold print at the top of the page. Horrified, she doubled over, pressing her bound wrists against her stomach.

      “Hey, are you okay?” The warmth of Slade’s hand on her shoulder kept her fixed in the moment, though she longed to escape.

      “I don’t... How can it be December twenty-second?” She sat up. “How did I lose two days of my life?”

      He shook his head. “Asia, stop messing around. I’ve gotta start this report before backup arrives.”

      She blasted him with her best death glare. “Slade, I’d love to spout the answers you want, but let me clue you in. I was in my apartment on December twentieth. It was payday, and I was trying to figure out how to make my rent. One of the many joys of being a widow whose drug-addicted husband took everything and sold it to supply his habit.”

      Doubt marked his frown, and he knelt beside the Glock, surveying but not touching the weapon. “Still doesn’t explain why you were pointing a gun at Quenten.”

      Asia bit her lip, scanning the room again, and landed on Slade’s unbelieving frown. “I’m trying to help you, but you can see how this will sound to the district attorney.”

      She stiffened. “I am being honest, and no, thanks—I’ve seen your idea of help.”

      The verbal slap tightened Slade’s jaw and irritation flashed in his eyes, but his tone remained unwavering. “Asia, I’ll never be able to tell you how sorry I am that Zander is gone. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about him. He was my friend, my partner.”

      “Wow, beautiful. Is that the same little speech you told Sergeant Oliver before you betrayed Zander?” She pinned him with a glower. Slade was a traitor, and he’d destroyed her life.

      They held their wordless staredown until Slade glanced out the window, watching for backup. “Zander made his own choices and put us both in an impossible situation, including backing me against the wall. Turning him in was my duty. I had no other options.” He spun to face her.

      Asia looked away. Choices. There was no disputing the facts. Zander had chosen drugs, a plethora of other women and repeated binges. The combination proved to be the catalyst for their separation a year before his death had made her a widow at thirty-four. He’d walked a dangerous path, leading a double life as a trooper and working for Quenten. Eventually, it was bound to catch up to him. Asia had warned him repeatedly to get help and talk to Sergeant Oliver. In the end, Zander’s murder hadn’t been a surprise. He’d played too long with a dangerous, consuming fire.

      Still, Asia would never pretend to be okay with Slade’s method of handling things. He could’ve helped Zander. Been a real friend. Instead, Slade earned accolades by arresting Zander and putting a homing target on him that led Quenten’s men right to him. They’d silenced Zander permanently as a result of Slade’s by-the-book philosophy.

      Asia had lost everything. And Zander was dead.

      Slade was to blame. It was that simple.

      The familiar sorrow she’d befriended beckoned again.

      Slade exhaled, and his posture relaxed. “What happened with Quenten?” A gentle tone slipped through, reminding her of the boy she’d once known. He withdrew a small notepad from his uniform pocket.

      Stay angry. It’s safer. Easier. “If you ask me a hundred more times, I will tell you the same thing. I don’t know how or why I’m here. I never shot him. And I. Don’t. Remember. Anything.” Asia kept her voice tight and controlled, maintaining her composure to prevent any weakness from leaking through.

      “If you have no memories of being here, how can you be sure you didn’t shoot Quenten?”

      Asia forced her cuffed, shaking hands flat against her thighs. “My turn to ask questions. How’s your new position with the drug task force? Tell me, Slade—did your promotion come as a reward for betraying your partner? Or was it a consolation prize for arresting him and giving his murderer easy access to kill Zander?”

      Slade flinched at the verbal attack. Deserved, but painful nonetheless. The venomous words stabbed his heart, a vicious reminder of his failures. His guilt. And he couldn’t agree with Asia more.

      She’d never forgive him. And she’d never understand that turning in Zander had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Maybe to some degree, she was right to blame him for Zander’s death. But he hadn’t complied with Zander’s unfathomable request to arrest him for the pleasure of earning a promotion, or anything else self-serving.

      Zander’s plan should’ve been simple. Slade would publicly arrest him so Quenten would believe his insider had been compromised. Then Zander would compile whatever evidence he’d assured Slade he had, ferret out the mole within the Nebraska State Patrol, turn state’s evidence and go into WITSEC. Zander had refused to share the details with Slade, wanting to protect him by not dragging him into the mire.

      Except everything went horribly wrong, and within twenty-four hours of being arrested, processed and released on bail, Zander was murdered. Slade had no evidence of corruption, no proof of a mole, and he’d been marked a backstabbing cop for turning in his partner. He bore Asia’s blame and anger and was left in an impossible situation of keeping Zander’s secret even after his death.

      “A good partner would’ve helped him instead of taking the first opportunity to prove your disloyalty for a lousy promotion.”

      Slade didn’t refute her words, but if she only knew the truth... Zander always got everything he wanted, including Asia. Slade had respected her decision all those years ago, tucking his own feelings far away where they couldn’t hurt either of them. He inhaled and replied with stale facts. “He was a drug-addicted thief working with that guy.” He pointed at Quenten’s body. “Which brings me back to what you’re doing here with a gun and a dead man. The circumstances, such as they are, aren’t looking good for you.”

      “I’m fully aware of how this looks. Contrary to yours and the entire state patrol’s beliefs, I’m not stupid.”

      His radio squawked, halting their conversation.

      “Go ahead,” he answered.

      “Multivehicle injury accident with confirmed fatality on Highway 275. Backup is delayed. Will dispatch next closest ambulance,” the dispatcher rattled on.

      Just another night in rural Nebraska. Never enough responders, and everything happened at once. “Ten-four,” he acknowledged. “Guess it’ll be a bit before they get here. So how about if we start over? First, your injury appears to be a through-and-through gunshot wound, from the little I can see. May I take a closer look?”

      She glanced down and removed the cloth. “Fine.”

      Slade examined her bleeding shoulder then pressed the fabric tighter against the injury. “Yep, looks like the bullet went clean through.” A blood-matted section on the back of her head caught his eye. “You’ve got a head injury too.”

      “What?”

      When he reached out to examine