intense headache pounding in Asia’s skull. Dizziness swirled, and nausea overwhelmed her senses.
The trooper stepped between her and the dead stranger opposite her. “Whose blood is on your blouse? Yours or his?” He turned off the flashlight, then used it to gesture at her.
Asia swallowed. “Mine. I think?”
“Lower your hands slowly, keeping them where I can see them.”
Her gaze traveled up the barrel of the officer’s gun until she focused on his face. Fear morphed into confusion, only to be replaced by annoyance. Of all the cops in the world, it had to be him. Nebraska state trooper Slade Jackson. Her deceased husband’s ex-partner—and her backstabbing former high school boyfriend.
“Very slowly, extend your hands toward me.”
An argument lingered on her lips, but the murkiness in her brain had her complying. She momentarily broke her gaze from the dead man. “I don’t—”
Slade encircled her wrists with cold metal, startling her. “This is necessary for your safety and mine. Protocol.” The click of handcuffs stabbed her with irritation. “I’m supposed to secure your arms behind your back, but with your shoulder injury...”
He was justifying handcuffing her? She stared at him, hoping to mask her fear. “Are you kidding me? Handcuffs? You’ve known me since kindergarten.”
Her words had no effect on him. Of course not. Slade was always the rule follower. Procedure Boy. Even when it meant destroying other people’s lives.
Slade stepped to her side and kicked the Glock out of reach. “Is there anyone else here?” His gaze bounced between Asia and the small hallway behind her. The questions etched on his face no doubt mirrored her own bewilderment.
“I don’t... I didn’t...” She gulped, trying to form an intelligent sentence. How could she answer him when she had no answers? She surveyed the unfamiliar compact living room. Where was she, and how had she gotten here?
He pressed a cloth against her shoulder. “It’ll be a little tough with the handcuffs but keep pressure on the wound.”
She held the fabric against her chest, which tightened with each breath.
He knelt and pushed his fingers against the deceased’s neck. Asia rolled her eyes. Surely he needed to check off a rules-for-finding-a-dead-body box somewhere.
“Why are you here with Nevil Quenten?” Wide-eyed, Slade spoke in a hushed tone and pointed at the dead guy.
“That’s Nevil Quenten? The Colombian drug cartel leader?” Asia squeaked, her gaze ricocheting between Slade and the man. “Zander talked about him, but somehow I envisioned him...more evil looking.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but this is Quenten.” Slade held his service weapon in one hand and offered to help her stand with the other. He tilted his head as if to say trust me.
No way. She gave the proffered hand a cursory glance as she shifted. The pin-prickling sensation made her yelp. “My legs are asleep. Give me a second.”
He stepped back, granting her space, but never lowered his weapon. Asia attempted to get to her feet again, surrendering to Slade’s outstretched palm as he pulled her upright. At five feet ten inches, she stood nose to nose with Slade. The quick change of position had her teetering off balance on her tingling legs. His steadying contact stabilized her. Grounded her. Like he’d done when they were kids.
Slade remained silent, helping her to the closest of the three green-and-white lawn chairs that passed for living room furniture.
She paused.
“Don’t be difficult,” he cautioned.
Asia bristled against his touch and shifted away from his hold with a huff. “I’m not being difficult. For your information, I’m worried the chair might fall apart.” She nodded at the frayed material.
“It’ll be fine,” he assured her.
She frowned and dropped onto the seat without comment, hoping the fabric would rip and prove him wrong.
“Stay put.”
“You’re leaving me alone? With him?” She shivered and shrank back, as if the dead man would rise and attack her.
“He’s not going anywhere. Just wait here.” Slade pressed down on her uninjured shoulder, emphasizing the instructions before moving into the hallway.
Asia studied Nevil Quenten, torn between terror and curiosity. The man’s tidy appearance complete with a gray suit and navy tie reminded her of a bank manager. But he was an unmerciful drug cartel leader who had destroyed her deceased husband, Zander.
And now Nevil Quenten was dead. In the same room as her.
She shifted farther to the side and racked her brain. The dissipating haze brought no great revelations. Why couldn’t she remember anything? The abyss in her mind explained nothing about her present conditions, and the strain exaggerated the headache clawing its way across her temples.
She scanned the foreign space with its worn brown carpet and plastic walls. Not drywall? What kind of house had plastic walls? A mobile, trailer or prefabricated home? She had no friends or acquaintances who lived in any houses like those. Why can’t I remember anything?
The rancid scent of urine and rotting food added to her queasiness. Lawn chairs half circled the dated nineteen-inch television. Empty blue-and-white pizza boxes stacked in a haphazard tower decorated the floor beside the yellow refrigerator in the tiny kitchenette to her left. A pathetic string of silver garland hung from the broken window blinds in uneven loops, and chipped red Christmas ornaments tugged the tinsel downward. The display provided a sad attempt at sprucing the place up with holiday spirit.
Where was she? Anxiety ratcheted, twisting her stomach into knots.
Slade returned and slipped his service weapon into the holster. “The house is clear.”
“What about the outside?”
He quirked an eyebrow, annoyance tainting his tone. “I checked the perimeter before entering this place. It’s protocol.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did you text me to meet you here? To show me you killed him?”
That got her attention. “I didn’t kill anyone, and I never sent you a text! I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She might not be able to explain how she’d gotten here, but murder wasn’t in her DNA. And texting her ex-boyfriend ranked among the top five on her not-in-this-lifetime list.
He walked toward the kitchenette and flipped on the switch, illuminating the space. She regarded his solid build outlined in the starched navy blue uniform with Ginsu-knife creases. Not a dark hair out of place in his meticulous, close-cropped style. Zander had been the perfect state trooper too. Might’ve still been if he’d gotten the help he needed before—
“What’s going on here?” Slade probed, facing her in the classic feet-shoulder-width-apart power stance.
Asia contemplated her answer. They’d written the Miranda warning for occasions such as this, but
