Alligator Moon. Joanna Wayne

      “Truth—or a story? Which is it you’re after, Cassie? You have to make up your mind, you know.”

      “I’d like both.”

      He looked up from the whiskey and into Cassie’s eyes, the color of spring leaves, ardent, not yet jaded by the heat and merciless beatings of life. He’d been like that once, though he could barely remember it now.

      Cassie sipped at the whiskey, making a face as it slid down her throat and probably hit her stomach like hot wax from a dripping candle.

      “Why do you claim Dennis was murdered when the evidence points to suicide?” She tossed her head as if issuing a challenge, and wispy tendrils of curly auburn hair danced around her cheeks.

      John wondered if she had any idea how sexy she looked when she did that.

      “Why murder, John?” Cassie repeated.