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By Root 1112 0

and intoxicating. Jane wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey, but she found herself drawn into Mooney’s enigmatic voice. “I’ll be hosting the show for the next six weeks or so, while your regular host is on maternity leave.” Jane took another sip of the whiskey and arched an eyebrow. Six weeks off, she thought. She couldn’t fathom a six-week break from her job. “Many of you know me as a researcher and lover of the paranormal side of life—the elusive, mystical side of our consciousness that hovers behind that fragile veil we call reality . . .” Jane regarded the radio with suspicion. Perhaps the whiskey was responsible but a sense of paranoia tightened around her. “Do you ever feel like you’re going crazy? Maybe you are. Or maybe . . . maybe you’re a genius. There’s a thin line, my friends, between genius and insanity.” Jane rubbed her head and knocked back the glass of whiskey. A pervasive blanket of sweet numbness washed over her. She poured another glass of the amber nectar and blearily dug her hand in her pants’ pocket. Feeling the edge of the small piece of paper, she withdrew it and held it under the piercing glare of the overhead light. She read the words to herself: “Navy blue . . . Glock . . . Bright light . . . Hold on to me.” She stared at the paper, her eyes moving in and out of focus. Mooney’s voice hovered in the background, a melodic, concomitant soundtrack for the drugged sensibility engulfing Jane. She felt herself falling into the words when the sharp sound of a child screaming quickly spun her around. With eyes wide open, she stared into the kitchen where the crisp scream still lingered.

Morning came far too early. Jane awoke under the burning glare of the overhead dining table light. The fifth of whiskey was almost drained and the nearby ashtray filled with the burned out remnants of a cigarette pack. Outside, the sound of a car alarm suddenly went off, jolting Jane out of her slumber. She steadied herself between the eye-piercing overhead light and the streaming morning sun that filtered through her two large front windows. After a few seconds, she squinted toward the kitchen clock to check the time.

9:00 a.m.

“Shit!” Jane exclaimed as she gathered together the mass of paperwork and crammed it into the files. Between gulps of strong black coffee, she raced through the house getting ready. Her head pounded from the hangover as she heard Weyler’s warning: “Don’t make me regret this.” She was damned if that was going to happen.

Her bandaged hand looked a bit soiled from ink stains and smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke. She figured she’d do her best to hide the hand from Weyler. After all, he wasn’t interested in her injury. Together, they were about to break open one of the most frustrating cases of Jane’s career.

Jane squealed into the DH parking garage with five minutes to spare. She grabbed her leather satchel, papers and files bursting from its seams, and caught the elevator. Jane hit the third floor button with the heel of her boot. As she puffed nervously on her ash-heavy cigarette, she shook her head from side to side in an attempt to throw off the heavy, throbbing aftermath of booze. Jane squashed her cigarette on the elevator wall as the doors opened onto the third floor. As she headed toward Weyler’s office she nearly ran right into evidence technician Ron Dickson.

“Detective Perry!” Ron exclaimed. “Excuse me!”

“It’s okay, Ron,” Jane said, trying to maneuver her way around him.

“I know you’re in a hurry, but I wanted to remind you about the fundraising campaign for D.A.R.E. Can I put you down for your usual donation?”

“Yeah, sure. But not now. I gotta be somewhere,” Jane said as she made her way to Weyler’s office. She hit his office with one minute to spare. Weyler looked up from his desk, assessing Jane’s appearance.

“Good morning, Detective Perry.”

“Morning,” Jane said as she slid into a chair and unloaded paperwork.

“Close the door, would you?”

Jane pushed the door shut with her hand. The sound of the sudden slam caused her to grimace in pain.

“How are you this morning?” Weyler