Shadow of Perception by Kristine Mason

happened could reach Network and damage her upcoming contract.  
    When Hudson threaded their fingers together the rough texture of his hand against hers gave her what his touch had always done in the past. Comfort.
    Until she met his gaze.  
    His eyes burned with deep concern, and her comfort morphed to something stronger, darker. Carnal. Scary.  
    He still cared.  
    Jerking free from him and the crazy thought, she tucked her hand in her pocket and moved past him.  
      “Eden,” he said, and reached for her. “I—”  
    His cell phone rang. Muttering a curse of some sort, he turned and answered the call. She stared at his broad back, the way his shoulders and arms filled out his black t-shirt. He ran a hand through his long hair, then held it bunched at the base of his neck. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll see you soon.”
    When he turned, the concern that had darkened his eyes moments ago gave way to excitement. Forgetting about Bob, Jeffries and Network, she stepped forward and gripped his arm. “What is it?”
    “We got ourselves a lead.”
    *
    Michael Morrison emerged from the century-old farmhouse for the first time in two days. His head ached. Hell, even his teeth ached. His stomach still churned with nausea, but he moved across the field anyway.  
    The cool wind didn’t help the hangover like he’d hoped. Instead, the morning air stung his sensitive skin and dry eyes, and the chills that had been running through him since he’d awakened only worsened with each step through the frost laden leaves.
    The binge had been necessary, though. The bottles of booze—Wild Turkey, Evan Williams, Black Velvet—were used to forget. The blood, the yellow fatty tissue oozing from rubbery flesh. The screams.  
    Oh God, the screams.
    With a shiver, he rested the varmint rifle against his leg, then reached inside his heavy Carhart coat. The rough material snagged against his chapped hand and drew blood from the cracks in his skin. Although he’d worn Latex gloves when he’d performed the surgery , he’d scrubbed his hands raw. No amount of soap or scalding water could seem to make him feel clean again.  
    He pulled the flask he’d filled before leaving the house and took a long swig.  
    After what he’d done to the doctor, he’d never be clean again.
    But he’d started something. Something he’d planned for too many years to quit. Besides, he’d made a promise. To himself. To Eliza. Those men would pay and they would pay dearly, even if their payment shredded the last remnants of the man he’d once been...God fearing. Moral. Just.
    Human.
    The whiskey burned his throat, but soothed his queasy stomach. Although tempted to drain the flask, he shoved it back inside his coat. He had work to do.  
    Picking up the varmint rifle, he continued deeper into the one hundred and forty acre property. He paused fifteen minutes later to regain his bearings, then moved northwest. Seventy-five steps would take him to where he’d dumped Dr. Thomas Elliot’s body two nights ago.  
    Rifle ready, he counted as he walked, shifting his gaze from the ground to the overgrown brush. Although they didn’t come out much during the day, the coyotes were in a bad way at this time of year. Starving, desperate. And he’d given them Thanksgiving dinner, with extra plump breasts.  
    Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—
    He stopped. Raised his rifle and looked around the area. A squirrel skittered up a tree and he continued moving.
    Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty—
    Michael turned and retched. The acid from his stomach, mixed with the booze, burned his throat as he vomited on the ground. Drawing in deep, steadying breaths, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Once the dizziness passed, and his stomach no longer protested, he looked over his shoulder.  
    He wouldn’t have to walk the full seventy-five steps. The coyotes had dragged Elliot’s body—or what was left of it—and saved him the trip. He should have expected as much. The