![]() ![]() Dolph didn't use the word "friend" lightly, so I knew they were close. ![]() They'd played football in college together, and been friends ever since. McKinnon had been recommended to me by Sergeant Rudolph Storr, cop and friend. I was shopping for midriff tops to show off my back scars. Everyone else was bringing sweaters to work. He'd turned the air conditioner up a little colder every day. I hadn't worn a long-sleeved blouse since he made the request. He said that some clients had expressed reservations about my ah. Bert, my boss, had requested that I wear my suit jacket or long-sleeved blouses in the office. There were one or two other scars hidden under my blouse, but the arm really is the worst. There was a cross-shaped burn mark, a little crooked now because of the ragged claw marks that a shapeshifted witch had given me. I'd have to lift weights for the rest of my life or the scars would stiffen and I'd lose mobility in the arm, or so my physical therapist had said. ![]() A mound of white scar tissue sat at the bend of my arm. My right arm had been sliced open twice by a knife. ![]() He was staring at the scars and didn't seem a bit embarrassed about it. Captain Pete McKinnon, firefighter and arson investigator, sat across from me, big hands wrapped around a glass of iced tea that our secretary, Mary, had brought in for him. The wounds aren't like freak show bad, but they are interesting. You know, the quick look, then drop the gaze, then just have to have that second look. They'll look, of course, then do the eye slide. ![]()
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