Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row by Sean Robert Lang Page B

collapse, but she knew better. He’d battled with trust and anger issues for most of his life, well before Karla’s death and Natalee’s heartless abandonment afterward.  
    He wasn’t a bad guy, just a flawed one. Surely the old man would see that. A flawed man could still function, contribute, be a part of something bigger and better, while bending and shaping himself into something less flawed. A bad man—a truly evil man—often bent himself until he snapped, broke, because he tried to move himself in a wrong, unnatural direction. Even if the damage could be repaired, a nasty, ugly scar remained to remind. And tempt. Always a sign of what was and could possibly be again.
    After pulling the door to, Jessica crossed the room, stooped over the box. Like a child hovering over an anthill with a magnifying glass, she crouched there, unmoving, staring at it. She considered leaving the note be, tried to talk herself into doing just that. Wait for David. It was his business to bear, not hers.  
    It’s just a left-over invoice that was already in the box.
    Doc used it as packaging material.
    It was never in the box. The paper just happened to be on the floor when the box landed there.
    She didn’t lie well, especially to herself. Not like her cousin. Maybe he could teach her sometime.
    Before she realized it, she pinched the paper, snatching it from under the cardboard. She pressed to her feet, then walked to the window. The note was folded in half, decorated with blood—Natalee’s, most likely—and she could still smell death on it. Holding it to the window, she tried to get a sneak-peek.
    Definitely a handwritten note.
    Jess brought the note down to her hip.
    What the hell am I doing? This is his business, not mine. Just wait until he gets through with the Janitor, then we’ll see what this is all about.
    But it couldn’t wait. How the hell could it? A deranged individual, who thinks he’s a deceased gunslinger from the old west, lops off a woman’s hand, and stuffs it into a cardboard box? Then, he somehow finds the wife’s husband and delivers the dismembered hand via a sweet, innocent little boy, despite hungry shufflers roaming about?  
    No, this could not and would not wait. Jessica easily justified her actions. Nosey or not, she had no choice but to get involved. This cruel and heartless act affected David, Bryan, her… the entire Alamo community. No more delaying. Still standing at the window, she read the note.
    * * *
    Swiping a tear from her cheek, Jessica said, “Please don’t do this. You need time to think this through, time to… to heal.” She motioned to his gauze-wrapped head and eye, and her voice started to tremble. “Doc’s dangerous. He’ll… he’ll kill you. Is that what you want?”
    David stopped stuffing the gym bag and gazed at his cousin. He caught her drift, her implications. He knew that she meant more than just his cracked head. And, as usual, she was right. Dead on. He did need time to heal—his body, his mind, his emotions… his heart.
    She wiped away another tear, then broke his stare by looking out the window. She crossed her arms hard over her chest and clutched a wadded note so tightly that fingernails pierced skin, bringing blood. More blood to mix and mingle with another’s on an already blood-stained note.
    Damn her. He had his own ebbing emotions to contend with and wasn’t adept at trying to soothe another’s hurt. The whole process was like Spanish to him. He knew enough to understand words here and there, sometimes even an entire sentence. Sure, he got the gist, but he wasn’t fluent enough to fully converse, only enough to get by. He could ask where the library was, but couldn’t ask about the books inside. Nowhere near enough to reciprocate the deeper meanings and nuances. A shame, since a full life wasn’t about just getting by.  
    Jessica wasn’t his wife, of course, but a loved one nonetheless, with feelings, just like his wife. Like himself. Same