Edge of Black by J. T. Ellison Page A

lock. The bolt was thrown, the bottom lock engaged, just like he left it. He twisted the knob and entered his foyer at an angle, sliding against the wall. He listened carefully, heard nothing but the normal night sounds of his house, the refrigerator rumbling quietly in the kitchen, the barometer clock on the wall by the door ticking the seconds away.
    He moved quickly, clearing the house room by room, then returned to the foyer.
    The switch had been turned off.
    He holstered his weapon and flipped it back on. Sloppy of them. Whoever them was.
    Shit. At least his instincts were right on the money. Something else was going on with the congressman’s case.
    He searched the house again, more thoroughly this time, but saw nothing out of place. If it weren’t for the faux pas with the light, he wouldn’t have had any idea that someone had tossed him. A stupid environmentally conscious crook who couldn’t leave the light on had just left behind his markers.
    It had to be someone from the JTTF, checking up on him. Making sure he wasn’t going to embarrass them. That he didn’t have a blow-up doll girlfriend or a drawer full of latex and whips.
    Jesus, whatever happened to asking a man about his sensitive proclivities?
    Then again, perhaps that was the mistake they had made with the congressman in the first place.
    Sleep was dragging at him. He’d deal with this in the morning. He didn’t bother with his bed, just stretched out on the couch, his usual resting spot, kicked off his shoes and shut his eyes. He’d be able to figure all of this out later, after his batteries recharged.
    Darkness enveloped the room, and he didn’t see the tiny glowing light secreted on the back edge of his television, a dusty Bermuda triangle that never got cleaned, or noticed.
    * * *
    Fletcher slept without dreams for four hours, then woke to the clamor of his cell phone. Cursing, he reached for the offending object, managed to open it and grunted, “What?”
    “Fletch, thank God. I was starting to worry. I’ve been calling you for hours.”
    Sam.
    Fletcher groaned and rolled onto his side.
    “Time is it?”
    “Almost 7:30. Are you okay? You sound horrible.”
    “Up late.” He struggled into a seated position, hand shielding his eyes from the sun spilling in through his blinds.
    “I need to talk to you. It’s an emergency.”
    “Okay. What’s up?”
    “In person, Fletch. This isn’t a conversation for the phone. Can you come to the house? We have something to show you.”
    We . He hated that term where she was concerned. Hated it even more that he actually liked Xander Whitfield. It would be easier if the man were a tool, but he wasn’t, not in the least. He was rugged and outdoorsy and smart and decent looking, if you liked the tall, dark and handsome set, which most women did.
    He looked at his watch. He needed to be at the JTTF to embark on his suicide mission at 9:00 a.m. “Yeah. Give me fifteen. Make some breakfast, will ya? I haven’t eaten a proper meal in two days.”
    Sam laughed under her breath. “Anything for you, Fletch. Now hurry.”

WEDNESDAY

Chapter 14
    Washington, D. C. Dr. Samantha Owens
    Sam had used a couple of belts of Scotch to get back to sleep after Xander’s bombshell, and was feeling frachetty. She’d only managed two hours of sleep, had gotten up as soon as she woke to try and reach Fletcher again. Her mission finally accomplished, she was happy to fulfill Fletcher’s demand—a hot breakfast to soothe his tired bones. It might help give her and Xander some energy to make it through what was certainly going to be a long day.
    She grabbed a quick shower, threw on a pair of gray summer-weight wool trousers and a cream short-sleeved cashmere T-shirt, and put her dark, wet hair in a bun. It was getting longer, her bangs growing out so they swept to the side and tucked behind her ears. She liked the new look, thought she’d go ahead with it for a while. When she was working back in Nashville, she kept