Last Light by C. J. Lyons Page A

her rehab with either Nick or their mutual former Marine friend, Andre Stone—himself a survivor of burns over sixty percent of his body, courtesy of a bombing in Afghanistan. Andre had to do physical therapy every day to keep his scars from contracting and limiting his mobility.
    After rehab, she’d spend the rest of her day doing all the things she never had the chance to do while working full-time: she’d finally planted the vegetable garden she’d always wanted, repainted her and Nick’s bedroom, cleared out the garage which still had unopened boxes from when they moved from Quantico almost three years ago, and she had even dared to tackle organizing Megan’s room—after much protesting, of course. She’d cooked, cleaned, ran errands long overdue, shuttled Megan from karate to soccer to home, walked the dog, did a second round of physical therapy in the afternoon, and had even dared—once—to go to the mall.
    Everything a “normal” parent did. It had about driven her crazy. She didn’t know what to talk about with the other moms and dads at Megan’s activities. She couldn’t stand being trapped inside the shooting gallery that was the mall, with all its sound-distorting echoes, lack of cover, and multiple perches for potential snipers. And if she had to smile politely and nod to one more neighbor’s suggestion about how to properly mow their lawn and get rid of their crabgrass, she’d probably pull out her weapon and silence someone permanently.
    A nice long bath. No one pounding on the door and calling for “Mom!” as if a lost pair of soccer cleats was a DEFCON Four emergency. No dog or cat nosing their way in to try to join her. No rush because she had to get dinner ready or pick up Megan. Heaven.
    The bathroom was remarkably clean—more so than her one at home. Nick was by far a better housekeeper than Lucy would ever be, no matter how much time she had on her hands. He noticed dirt in the nooks and crannies that she was oblivious to. She ran the water as hot as she could stand it, used some bath gel to make a few bubbles, rolled up one towel to use behind her neck, grabbed a washcloth to use as an eye pillow, and climbed in.
    Her cell rang. Shit. She lurched halfway out of the tub and grabbed it from the vanity. Nick.
    “How’s Texas treating you?”
    “So far, so good,” she answered, sinking back into the warm water, except for the hand with the phone. “Is Megan mad about my leaving?”
    “So far, so good. You made it through TSA and everything?” It was the first time Lucy had traveled as a civilian with her weapons. As much as Nick hated guns, he hated Lucy being unarmed even more.
    “Surprisingly little hassle, actually.”
    “How’s the case going?”
    “Turns out the man working with the Justice Project, the one who got us here in the first place, is the defendant’s son.” She told him about David Ruiz and his strange head injury.
    “Tonal agnosia,” he diagnosed from her description.
    “That’s what he called it.”
    “I’ve seen it a few times. Don’t put too much stock in his human lie detector abilities,” Nick warned.
    Hah. She knew it. “Or the fact that he can’t lie as well?”
    “It’s not that simple. It’s like when you listen to a politician’s speech. Even if you don’t like them, don’t believe anything they say, after awhile you find yourself nodding and agreeing with them. That doesn’t happen with patients with tonal agnosia—not if they can see the speaker. The words to them are empty. There’s no emotion behind them, so they cue in on the body language. And since most politicians aren’t one hundred percent sincere, they can detect the disconnect between the two.”
    Lucy was intrigued. “So what about someone who believes their lies, like a psychopath?”
    He laughed. “It’s not like there have been enough of these cases that there have been studies done like that. I’m just saying while it might indeed be a good BS meter, it’s