Senza Umanità

Except in photographs, Duke had only ever seen Alex Maddox once—the day the man’s body had been moved from the hospital morgue to the funeral home where Caitlyn had made final arrangements. Frankly, he didn’t look much better now than he had in the body bag, even if he did technically have a pulse.

But he had no doubt in Caitlyn’s recognition. Whatever Alex had put himself through to create the illusion that he was dying, it clearly hadn’t been without lasting effect. Not that he’d ever been particularly robust anyway.

True, he hadn’t been the stereotypical scrawny, bespectacled and pocket-protected scientist obsessing over his collection of tribble plushies. Like his med school performance, Alex Maddox had been average. Average height and weight, average build, average looks. Though Duke never would have guessed it studying the skeletal creature leveling a pistol at his weeping wife.

He had been fastidious about his appearance—getting a haircut every 28 days without fail and only w