Low

Dorman Sr. held a somber meeting attended by everyone in our firm. Afterward, tears dried on my cheeks. I held a damp tissue in my hand and dabbed my nose with it. We all loved Bohman, but knew he was secretive about his investigative work. I hated to think that he was killed working on my case, but that was the torturous truth.

A neighbor found Bohman in his loft apartment, sitting in a wooden chair, his ankles and his wrists bound with duct tape. They had cut out his eyes and then shot him execution-style in the center of his forehead. The murderer left a clear message. He had seen something that was meant for no one to see.

Bohman was probing Natasha Ivanka’s past and the Russian mafia in Chicago.

I wanted to dive.

Richard met me at Dorman, Wallace, & Edwards and gave me an affectionate embrace. Unspoken words hung in the air like a steamy breath in winter. Together we entered the conference room. With a stone cold expression and hands linked together at his belt, Erik waited in