Read Shadow Man for Free Online

cool breeze of kindness and clarity. Riiiiiight, babe . . . hightailing it away from danger. That’s so you. This had been one of his gifts. The ability to chide without ridicule.
    “Maybe it’s me now,” I murmur.
    I’m trying to sound defiant, but the quivering chin and sweaty palms make it hard to pull off.
    I can feel him smile, gentle and smug and not really there. Damn it.
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .” I mutter to the ghost as I reach out and turn the knob.
    I push him away in my mind, and I open the door.

    5
    I STARE INSIDE for a moment without entering. My terror is pure and clean and nausea-producing. It occurs to me that this is the core of what I hate the most about my life since the “big bad” happened. The constant uncertainty. One of the qualities I always liked about myself was my decisiveness. It was always simple—decide and do. Now it’s: what if what if what if, no yes no maybe, stop go, what if what if what if . . . and, behind it all, I’m afraid. . . .
    God, I am afraid. All the time. I wake up afraid, I walk around afraid, I go to sleep afraid. I am a victim. I hate it, I cannot escape it, and I miss the effortless certainty of invulnerability that used to be me. I also know, however much I heal, that that certainty will never return. Never.
    “Get a grip, Barrett,” I say.
    This is the other thing I do now: I wander, without ever going anywhere.
    “So change it,” I murmur to myself.
    Oh yeah—and I talk out loud all the time.
    “You one cwazy wabbit, Barrett,” I whisper.
    One deep breath and I move through the door.
    It’s not a big office. Just the four of us, desks and computer stations, a small acting conference room, phones. Corkboards covered with photos 30
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    of death. It looks no different now than when I was here six months ago. But the way I feel, I might as well be walking on the moon. Then I see them. Callie and Alan, backs to me, talking to each other as they point at one of the corkboards. James is there, focused with his usual cold intensity on a file that lays open on the desk in front of him. It’s Alan who turns and sees me first. He sees me, and his eyes open wide, his mouth drops, and I am bracing myself for a look of revulsion. He laughs out loud.
    “Smoky!”
    It is a voice filled with joy, and in that moment, I am saved.

    6
    D AMN, HONEY-LOVE, you won’t have to dress up for Halloween anymore.” This is Callie. What she says is shocking, crass, and unfeeling. It fills me with an easy joy. If she’d done anything else, I probably would have burst into tears.
    Callie is a tall, skinny, leggy redhead. She looks like a supermodel. She’s one of those beautiful people; staring at her too long is like looking into the sun. She’s in her late thirties, has a master’s in forensics with a minor in criminology, is brilliant, and lacks any social veneer at all. Most people find her intimidating. Many decide, on first blush, that she’s uncaring, maybe even cruel. This couldn’t be further from the truth. She is loyal to an extreme, and her integrity and character couldn’t be tortured out of her. She is blunt, forever truthful, brutal in her observations, and refuses to play games, political, PR, or otherwise. She would also put herself in front of a bullet for anyone she calls a friend.
    One of Callie’s most admirable features is the one that’s easiest to miss—her simplicity. The face she shows to the world is the only one she has. She doesn’t believe in self-importance and has no patience with those who do. This is probably the crux of what confuses those who judge her harshly: If you can’t take her poking fun at you, she’s not going to lose any sleep over your discomfort. Lighten up or get left 32
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    behind, because—as she likes to say—“If you can’t laugh at yourself, you’re of no use to me.”
    It was Callie who found me in the aftermath of Joseph Sands. I was naked and bleeding,