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facilitate a positive and prosperous outcome…“
    “Then I fucked it up.” Jane stated, bringing the conversation back to some level of reality.
    Cath chuckled. “Yes, then you fucked it up.” Her throaty voice was a demented singsong.
    Jane prayed to God at that point that she chambered a round in the Glock. She lifted the pistol, grasping it with both hands and aimed it square at Cath’s forehead. “I’ll blast your fucking third eye out of your head, bitch.” Jane couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. She was never this unsteady on the job. Of course, she wasn’t drunk or surfing a buzz when she was on duty. She looked at Cath. There wasn’t a hint of tension in her tanned face. Either she’s high or she’s certifiable—or maybe both?
    “I don’t think so, Jane,” Cath said with an eerie calm.
    Jane’s splintered memory quickly focused on Devinder and how he looked over her shoulder and screamed, “Behind you!” Jane spun around just as a dark figure lunged at
her from the left side. A rope quickly encircled her throat and dug hard into her larynx. She struggled for air, as the figure pulled her to the ground, tightening the rope into her flesh. Jane felt herself losing consciousness. For a split second, she saw Devinder on the porch pulling back her hair and telling her that her light was dimming. That image stoked something primal in her. Gasping for breath, she pointed the gun toward what she hoped was his groin and not hers, and pulled the trigger. The kick sent them both backward. The rope still pulled against her neck. She worried the numbness of the liquor was preventing her from feeling any pain from the gunshot. But then she felt the slow release of the assailant, as he fell backward unconscious on the porch.
    Jane struggled for air, as she weakly pulled the rope off her head.
    “What have you done to him?” Cath screamed in a frenzy, her coolness quickly gone. She shone her flashlight onto the porch and the growing puddle of blood that was pouring from her young lover’s genitals. “What in the hell have you done?” Jane tried to get up, but the darkness spun around her each time she tried to stand. “You’ve ruined him!” Cath shrieked. “You’ve ruined him!” Cath dug her hand into her coat pocket, pulled out a small revolver and sprung up the stairs.
    Just before Cath squeezed the trigger, another shot rang out from Jane’s front door, nailing Cath in the thigh and sending her sprawling onto her stomach. She cried out in agony. The sapphire flashlight fell out of her other hand and rolled to a stop at the feet of the shooter.

    Jane looked up through her hazy vision and saw Chris standing in the doorway, completely naked. He was looking as wobbly and half-drunk as Jane.
    “Fuck,” he said with a raspy edge. “Call 9-1-1. I need a drink.”

7
    The next day was a blur. Jane gave her statement to Sergeant Weyler, implicating both Cath Bashir and her lover boy in the death of Devinder Bashir , as well as the attempted murder of herself. Lover boy had a 24-hour guard posted outside of his ICU room at Denver Health. He told the cops—in a slightly higher octave than before—how Cath was the mastermind behind the murder of her husband. He turned on her faster than fish lying in the noonday sun. Lover boy spilled everything, including how she instructed him to write the suicide note and download the sickest child pornography he could find on his computer. Meanwhile, she handled the skillful computer match of the font on the prescription drug bottles, so she could create an exact duplicate of Devinder’s name. The four million dollar check was returned to Devinder’s parents who took some solace in the knowledge that their son had been set up and hadn’t dishonored their family name.

    Sergeant Weyler gave Jane the rest of the day off. She returned to her house around 4:00 P.M., exhausted and only functioning on a couple of cylinders. Collapsing onto her bed, she stretched