CHAPTER EIGHT
Bill’s apartment looked like it had been burglarized. Riley froze in the doorway for a moment, about to draw her gun in case an intruder was still here.
Then she relaxed. Those things strewn about everywhere were food wrappers and dirty plates and glasses. The place was a mess, but it was a personal mess.
She called out Bill’s name.
She heard no answer.
Then she called out again.
This time she thought she heard a groan from a nearby room.
Her heart pounded again as she hurried through the doorway into Bill’s bedroom. The room was dim and the blinds were closed. Bill was lying on the unmade bed, wearing rumpled clothes and staring up at the ceiling.
“Bill, why didn’t you answer when I called?” she asked somewhat irritably.
“I did,” he said in a near-whisper. “You didn
