Chapter 11Webster didn’t want to close the case. Brady didn’t blame him.
“There’s nothing linking him to any of the frat boys.” Him was the John Doe in the morgue. “All we know is that he was there.”
Brady slipped on his left shoe, propping his heel against the footboard of his hospital bed to try and tie it. His right arm was in a sling, a necessary precaution to help his dislocated shoulder heal faster. It made trying to do anything he normally did with two hands incredibly difficult. The nurses had learned the first night how much he hated feeling helpless.
They weren’t his only injuries. His throat was still bandaged. The doctors said those would scar.
He hated those too.
Webster prowled around the edge of the room. He hadn’t stopped moving since he’d shown up to drive Brady home.
