Albert Fletcher stood at the end of the line, a tall figure in asomber black coat, a black hood drawn tight around his thin face. Megan's gaze had roamed. Me? No, I'm a transplant. If you're asking me washe pissed enough to take Josh, the answer is no.
She wanted to touch him, tofeel his need for her, to imagine it was the kind of need thattranscended the physical. His vision misting red, Mitch lowered ashoulder and slammed it into the sheriff's sternum, running him backwardlike a blocking dummy. But a heavy sense of lonelinesspressed down on her as she climbed the steps and let herself in themudroom. But she couldn't find the strength to present herself as a leader.
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