The Widow Wore Silk
The lowlife inside the crack house nailed my partner in the chest as soon as he stepped away from our patrol car. I dragged Jack behind the car, and the second bullet grazed my forehead. By the time the SWAT team arrived, the shooter had turned the gun on himself. I got a medal for heroism and six weeks medical leave; Jack got a flag draped over his coffin.
No one said Jack died because of me; no one had to. I took early retirement and left the Seattle police force. A week later, Jack’s widow called; her voice sounded bright and artificial. “Harrison,” she said, “I want you to have the Darlene.”