Dear Santa
"Mr. Braeburn? Are you still there?""Yes, yes…" Grant released a long, strained breath, pressing his fingers into his eyelids. "I'm here." He blinked at the rain-drenched vista on the other side of his home office window, watching distractedly as sixty-foot pines cowered and shuddered under the leaden sky's relentless onslaught. "How—" He carefully cleared his throat. "How did you know to call me?"
"Mrs. Braeburn had emergency contact information in her purse. And the glove compartment." The doctor— middle-aged, still not comfortable with making these sorts of calls, Grant guessed—paused. "And her briefcase."
A humorless chuckle released the vise constricting Grant's lungs. Catching himself, he sank into a leather club chair facing the window. "I'm sorry—"
"Shock often produces seemingly inappropriate emotions," the doctor said kindly. "It's a cop ... read full excerpt from Dear Santa ebook
