"He… he… he is dead," Myra stammered, stepping back from Renald's slumped and unmoving body on the floor. His entire face was smeared with blood, his own blood—thanks to Shane's ruthless pounding of his head against the wall.
Shane sighed, irritatedly, the sound escaping his throat like a warning growl. Now he had to play the gentleman and comfort her, he thought with disdain. Great.
Still, a part of him hoped, the fool wasn't actually dead. That would be very bad. He was already facing two murder charges under his real name. He couldn't afford to add a third to that list, not even while using this stolen identity. If Renald was truly dead, it would mess everything up. He'd have to run again, likely get arrested, and that would shatter all his carefully laid plans.
No, he couldn't afford that.
He hadn't even found his wife yet.
