In murmuring voices, they discuss my murder. And every time they do, Maria comes closer and closer to capitulating. “I can’t,” she whispers. I can hear the swallowed sob in her voice. I can’t. “You must,” they whisper back. You must. My would-be assassins, these jackals in lab coats, these wolves in white scrubs, are as intangible to me as ghosts. Phantom wolves. Disembodied voices in a fog. I may not be able to see them, but I know what these men, these women, these killers look like. From my years on the force, I know that no one discusses

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