Page 36 of Dreamscape Therapies

I follow the familiar sound of laughter. I don't even have to see Shane to know it's him. He's always been loud enough to announce his presence from three rooms away.

I find him leaning against a desk in the middle of the bullpen, telling a story to a younger detective who looks like he's still new enough to find Shane impressive instead of exhausting.

Shane is impossible to miss. He's a massive alpha boogeyman, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair, a perpetual five-o'clock shadow, and the kind of physical presence that makes most people think twice before crossing him.

That is, before he smiles and suddenly looks less like a terrifying detective and more like a golden retriever that somehow got a badge.

His left sleeve is neatly pinned at the elbow where his hand used to be. Shane lost his it years ago and somehow managed to turn the whole thing into a minor inconvenience. He doesn't hide it. Doesn't apologize for it. Doesn't let anyone treat him like he's fragile.

I envy that energy sometimes.

"...and then the suspect tells me he wasn't driving the car," Shane is saying.

The younger detective leans forward.

"Then who was driving it?"

"According to him?" Shane pauses dramatically. "A ghost."

Shane bursts out laughing and smacks the poor guy on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Did he actually say ghost?"

"Word for word."

The detective chuckles, obviously not finding the joke that funny but not wanting to upset his superior.

Shane glances up, and when his eyes land on me, his entire face lights up.

"Jay!" He abandons the younger detective and hurries over to me. I barely have time to brace myself before his arms wrap around me. "My favorite brother!"

"I'm your only brother."

"Details." He squeezes me once more before finally letting go, then gripping my shoulder and looking me over. "Why are you here, baby brother?"

"Can't a guy visit his brother without an ulterior motive?"

"A guy can." His eyes narrow. "You can't."

He's annoying when he's right. "Can we talk somewhere private?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "Color me intrigued." He flashes the rookie a grin. "Don't let anyone steal my desk while I'm gone."

"You don't have a desk," the detective calls after him.

"Exactly. That's why I'm worried."

I follow Shane through the bullpen.

A minute later, we're standing in what appears to be a broom closet containing a desk, a computer chair, and exactly three square feet of floor space.

"This is your office?"

"For all intents and purposes."