Noah glared at Detective John Logan, barely preventing a full-blown “you’re a butthead” scowl. He had to remind himself the guy was doing his job. Noah would be asking the same annoying questions if the roles had been switched. “Like I said before,” he said carefully, “I was pumping gas and the next thing I knew, I was on my knees, bleeding.” He gingerly brushed his fingers over the burning furrow in his scalp. The wiseass doctor who’d cleaned it up had joked that the scar would leave a new part in his hair. At least it would be hidden, unless he shed his hair like his dad had, and then he’d be screwed in more ways than one. “You’re lucky the sniper was a lousy shot,” Logan said. Noah let his pounding head fall against the pillow at his back and took a long, deep breath. Getting shot in the head, okay, grazed, sucked, but Logan was right. The shooter’s bad aim had saved his life. “Looks like he used an old .22 hunting rifle.” “A .22? That’s a lousy choice for that distance.”
