We'll Never Meet Again
The day the nationwide serial killer, Landis Grant, was executed, I was the one who escorted him to the death chamber.
Right before the lethal injection, he turned his head and looked at me with strange, sudden pity.
"You know, I only actually killed seventeen people," he whispered, his raspy voice cutting through the silent room.
"I deserve to die, no question. But your hotshot lawyer wife? Her death isn't on my tab."
Hearing him mention my wife, Valerie Foster, made a hot surge of rage claw up my throat.
Three years ago, she was stabbed dozens of times by Landis while protecting crucial evidence. I drove through the night from out of state, only to find her body completely unrecogniza