By the time Dalton sat up from Sherry Willis's bed to stretch his legs, the sun was starting

to peek over the old building that made up the French Quarter.

Their ash tray was full and Bradshaw's throat heard from a long story and the chain smoking

that fueled it.

Shit Dalton.

I know idea you're holding all that in.

I know you lost your partner in all, but shit.

I can see why you never go back to your apartment these days.

Dalton was staring forward.

His eyes not locking on any one thing.

He spoke in a distracted, dreamy manner.

I never did tell him a story about why I left the N.O.P.D.

I'd have a few beers of them that night and tell them all the details.

Here's a pain in the ass, Sherry.

He was my friend.

He deserved better than to be shot in the head by some fuck up cop.

The better if we dig deeper than things, we'll find that the cop that shot Simon was

one of Sawyer's patients too.

He said that tape recorder mentioned the red is for hate, right?

And the screen on the computer went solid red before the cop shot him.

Can't ignore that connection.

Well we have now is getting a Sawyer.

...