He was a damn good agent. And year by year, he was working on becoming a better person. He had honestly tried connecting with Mandy not long before the accident. He was definitely trying to connect with Kimberly now, though she seemed hell-bent on ignoring his calls. Last month, he'd even gone to the Rhode Island nursing home and spent an afternoon with his eighty-year-old father, who was so stricken with Alzheimer's that he didn't recognize Quincy anymore and had started the visit by ordering Quincy to go away. Quincy had stayed. Eventually, Abraham Quincy had stopped yelling. Then, they sat in silence, and Quincy worked on remembering the other moments that they had shared, because he knew his father could not.

Quincy was learning the hard way that isolation was not protection, that no number of crime scenes ever prepared you for the death of your own child, and that no matter how many nights passed, it was never any easier to sleep alone.

Rainie had once accused him of being too polite. He had told her that there was enough ugliness in the world without him having to add to it, and he'd meant it.

He had genuinely loved Mandy.

And he was so sorry now that she never knew.

Virginia

When Rainie's plane touched down at Ronald Reagan National Airport, she felt a little giddy. She grabbed her bag from the overhead compartment, collected the small suitcase containing her Glock.40 from baggage claim, and proceeded straight to the car rental agency where she secured the world's tiniest economy car without a hitch. Not bad for her first trip – Dirty Harry, eat your heart out.

Her stomach was rumbling; she hadn't trusted the mystery meat they'd tried to serve her on the plane. It was already four o'clock however, rush hour traffic would be a bear, and she didn't want to miss the change of shifts at the state police barracks. Dinner would have to wait.

She headed straight for the Virginia state police station that had handled Mandy's case, and hoped she got lucky.

An hour and a half of cursing and swearing later, she found state trooper Vince Amity just striding out the door.

"Officer Amity?" she called out, as the desk sergeant waved vaguely in his direction, then went back to reading the latest edition of the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin.

The officer in question paused, realized he was being waved down by an attractive young woman, and halted with more interest.

Rainie seized the opportunity to give him her most charming smile. The smile didn't get much practice, but it must have been good enough because Officer Amity walked back toward her. At six five, he was a big boy with broad shoulders, thick neck, and a jaw line only Jay Leno would love. Rainie was guessing Swedish ancestors and football. Lots of football.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" Big Boy had a southern drawl. Damn, she liked that. Before things got all warm and cuddly, however, Rainie flashed her Pi's license. Officer Amity's face promptly fell. Another fine romance nipped in the bud.

"I have some questions regarding an MVA homicide," she started off. "You worked the case about a year ago."

No response.

"The case is closed now – driver died at the hospital, but I'm clarifying some of the details for the family."

Officer Amity said, "I gotta go on patrol now."

"Great. I'll go with you."

"No, ma'am. Civilians can't accompany officers on patrol. Too much liability."

"I won't sue."

"Ma'am – "

"Officer. Look, I flew all the way here from Portland, Oregon, to get answers to my questions. The sooner you start talking, the sooner we can both move on with our lives."

Officer Amity scowled. Given his size, the look really worked for him. Rainie figured the minute he stepped out of his patrol car, most perps dropped obediently to the pavement and held out their wrists for the bracelets. As a woman, she'd never had his advantage. She'd had to wrestle most of her hostiles to the ground. The thing about that, however, was it meant she'd built her career by always being ready for a fight.

Officer Amity was still working the scowl. She folded her arms. Waited. Waited. Big Boy caved with a sigh.

"Let me check in with dispatch," he said. "Then I'll meet you at my desk."

Rainie nodded. Not being a dummy, she followed him to dispatch – police stations had back doors. Five minutes later, they sat across from each other at a beat-up desk, both armed with hot cups of coffee, and got into it.

"April twenty-eight," Rainie said. "Lastyear. Single-car accident. SUV versus man walking a dog versus a telephone pole. The SUV got the man and dog. The telephone pole got the SUV. Kind of like an obscene version of rock, paper, scissors." "Female driver?"

"Yep, Amanda Jane Quincy. The accident put her in a coma. Last month, her family pulled the plug. I have a copy of the police report right here."

Officer Amity closed his eyes. "Her fathers the fed, right?"

"There you go."

"I should have known," he muttered, and sighed again, a rumbling sound deep in his chest. He opened his desk, drew out a spiral notebook bearing last year's date, and began flipping through the pages.

Rainie waited for him to refresh his memory with his personal notations, then plunged in. "You were the only officer at the scene?"

"Yes, ma'am." "Why?"

"Everybody was pretty much dead. There's not a whole lot police officers can do about that."

"The driver wasn't dead. Plus, you have at least one fatality and preliminary signs that the driver was operating a vehicle while impaired. In Oregon, that's already the makings of neg homicide if not manslaughter. Surely that's worth calling out a traffic investigation team."

Officer Amity shook his head. "Ma'am, with all due respect, the driver wasn't wearing a seat belt. She'd hit the rim of the windshield and lost half her brain. While she might not have been DOA, even I could tell it was only a matter of time. Now I don't know how it is in Oregon, but in Virginia it doesn't do us any good to build the case when we got no one left alive to charge with the crime."

Rainie eyed him shrewdly. She said two words. "Budget cuts."

Amity's eyes widened in surprise. He nodded slowly, studying her with fresh interest. In most states, the minute an accident involves a fatality, particularly a pedestrian fatality, an accident investigation team will be called out regardless of the condition of the driver. But in the wonderful world of policing, accident investigation teams were the first to feel the sting of budget cuts, even though police officers spent the majority of their time dealing with MVAs and not homicides. Apparently, society couldn't stand the thought of death by stranger, but demise by automobile was okay. Merely the cost of living in the modern age.

"Tell me about the seat belt." Rainie switched gears.

"She wasn't wearing one."

"In the report, it says the strap was 'nonoperative.' What does that mean?"

Amity frowned, scratched his head, and flipped through his notes. "When I was checking for a pulse, I brushed against the seat belt and it pooled out onto the floor. No tension. Gears probably busted."

"The seat belt was defective?"

"It was nonoperative."

"No kidding." Rainie's voice gained an edge. "Why was it nonoperative?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," Amity drawled evenly.

"You didn't examine it, disassemble it? Come on, Officer, if that seat belt had been working, it might have saved the driver's life. That ought to make it worth some attention."

"A defective seat belt is a civil, not criminal, matter, ma'am. Being underworked cops with an unlimited budget, we would love to focus on things outside of our jurisdiction, of course, but that would entail spitting in the face of standard investigative procedures."