Laura didn’t feel vengeful, though. She just felt . . . tired.

So many homicides, most of them sordid, ugly, and small. The reasons people took a life were so often mundane. Violence came first to solve their problems.

Williams was a schemer. She had planned everything and executed well. But there was nothing inside her but a void. At the moment when Laura got to her, when she saw Williams crammed up against the dash, Laura had thought of it as a cheap nightlight going out.

Money and violence.

Sometimes it sickened Laura so much she wanted to march in to the office and hand over her badge and her weapon and find something else to do.

But she didn’t.

She’d made a promise to Sean Perrin that she would find his killer, and she did. That was the reward. That was what kept her going.

Sometimes it was a gift to the people left behind. A gift to the one who died. And other times, it was just plain vengeance.

Epilogue

Fall stayed around for a long time, and turned into Indian Summer.

One night, Laura couldn’t sleep. She’d been having nightmares, mostly of the shootout and the chase down Hoff Avenue. She opened the sliding glass door and walked out onto the terrace. From where she was, she could look out at the lights of the city sprawled out far below in the Tucson valley. She was surprised how many lights were on at two in the morning.

A cool wind rattled the palm tree above.

She saw a shape on the path down by the horse corrals.

Frank Entwistle.

Or maybe it was nothing at all.

He was just a shape, insubstantial, maybe just the side of the water tank up against a mesquite tree.

But she heard his voice, as if he were right beside her.

“Looks like we’ve come to the end of the line, Kiddo.”

She could see him now, looking as unhealthy in death as he did in life, his face red, his jowls sagging above his open-necked shirt.

“End of the line?” Laura didn’t believe him. He had been with her all this time. Years. He had always been her sounding board, always been with her.

“When you was a kid,” he said. “I bet you got a bike for your birthday.”

“Didn’t everybody?”

“And if your parents was smart, the bike had training wheels.”

“Uh-huh. What are you getting at?”

But she knew.

“Kiddo, you don’t need me. You never needed me.” He looked down at the cigarette between his fingers, the cherry glowing red in the dark.

“I know that,” Laura said.

“But you keep holdin’ on.”

“Some would say you keep holding on.”

“It’s all in the way you look at it.” He squinted at her. He smelled of Tanqueray gin, cigarette smoke and fast food hamburgers. “I may just be a figment of your imagination, but the fact is, you’re not taking credit. I don’t know why that is. Maybe you need a psychiatrist to help you out.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Uh-huh. At least your love life got straightened out.” He threw the cigarette on the dirt and toed it out. “I just wanted to say. You don’t need me. You need to take credit for the work you do, Kiddo.

“I do.”

“No you don’t. You’re a strong gal, and you don’t need anyone between you and what you can do. You don’t need no cheerleader and you don’t need no help from me.”

He started to fade. Laura realized at that moment that she didn’t want things to change. Maybe she didn’t need him to help her, maybe she didn’t need training wheels, but she needed him. Not as her mentor, but as her friend.

“Frank, wait.”

He stood there, mid-shimmer—kind of like the old snowy picture on her grandfather’s TV set. She said, “What’s wrong with just your company?”

He materialized a little more. Some of that red color from his high blood pressure returned to his ghostly cheeks?

“Company?” he asked.

“Yes, company. Why does it have to be either/or? Why do you have to do anything? Is that part of the contract?”

“Contract? I don’t have no effing contract. I just like to help out, is all.”

Laura spoke quickly, the words coming in a flood. “You say you’re a figment of my imagination. Maybe you are. But it’s my imagination. Which means you’re there for me, and I don’t want . . . I don’t want you to go.”

 “But what about your fiancé?”

“Apples and oranges. Unless you’re a peeper.”

He glared at her. “I ain’t no peeper! I got my standards. You ought know that. You oughta know me better!”

“Then what’s the problem?” Realizing she was stiff as a board, her fingernails digging into her balled fists. She didn’t want Frank to go. “I’d . . . miss you.”

He thrust out his palms, as if he were trying to ward off a punch.

“Okay, okay. It was just an idea. I don’t want to hang around where I’m not wanted—” He caught her look and added hastily, “And I guess you like me around. So’s okay. I’ll pop around once in a while.”

“Damn skippy you will.”

Laura realized she was speaking to air. He’d already skipped out. He liked to do that.

The cool desert wind rattled an ocotillo branch, rippled over the hairs on her arm. She shivered. All that was left was the trace of cigarette smoke.

She heard the sliding glass door and looked toward the dark house. The Love of Her Life—right in the here and now—stepped out onto the terrace. “Hey. You okay?” Matt asked.

Laura never saw herself as one who held on to the past, but it came home to her that that was exactly what she’d been doing. Right now, in this moment, she was looking at Matt, who was her future.

Frank knew. He’d tried, in his clumsy way, to tell her that.

You don’t need me anymore.

He was right. She didn’t need him. But she wanted him around.

And he’d promised her he’d show up from time to time.

“Lor?”

The breeze blew up between them, shuttling dirt and leaves across the terrace. Matt looked at her quizzically, waiting for an answer. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Laura said.

“I’m better than ever.”

_______________

About the Author

Hailed by bestselling author T. Jefferson Parker as “a strong new voice in American crime fiction,” J. Carson Black has written fifteen novels. Her thriller, THE SHOP, reached #1 on the Kindle Bestseller list, and her crime thriller series featuring homicide detective Laura Cardinal became a New York Times and USA Today bestseller. Although Black earned a Master of Music degree in operatic voice, she was inspired to write a horror novel after reading The Shining. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.

Facebook: J Carson Black Author Page

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to the great folks who helped make this book a reality: Rebecca Barry, my social media maven; author and cover designer, Kealan Patrick Burke; John Cheek, of Cops ‘N Writers; Carrick Cook of Arizona Department of Public Safety for information on DPS policy and procedure; Michelle Dear, who brought up my game in so many ways; Martin Keane, for his final pass copyedit; my husband and publisher Glenn McCreedy; Susan Cummins Miller, for her help on the hydrology and geology of Madera Canyon; my good friend William Simon; Christopher Smith, whose encouragement led to the writing of this book; and Kevin Smith, editor extraordinaire.