Across the table, Ray Salcedo bit the head off a smiley ghost with white and black frosting. “Doesn’t his brother roll with the Southeast?”

Briggs shrugged like he had no idea. Down the table, Carla Billup nodded. “Yeah, Matt, I think. Maybe it’s Mike.”

“I heard he was a screwup,” Lyle Franklin said. “Yo, Briggs. Pass me one a them Frankensteins.”

The chatter started then, everybody throwing in, telling what they’d heard or what they hadn’t heard.

Tony Briggs still couldn’t get over it. They’d run the plates on the Ranger this afternoon and come up with the name: Worth. Their very own hero cop’s kid brother.

“Okay,” Sergeant Williams said. He brushed cookie crumbs off the ends of his fingers and squared his shoulders. “Listen up. Streets are slick out there already, so first off, be rolling extra safe.”

Around the table, everybody was decked out for the weather: long sleeves, tac sweaters, thermal unders, winter boots.

Tony felt like a little kid getting ready to go outside and build a snowman. He and Ray had worked the last four post periods undercover with the narco unit out of Central. Twenty-four months out of uniform. Right about now, he was wishing they were still kicking back in one of the low-rents on Park Ave., playing Xbox, instead of getting ready to roll out in this shit.

Williams said a bunch of stuff Briggs didn’t hear, finally finishing up with “So stay on the radios and be keeping track of each other out there.”

And that was that. They all filed out, everybody bullshitting. Tony and Ray stopped by the gear lockup for Tasers, DV bags, and a shotgun.

Salcedo had something to say. Tony could tell. He waited until they were outside, in the car, doors shut, before he said, “What’s your deal?”

“You might like this.”

Briggs clipped his cell phone to the visor and said, “Lay it on me.”

“Ran that other address while you were in the john.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

They’d followed the babe in the Land Rover all the way out past 156th Street, to an upscale house in shady Pepperwood that made their boy Worth’s place look like a cardboard box.

The tags on the Land Rover went to a Sondra Worth. Five known addresses ago, her name had been Sondra Miller. Before roll call, they’d checked the first previous address on the list against the county assessor’s database online.

Sure as hell. Matthew and Sondra Worth.

“So are you gonna tell me who owns the place, or do I have to give you my cookie?” Briggs had grabbed a smiley witch on the way out. Purple and black frosting. He’d already nibbled a little off the hat.

“According to Douglas County, it belongs to a Mark Vargas,” Ray said.

Briggs knew the name, but he couldn’t think why. He sat with it for a minute, and all at once it popped.

He looked over at Salcedo, who sat in the bucket seat, grinning. “You’re shitting me.”

Ray put his hand on his heart.

“There’s gotta be twenty in the phone book.”

“Checked it,” Salcedo said. “Just found the one.”

A gust of wind came around the back side of the Northeast Assembly building, rocking the unit on its suspension, throwing a handful of sleet against Ray’s window.

Briggs started the car and turned on the defrost. The Mark Vargas they knew worked Homicide out of CIB. They’d run across him a couple times, most recently around the Orlando Heights shootings last year. A real hotshot.

“He’s unlisted,” Briggs said. “Couldn’t be him.”

Salcedo shrugged and said, “Few different ways we could find out.” He held up a thumb to Billup and Franklin, who came out the back of the building and climbed into unit 237 beside them.

Briggs finished his cookie while they waited for the engine to warm up. In a minute, the air grew warm enough to clear the windshield without one of them having to get out and scrape. This was such bullshit. It wasn’t even November yet.

“It just is not possible,” Tony said, “that the cleanup guy’s wife is banging a homicide detective.” He looked at Ray. “Is that even possible?”

Ray just chuckled. He keyed the radio and called them into service.

Briggs shook his head.

He licked a smear of frosting off his thumb, checked the mirrors, and put the unit in gear.

A little after nine o’clock, a woman named Patty came by the room. She smiled and said she was from Chapel Care.

“We’ve been so busy today,” she said. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come see you.”

“Oh,” Gwen said. “I…that’s okay.”

It was quiet. The night nurse had just left, and visiting hours were over an hour ago. The television was muted. She felt loopy with painkillers.

Patty from Chapel Care wore a long-sleeved blouse with a floral print. She looked at one of her sticky notes. “Your name is Gwen?”

Gwen nodded, thinking: God knows. One of His people already had her name on a sticky note.

“My daughter’s name is Gwen,” Patty said. “I’ve always thought it was a beautiful name.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?”

The truth?

When it came to hitting, Russell had always known what he was doing. A few times had been worse than the others. Once, last year, it had been pretty bad. Bad enough that he’d actually begged forgiveness afterward. But it hadn’t ever been like this.

“A little sore,” Gwen said.

Patty offered a wince of empathy, nodding her head. “I accidentally overheard two of the nurses talking about your chart. I hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s okay.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Um…thanks,” Gwen said. Feeling self-conscious now. Awkward. “But I guess I’m not really very religious.”

Patty from Chapel Care smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to preach. We just like to stop by, let people know we’re available. I’m a pretty good listener, if you need one.”

Even with the painkillers, it still hurt to breathe. She’d told her story to police and doctors what seemed like a hundred times. The last thing she felt like doing was telling it again.

The fact was, she didn’t remember much.

She remembered gathering up the courage to tell him she was leaving. She remembered when the beating stopped.

At some point, Russell had left the apartment. She remembered thinking now was her chance to get out of there, but not being able to get up from the bed. She remembered him coming back. Throwing her clothes into a suitcase.

I’m taking a shower, he’d said. Get dressed. You’re coming with me.

He’d been convinced—again—that she was cheating on him. If she was leaving him, there must be somebody else. This time he knew for a fact that it was that cop from the store; he’d seen the way they’d looked at each other. She couldn’t lie to him.

He had to go to Chicago for work. She was crazy if she thought he was leaving her alone this time.

She remembered how he smelled, fresh from the shower, when he’d lain down beside her on the bed. She remembered the last thing he’d said:

Baby, I’m sorry. You know I can’t live without you. I don’t know what I’d do if you left.

The next thing she remembered was walking into the bright light of the SaveMore.

The rest was a black spot. A twenty-four-hour hole in her mind.

It wasn’t the first one.

She said, “How old is your daughter?”

Patty from Chapel Care smiled. “She’ll be twelve next month. She’s a pretty girl. Just like you.”

Gwen shifted in the bed.

From the bed came a motorized hum, the feeling of movement beneath her. They were brand-new, one of the nurses had told her. Designed to automatically conform to your shape. Relieve the pressure points, provide the best long-term support for you, personally. Gwen thought she could stay right here forever.