‘I know.’

‘And because I believed that if they weren’t found – and soon – more kids would die.’

‘Dad, I know. I’m just . . . so tired. Stressed. God, I think I will go to bed. For the night. I’m just so exhausted.’

She gave him another hug and a soft kiss on the cheek, and when she went to let go of him, he held on for a while longer. Finally, when he did let go, she turned and headed for the bedroom. After ten steps, she stopped and looked back at him.

‘You eaten yet?’

‘I can make myself dinner, Pumpkin.’

She laughed. ‘Right. Pork and Beans or Chef Boyardee?’

‘Better than that – Nutella.’

She grinned. ‘I don’t mind cooking you that fish.’

‘Get some sleep, Pumpkin.’

She delayed. ‘Promise me you’ll eat something healthy.’

He held up a hand, as if pledging allegiance. ‘Everything I hate and more.’

‘Love you, Dad,’ she said, then slowly walked down the hall.

Striker watched her go, feeling as useless and ineffective as he had after Amanda had died. In five minutes he’d gone from feelings of love to rage to betrayal – and now he was back at love again. Intertwined with a lot of guilt. Sometimes he felt like his emotions were an endless ocean, and he was a wayward buoy floating up and down on the rough waters, being dragged wherever the currents took him.

And usually those currents were unpredictable and dangerous.

‘I love you, Courtney,’ he said.

But the room was empty.

Twenty-Six

When Felicia unexpectedly arrived, the night was darker than a day-old bruise. The icy rain had stopped, but the wind continued – a vocal force battering every window of the house. Striker heard the soft roar of a patrol car out front – those Crown Vics had a distinctive rumble – and saw the quick flash of halogen headlights as they beamed across the bay window.

He struggled to get up from the couch and looked out the window just in time to see Felicia trudge up the walkway, her pretty Spanish face caught in the soft glow of the exterior lights.

She looked tired, depleted. Hell, she was threadbare.

And yet she was always beautiful. Striker saw that every time he looked at her. At times like this, he berated himself for ending their relationship and letting her go six months ago.

It had been a complicated time, he told himself.

A necessary decision. It was for the best.

There were a hundred more clichés he could dredge up, but none of them were true. And none made him feel any better.

Felicia reached the front door, and instead of rapping softly on the wood, she leaned around the railing and peeked inside the bay window. Dark hair framed her dark eyes. She saw Striker and a warm smile spread her wide lips.

‘Amway calling!’

He moved to the foyer and opened the door. A large gust of wind snuck inside the house. It swept right through him, and he shivered. Felicia stepped inside the foyer, hugging herself to keep warm, and kicked the door closed with the heel of her boot.

Striker smiled at her. ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’

Felicia looked over her shoulder. ‘I don’t see any nice girls in here.’ She grinned. ‘You like my Amway joke?’

‘Would’ve preferred Watchtower.’

She raised an eyebrow, and the two of them just stood there looking at one another. It was a fleeting moment, and it struck Striker as funny, how they could be so different outside of work, where they were often at each other’s throats.

‘So we gonna stand here trading one-liners all night, or you gonna invite me in?’ she finally asked.

‘You don’t need an invitation here.’ He swung his arm outwards to guide her into the den. Spotted the clock above the fireplace. Saw it was well past twelve. ‘Jesus, you’re still working?’ he asked.

‘Just the small stuff.’

‘You mean Laroche?’

She grimaced. ‘Hardy-har-har. Anyhow, I’m done for the night.’ She took off her jacket, threw it to Striker, who hung it on the coat-rack. ‘I was down at Ident with Noodles for the past hour. Poor guy looks like he’s gonna keel over any minute. He better lose some weight or he’s gonna have a heart-attack. I swear, he needs to think of his health once in a while.’

‘Speaking of which, you should be in bed.’

‘Is that an invitation?’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

She ran her fingers through her long hair, loosening it, then moved into his personal space. The humour left her eyes, and was replaced by the vulnerable look of honesty. ‘I was worried about you, Jacob.’

‘So you’re not here for my gun.’

She sighed. ‘Boy, you really know how to kill a moment.’

He raised his hands, palms forward, to signal he had no intention of arguing, then offered a quick apology. He led her into the living room, where he crashed down on the couch and beckoned her to join him. Felicia sat down at the end closest to the fireplace, where she basked in the heat.

‘Freezing out there.’

‘I’ll get you something.’ From the closet, Jacob grabbed a heavy wool blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. He then went to make them a couple glasses of rye with hot water and lemon.

In the kitchen, Striker put on the kettle, then took the bottle of Wiser’s from the cupboard and put it on the counter. When he went to open the fridge door to look for lemons, something distracted him. Stuck on the outside of the fridge door was a small yellow happy face. It was just one of the many junky trinkets Courtney had stuck up there – a magnetic picture clip holding a photo of Amanda from their last Christmas together; a scattering of magnetic letters, from which Courtney had spelled out BRITNEY; and this small round happy face.

Similar to the one they’d found in the stolen Honda Civic.

The magnet was weak, and it came away with little resistance. Striker rolled the happy face between his fingers, and knew he would have to see the stolen Honda Civic again. He put the magnet in his pocket, and the kettle began to whistle.

He finished making their drinks. When he returned to the living room, Felicia looked warmer and relaxed. He offered her one of the mugs and asked, ‘What were you helping Noodles with?’

She took the mug, cradling it between her fingers, relishing the heat. ‘Evidence log. And tagging. They found Black Mask’s machine gun, by the way.’

‘The AK-47? Where?’

‘Serving counter, I think. In the cafeteria. The Emergency Response Team had already seized it during their clear.’

‘Ballistics—’

Felicia held up a hand. ‘Already being done as we speak. Prints, swabs, ballistics – you name it. The amount of work is insane.’ She sipped her drink, licked her lips, and her eyes took on a faraway stare. ‘Funny, all my life I’ve wanted one of these calls, dreamed about being even a small part of an actual Active Shooter situation, and then – bang! – here I am, dead smack in the centre of it, and I just can’t wait for it to end.’

‘It burns you out.’

‘Like gasoline.’

Striker sipped his rye and lemon, gave her a hesitant stare, then looked down at his drink.

‘What?’ she asked.

He didn’t want to say it but had to. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure it’s over.’

‘Not this again.’

‘Yeah, I know, don’t go looking for zebras. I always knew Laroche was a clown, but funny, too? Wow, how lucky am I!’

‘Jacob—’

‘Hey, you asked, and all I’m doing is pointing out the facts. Some of them – a lot of them – don’t add up with these gunmen.’ He put his drink down on the table, then started counting off the problems on his fingers. ‘One, why disable the security system if they’re gonna be foolish enough to carry ID in their pockets? And for that matter, why would Red Mask – Raymond Leung – blow off Que Wong’s head and hands?’