Sara pulled the cruiser into the lot of the Starlite, saw the woman through the coffee shop window. She sat alone, most of the tables around her empty.

Eleven in the morning and the temperature already in the eighties. Sara shut the engine off, wondered what she was doing, why she’d driven out here.

When she went into the coffee shop, Shirley Osteen greeted her from behind the register.

“Hi, Sara. Anywhere you like.”

Simone James was in a booth halfway down, her back to the door. Sara started toward her, aware of the noise she was making, the creak of leather, the static-y hum of the radio.

The woman didn’t turn. She had a cup of tea in front of her, a plate with the remains of breakfast. Beside it was a folded copy of the Sunbeam, the county’s weekly paper, and a cell phone.

“Miss James?”

The woman looked up at her. She was younger up close, her skin the color of lightly creamed coffee. Her hair was straight, pulled back with a green jade barrette that matched her eyes. She wore a sleeveless blue blouse, and on her right shoulder was a dark tattoo of two Greek letters. Sara didn’t know what they meant.

“May I sit?”

The woman watched her for a moment, then nodded. Sara slid into the booth across from her.

Under the blouse, Simone James wore a diamond-studded heart on a thin gold chain. It was simple, yet beautiful. Sara didn’t envy it, knew it would look out of place on her even if she could afford it, but on this woman it looked like it belonged, had always been there, always would.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sara said.

The woman met her eyes. Sara felt awkward, her confidence slipping.

“Miss James-” she began.

“Why are you here?”

“I was passing by, saw you. My name is Deputy-”

“I know who you are.”

Sara sat back. “Good,” she said. “Then you know-”

“I know all about you. You and the man that killed Derek. I know you were there.”

“I wasn’t,” Sara said. “Not when it happened.” Then regretted it, the words feeling like a betrayal.

The woman slid the paper across to her.

“This just came out,” she said. “You read that story in there?”

Sara shook her head. She had the paper delivered, but more often than not it went into the recycling unread.

“It says Derek was a ‘suspected drug dealer.’ Why would they say that?”

“Miss James-”

“Because he was black?”

“There were weapons in the car.”

“But no drugs. So what makes him a suspected drug dealer?”

“Newspapers print what they want.”

“No. Town like this, newspapers print what you police tell them. Am I right?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Sara thought about getting up, leaving, but that would be a concession, a sign of weakness.

Simone James took a leather wallet from the seat alongside her, unsnapped it. She slipped a snapshot from a plastic sleeve, set it on the table between them. Derek Willis wearing a yellow T-shirt and an easy smile, holding a toddler against his chest, the child twisting to look at the camera. Trees in the background, people in shorts and T-shirts. Some sort of picnic.

“Go ahead. Pick it up, look at it.”

“I can see it.”

“Derek never hurt anyone in his life. He never carried a gun in his life, either. We met at college. Rutgers. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I graduated last year. Derek had a year to go for his degree. He wasn’t no corner boy. There was no reason for you to shoot him down like that.”

“Those weren’t schoolbooks in that car.”

“You don’t listen, do you? Whatever was in that car, it wasn’t his. Derek didn’t have anything to do with guns. He was different from those boys he grew up with. He had a future.”

Sara looked at the photo. The little boy’s eyes. Derek Willis, young and alive, love for the child in his arms lighting up his face. She saw the gold ring in his right ear, the same ring she’d seen by the beam of the flashlight.

“I’m sorry,” she said and meant it.

“He was a good man, and you people killed him like some animal.”

Sara shifted in her seat. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Derek was twenty-two years old. Our baby is three now. Who’s going to tell him what happened to his father? How am I ever going to explain that to him?”

“Where is he? Your son.”

She replaced the photo in the wallet. “With my parents. I couldn’t bring him down here. Not with what I have to do.” Her voice almost broke then, lost some of its edge. “They won’t give Derek back to me until they’re done with him,” she said. “With their ‘investigation.’ He’s all alone down here. You people murdered him, then cut him up, put him on a slab somewhere. Now I can’t take him home until they say I can.”

There was wetness in her eyes. Sara looked away, out at the parking lot, the heat haze rising off the blacktop.

“I have a little boy, too,” she said. “He’s six.”

“He have a daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Where at?”

“I don’t know. We’re on our own.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m not sure,” Sara said. “I guess I just wanted you to know.”

“Is he coming back? His daddy?”

“Maybe someday. I don’t know.”

“But he might. He might show up at your door tomorrow, to see you, see his son.”

“He might.”

“Derek won’t. He told me he’d be gone a week, maybe a little longer, but he’s not ever coming back.”

The cell phone hummed on the table.

“I’m sorry I bothered you.” Sara said and eased out of the booth. “And I’m sorry for what happened.”

The phone hummed again.

“You may not be now,” Simone James said, “but you will be.”

“What’s that mean?”

The woman looked at her, waiting, and Sara knew she was being dismissed. Her face felt hot.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your husband,” she said. “That’s all I came out here to tell you.”

Sara held her eyes for a moment, then turned away, headed for the door. She nodded at Shirley, not trusting herself to speak, then pushed open the door and went out into the heat.

When Sara ended her shift, Hammond’s office was already dark, the door closed. Still in uniform, she drove out to his house on the far west side of the county, the road winding through shimmering cane fields. The air was filled with the harsh, sweet smell of a distant burn-off.

When she pulled up the driveway, he was out on the porch steps, tying flies, a tackle box open beside him. His cruiser and pickup were parked in the side yard. She pulled the Blazer up behind them, cut the engine.

He watched as she came across the lawn. He was out of uniform already, wore jeans and a blue workshirt.

“Figured I’d find you out here,” she said. A wind chime on the porch sounded in the breeze.

“Knocked off early,” he said. “Don’t tell the taxpayers.”

He set the fly in the box, stood, took a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his hands.

“Something wrong?” he said.

She shook her head.

“Then come on up. Get out of that heat.”

He held the screen door for her. She went into the coolness of the hallway, a ceiling fan turning above.

“I made some sweet tea a little while ago,” he said.

She followed him into the kitchen. Through the doorway into the living room, she could see a TV table set up in front of a recliner. The television was on, the sound turned down.

“I leave it on sometimes,” he said. “Company, I guess.”

He opened the refrigerator, took out a pitcher. “Glasses up there,” he said.

There was a sideboard against the wall, a shelf holding white china with blue rims. On it were two framed photographs. One was a studio portrait of his daughter, Laura, a young woman with Asian features, long black hair. The other was of his wife, Lien-Thi, who’d died of cervical cancer the year before Sara joined the Sheriff’s Office. In the photo, she stood at the railing of a cruise ship in a Hawaiian dress, wearing a lei. She looked slightly embarrassed and impossibly happy.