“He’s coasting on adrenaline right now,” Hammond said, “but when all this hits home, it’ll hit hard. We’ll keep him out for a while, with pay, until this gets sorted, then bring him back on the desk, ease him into it. I’ve seen what this can do to men. Some can handle it. Some can’t.”

She watched Billy run a hand through his hair. He looked like a little boy waiting to be punished, bent over in his chair. She felt a sudden surge of affection for him, wanted to go in there, touch him, tell him everything would be okay. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t.

When she left the office, she saw him look up, meeting her eyes from across the room. Elwood looked, too, saw her, turned back to Billy and spoke. Billy held eye contact with her for a moment, then turned to answer.

She went out past the dispatcher’s desk. Angie nodded at her without speaking. Sara pushed through the big glass door and out into the new morning.

• • •

She pulled the Blazer into the driveway, parked alongside JoBeth’s Escort, shut off the engine. The sun was up, birds singing, and every muscle in her body felt stiff and sore.

She got out, locked the car with the keypad, slung her tactical bag over her shoulder, and went up the slate walk to the house. Danny’s Big Wheel was on the lawn where he’d left it yesterday. She picked it up by a handlebar, the plastic wet with dew, and moved it alongside the steps so no one would trip on it.

JoBeth was asleep on the living room couch, a blanket over her. She lay on her right side, left arm dangling almost to the carpet, the TV remote inches away on the rug, a cell phone alongside it. A science textbook and spiral notebook were on the coffee table.

The house was cool, the central air thrumming softly. She left her tac bag in the living room and went down the hall to Danny’s room, the door half open. He slept facing the wall, his NASCAR comforter wrapped around him, a green stuffed dinosaur in his arms. Winnie-the-Pooh wallpaper in here, but she would have to change that soon. He’d grown out of it. On one wall they’d pinned a star map of constellations, on another a science timeline with dinosaur drawings that seemed to march across the wall in single file.

He was six, small for his age, hair cropped close but uneven where it had fallen out. She leaned against the doorjamb, watched his steady breathing. She often found herself doing this at night, coming in as quietly as she could, watching him to make sure he was still breathing, still here.

It’s not fair, what you’ve had to go through. But buddy, sometimes I love you so much I feel like my heart’s going to explode. And I’m not going to let anything take you away from me.

After a while she went down the hall to her bedroom. She locked the Glock and extra magazine in the strongbox on the closet shelf, pulled the hunter green uniform shirt off, and undid the Velcro snaps of the vest. The white T-shirt she wore beneath was soaked with sweat. She dropped the vest on the floor, the T-shirt atop it. She got the rest of her clothes off, left them where they lay.

In the bathroom, she undid her hair and ran the shower until it was hot. She climbed in and let the needles pound her neck and back where the muscles were stiffest, feeling some of the tension slip away. When she was done, she toweled off and put on sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair still loose and wet. She took two Aleve, washed them down with a glass of water from the sink.

In the kitchen, she got two twenties from the flour canister. She found an envelope, put the bills inside, and wrote on the front of it: JoBeth, short shift tonight, but I may need to go out for a while later today. I’ll call. Thanks again, S.

Barefoot, she went back into the living room. JoBeth was still asleep, snoring softly. Sara tucked the envelope into the spiral notebook, then checked the front door locks. The exhaustion was on her now, bone deep.

She went back to Danny’s room, saw he hadn’t moved. Then she went to her own, leaving the door open so she could hear him when he woke. She climbed under a single sheet, the room already bright, sunlight coming through the blinds. She thought about getting up to draw the curtains, but her body would not move.

When she closed her eyes she saw flashing red and blue lights, a dark form splayed out on wet grass. The head rose up, eyes fixed on her. Derek Willis looked at her and said, Why?

She rolled over, willed the vision away, pulled a second pillow close. She held it tight to her, arms wrapped around it. She slept and did not dream.

Snow was swirling in the air-just flecks of it, only October still-when Morgan steered the old Monte Carlo onto Lyons Avenue. Rows of burned-out brownstones on both sides, abandoned and stripped cars. He passed an empty lot, saw two men standing around a fire in a fifty-five gallon drum. They watched as he drove past.

At the next corner, there was a makeshift shrine against a telephone pole. Flickering votive candles, a stuffed bear, a white T-shirt pinned to the pole. Something written on it, too far away to read.

He had the stereo on-Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes’ “I Miss You,” the long version-and he turned the sound down now, swung a right onto a side street. He slowed, watched the houses, the car’s exhaust rumbling. The brownstone he wanted was ahead on the left; broken-down porch, weathered plywood over the big front windows.

He drove past slowly, taking in the barren front yard, the gang tags on the plywood. Hoped they didn’t have a dog.

He went up a block, made a U-turn, and parked in front of an empty storefront. He switched the engine off, the big V8 quivering for a moment with pre-ignition, then going silent.

Watching the brownstone, he got the bottle of Vicodin from the pocket of his leather car coat. He was feeling the pain again, on his right side just below his ribs. It always came with stress. He shook a pill into his palm, broke it in two, put half on his tongue, and dry-swallowed it. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview, not liking what he saw. His face thinner, his hair grayer, the color of ash.

Time to get on with it. He put the half pill back, the bottle in his pocket, opened the door.

When he got out of the car, he felt the deep arthritic ache in his hips. This cold this early, it would be a rough winter. He locked the door, looked up and down the street, saw no one. The houses were all condemned, an urban renewal project that never happened. The only people in them would be squatters-fiends and smokehounds looking to get off the street as the weather turned.

Early afternoon and the sky a hard gray, his breath frosting in the air. He wore cotton work gloves, but his hands were still cold. As he walked toward the house, bits of glass crunched under his boots: crack vials, broken bottles. This part of the city was paved with them.

He stopped outside the brownstone. Three stories, a wealthy white man’s house back in the day. The front yard was small and sloped, the stone steps that led up to the boarded-over door chipped and discolored. An extension cord ran from a second-floor window into the house next door.

He got the cell out, speed-dialed the number. Rohan answered on the first ring.

“Yo.”

“It’s Morgan. How do I get up in this place?”

“You early. Come around the side, man.”

Morgan closed the phone, went around the house to the small side yard. A toppled birdbath lay broken in the weeds. There was a door there, and it opened as he approached. Standing inside was a chubby teenager-fourteen, fifteen-with a red North Face jacket, baggy jeans. Under the jacket was a black T-shirt with red letters that said STOP SNITCHING. Morgan towered over him.

“You got a dog in there?”

“What?”