Bobbi stood in the waiting room, looking out the windows: Terry Fogarty had arrived and was talking to one of the investigators, waving his arms around. He lurched forward, tried to get inside the tent, and the investigator grabbed him.

Lennox Palmer, standing beside Bobbi, drew a sharp breath. “Jesus, who called him?”

“I don’t think anyone did,” Bobbi said. “They took our phones. Probably to prevent this from happening. Maybe he just showed up. He could’ve been the one to call the police in the first place if she didn’t come home…”

Outside, Terry cried, and flailed, and reached for the tent.

“When are they going to get her out of there?” Lennox whispered.

“It’s a crime scene,” Bobbi said. She became aware she was hugging herself and chewing her fingernails, took her hand away from her mouth. She hadn’t bitten her nails in years. “They’ve got to check everything,” she said. “Her body is part of the evidence.”

It was beyond surreal. Harriet was their supervisor. She’d taken Bobbi under her wing. She had a quiet, determined way about her. Bobbi knew she’d been getting a bit burned out – their field could do that – but Harriet was strong, filled with compassion. She was sporty and did yoga. Bobbi had never been to her house but knew that she and Terry shared a nice place with a bit of land and they liked to take long walks together.

If she was in that car, someone had not only killed her, they’d done it violently, messily.

Terry was still trying to reach her – three cops were holding him back now. Bobbi wondered why he’d only just shown up, then recalled Rita saying Terry was sick, similar to what Bobbi had. He might’ve had an early night, maybe even been doped up on medicine, unaware she hadn’t returned home until the morning.

“This is horrible,” Lennox muttered.

As the cops clung to Harriet’s husband, the EMTs looked on, heavy and helpless. Finally, Terry slumped in the arms of the men and women surrounding him, defeated.

“This is just…” Lennox’s voice held a tremor. “They should send everybody home. What are we doing here? They’ve got everyone confined to their offices.”

“They’re interviewing us,” Bobbi said. “Rachel is in now with that one detective, Nelson.”

“Yeah – but we’re together.” Lennox glanced at the one uniformed officer in the room with them.

“I don’t know,” Bobbi said. “Maybe because we were already talking in the parking lot. Or because, you know, I… I looked and the tent opened up…”

“What are we supposed to say? Do we need lawyers?”

“Just answer their questions. They’re probably trying to get a picture of where everyone was, form their timeline, whatever. They’re getting statements.”

“You sound like you know a little bit about it.”

She shrugged then stepped away from Lennox, closer to the window. Terry was outside the crime scene tape now, lowered onto his knees, head bowed. The local cop standing beside him kept a hand on his shoulder. Bobbi had only met Terry once, when he’d come to the office for a brief visit, but suspected he and Harriet were one of those rare, happy couples whose marriage had not only held up but flourished with time. She couldn’t imagine what he was going through. There was really no longer any doubt that Harriet was inside her car.

Lennox spoke in a soft voice. “Shouldn’t the on-call mortuary service be taking her away? Jesus – before any TV crews get here at least?”

“That’s the coroner out there now,” Bobbi said. “Maybe they’re getting an outside medical examiner or something.” She let go of a shuddering breath, thinking of the blood-splashed windscreen.

She turned away, looked over the quiet waiting room with the lone cop standing there, then through the glass partition at the front-desk worker who sat staring at nothing.

A door opened in the hallway and Rachel emerged from one of the rooms. Her color was high, her eyes wet and shining.

“They asked for you next,” she said, drawing near to Bobbi.

“You okay?”

Rachel stuck out her chin, but it wobbled, her eyes welled up, and she lowered her head. They embraced and Rachel sobbed silently against Bobbi. The APS worker dug her fingers into Bobbi’s back and clung so tight it was hard to breathe.

Bobbi whispered, “Don’t look out there anymore, okay? Sit and talk with Lennox.”

Lennox overheard, pried Rachel from Bobbi, and led her away. Rachel wiped her nose and snuffled. “Look at me. What a mess.”

Lennox spoke softly to her and they sat down, facing away from the window. Outside, Terry was on his feet again, nodding, wiping his eyes. The dark tent rippled with a gust of wind.

Beyond it all, the first TV news van turned down the access road, blocked by a police barricade. A reporter jumped out, started talking to the state troopers. Someone had either made a phone call before turning it in, or the media had been alerted by all the emergency vehicles.

“Ms. Noelle?”

It was her turn to be interviewed.

---

Bobbi entered the room, which was the office of Yari Fennel, a man who worked in the Medicaid Unit. She hadn’t seen Yari yet that morning.

Investigator Nelson was seated at Yari’s desk. A woman in a pantsuit closed the door and offered Bobbi a seat.

Nelson nodded at a device beside him on the desk. “We’re recording this, is that alright with you?”

Bobbi nodded and took her seat by the window. The woman leaned against the wall and folded her arms. She wore her hair in a kind of face-framing blowout that made her look younger than the experience in her eyes.

“So, you’ve met me,” Nelson began. “This is Detective Lena Overton, with the Lake Haven Police Department. And I’m with the New York State Police. We’re working together on this.”

“Okay.”

“You’re Roberta June Noelle,” Nelson said. “Is that right?”

“Right. Yes.”

“That’s a nice name. Different.”

“Thank you.” Bobbi’s lips felt numb, the words foreign. She glanced at Overton, who stared back impassively.

“I’ve heard some people call you Bobbi,” Nelson said. “Is it alright if I do?”

“Sure.”

“Great. And I’m Mike, okay?” He had a nice smile. He faced her directly and crossed his legs, folded his hands over his knee. “After we talk for a bit I’m going to have you fill out some paperwork. It’s critical we get as much information as we can right now, while it’s fresh. And there’s a lot of people here, a lot of different departments. Can you tell me a little bit about yourself and what you do?”

“I’m new, ah… I started six months ago. I work in Child Protective Services as a caseworker. DSS also has a Medicaid Unit, nutritional services… um… a temporary assistance program, housing assistance – that’s called HEAP…” She realized she was a bit nervous and rambling.

Mike gave a nod. “Your co-worker Lennox Palmer works in child support, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“He helps to track down absent parents, establish paternity, helps single parents get financial support, things like that?”

“Right.” She wondered why they were asking about Lennox.

“And what exactly do you do? If you could be specific.”

“What I do is help children who are in unhealthy or unsafe environments. We try to keep families together whenever possible, but if a child is at risk, we’re going to get the child somewhere safe.” It was a well-rehearsed spiel; there were plenty of people who viewed what she did as invasive and intent on destroying families, civil liberty, that sort of thing.

Nelson, or Mike, consulted his notes beside him. “And that’s what Harriet Fogarty was doing last night? Getting a child somewhere safe?”

Bobbi nodded. “Yes, right. There was an emergency placement. Rita – ah, Harriet – had to do it because I was home sick.”

Mike glanced at Detective Overton and raised his eyebrows, inviting her to speak.

“Lake Haven Police raided the Fullers’ apartment yesterday at 3 p.m.,” Overton said. “In the process of executing the warrant, we discovered Grayson Fuller was in his room, appeared unwashed and malnourished, and we called CPS. This is your case, Ms. Noelle. What can you tell us about the Fullers?”

Bobbi felt her nerves start to crawl. “I’m sorry, I… It’s privileged. I mean… I understand that…”

“We contacted DSS about a month ago,” Overton said, more to Mike than to Bobbi, or perhaps for the benefit of the recording. “The Fullers had already gotten in trouble – the father was arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge, then about two days later a neighbor reported the mother leaving Grayson alone in the backyard of the apartment building for an hour. Ms. Noelle first visited the Fullers shortly after. Grayson was evaluated by someone from County Mental Health. CPS recommended several programs to the parents to help them keep their son, but they never showed or participated. And then this happened.”

A silence developed, and Bobbi could hear the soft murmur of voices drifting from the waiting room. She wondered if the press had been allowed any closer; if Harriet’s body was going to be on TV; how far and wide the news would spread. Bobbi’s parents would be worried sick by the whole thing.

Overton spoke again, still leaning against the wall. “When you were considering potential placement for Grayson, what were your options?”

Bobbi drew in a breath, deciding how much she could say. “Ordinarily, if we can find some other family member – grandparents, maybe an aunt or something – they can claim the child, but there was no one for Grayson. So we put him on the list for foster placement.” She looked between the officers. “And you have his parents in custody, is that right?”

“Correct,” Overton said. “They were processed in and spent last night in the local jail, and they’re on their way to county. What about family outside the area?”

Bobbi thought she understood. They were looking for someone who might be upset that Grayson’s parents were arrested, maybe angry that the child was placed in foster care.

“Can you think of anyone?” Overton asked. “An uncle? A family friend?”

“They were really isolated from family…”

“Gavin Fuller used to work construction,” Overton said. “He was on methadone for a while and recently got fired from his job. She worked as a bartender, then she was a clerk at the Dollar Tree, and then she was cleaning motel rooms – she’s been all over the place. That’s Shannon Fuller.”

Mike nodded, taking notes. He stopped and looked at Bobbi.

“I never encountered any family or friends,” she said. “No one came forward, and we weren’t able to locate anyone when we were first looking into Grayson’s welfare.”

“Okay, Bobbi,” Mike said. “Just a couple more things and we’ll get you out of here. How old are you, Bobbi?”

“Twenty-three.”

“And where are you from?”

“Almond. In the western part of the state.”

“You went to the University of Rochester?”

“For four years. I received my Bachelor’s degree to be a caseworker. I could’ve kept going but I just wanted to get into the field, start doing what I could. So I moved up here when I saw the job opening with DSS.”

“Okay. And you were home sick last night?”

“Yes.”

“And you live in Lake Placid?”

“I do.”

“Uh-huh. So it’s okay you don’t live in the same county you work in?”

“I think they changed that rule a few years ago.”

“And you were the first person here this morning from the Child Welfare Unit?”

“Um, I think so.” The questions were starting to make her head spin.

“Did you hear from Harriet at all last night? You said she was covering for you. She went with the police and helped to physically remove Grayson from his home. I understand about privilege, but this is a homicide investigation, and this is about your interactions with Harriet last night.”

“I did, actually, text with her at one point,” Bobbi said. “It was about six, maybe a little after. She’d been here at the office for about half an hour with Grayson, then the foster parents came, she went with them to their house, dropped off Grayson, and returned here. As far as I know.”

“Why would she come back?”

“There’s a lot of notes to take – paperwork.”

“So the text – you sent her one or she sent you one?”

“She sent one to me.”

Mike pointed to the pile of phones on Yari’s desk. “Can you show me?”

Bobbi crossed to the desk, selected her phone, and found the message from Harriet. Seeing the words turned her stomach and seemed to dry the spit in her mouth. She handed the phone to Mike. “Right there. Six thirteen.”

Mike read it as she sat back down. “She says, ‘All good. Getting him in now. How are you holding up?’” Their eyes connected. “She meant your illness?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

He scowled at the small screen. “You didn’t reply for an hour. ‘Thank you so much. Think I see the light at the end of the tunnel.’”

“I was in the bathroom, honestly. I think I had a twenty-four-hour thing.”

He looked at her with sympathy and then read the final text in the exchange. “And then ten minutes later, she says, ‘He’s with the family. See you tomorrow.’”

“Yes, sir. That’s why I figured she’d gone and dropped him off.”

Mike handed her back the phone, his eyes unfocused, as if lost in thought. Finally, he stood. Bobbi got to her feet again and shook his extended hand, then Detective Overton’s.

“Thank you, Bobbi,” Mike said. “In the lobby, a state trooper will hand you a basic incident report. If you could just fill it out, your address, phone numbers, and a summary of what you’ve told us here today, that would be very helpful.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

Overton opened the door, kept her hand on the knob while Mike answered Bobbi’s question. “Well, obviously it’s very upsetting to have things the way they are. But with everyone already coming into work, it was a good time to get some statements, and the evidence techs have to take samples, pictures, things like that.”

“In situ,” Bobbi said.

Mike made a bemused expression. “That’s right.”

“I watched a lot of cop shows with my brothers,” Bobbi said. She looked between them. “After I fill out my report, then what? Am I staying at work for the day? Is anyone?”

“That’s up to your other supervisor. As far as we’re concerned, you’re free to go. But we’d ask that you don’t leave the area. Just here in Lake Haven and your home in Lake Placid. We may need to speak to you again. Alright?”

“Okay. Yes, alright.”

“Could you do me a favor and send in Lennox Palmer?”

Bobbi nodded and stepped into the hallway.

---

Bobbi found Lennox sitting alone in the waiting room. She looked around and asked him where Rachel was.

“In her office,” he said. “She’s pretty upset. And she’s upset that she’s upset, beating herself up over it, keeps saying she’s weak.”

“You’re up.”

Lennox rose from the chair. He was a tall and bony forty-five-year-old, with hair pulled back in a bundle of dreadlocks, and a beakish nose that propped up the glasses always sliding away from his dark eyes. He pushed them up with a finger and took a breath. Then he walked his spidery walk toward the detectives, looming in the doorway of Yari Fennel’s office.

Bobbi looked at Investigator Nelson and watched as he closed the door.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Jessica knocked on the open door of Bobbi’s office. The older woman walked into the room, sat down heavily, and stared out the window. Half the offices in the DSS building had windows, half didn’t; Bobbi had lucked out. Hers viewed the woods next to the building, a small yellow excavator partly in view, a few bushes with the roots balled in canvas bags, ready for planting, everything else lush and green. Seeing the excavator reminded her she still needed to text Connor.

Jessica sighed. “There’s TV from Burlington out there, someone coming down from Montreal. But the police are talking to them now. Hopefully they’ll get out of here.”

Bobbi pulled the police report off her desk. “Almost done with this.”

Jessica turned away from the window and faced Bobbi. “I think we’re all in shock. But you must be especially. You probably don’t want to talk to anyone.”

It took Bobbi a moment. “Me?”

“How are you doing with this?”

“I’m fine. I mean, of course, I’m…”

Jessica dipped her head toward Bobbi and lifted her eyebrows. “I just mean that, you know, Harriet was covering for you…”

Bobbi stopped breathing. Maybe she’d been blocking it out as a defense mechanism, but now the guilt took shape. The nausea surged in her throat, and Bobbi felt the heat drain from her face. “Oh my God, she was only here because of me… Because I was sick.”

“Stop – don’t blame yourself. Of course that’s not what I’m saying.”

“How can I not blame myself?” She had a hard time meeting Jessica’s gaze and thought she might need to run to the bathroom any second. Then she remembered Mike Nelson’s direct blue eyes, his nice smile, and her stomach twisted with a new thought. “They made so little of it in there…”

Not only had Harriet been covering for her, but Harriet’s car was nearly identical to Bobbi’s. Different makes, but the same compact SUV size and shape, same shade of blue. Had someone mistaken Harriet’s car for hers? The police hadn’t mentioned the possibility of Harriet as the wrong victim, but perhaps they’d been waiting to see if Bobbi led them to it on her own. After all, she’d been the one primarily dealing with the Fullers until Harriet stepped in.

Jessica tipped back her head and shook it, closing her eyes. “What a mess.”

“Maybe it was random,” Bobbi said suddenly.

Jessica opened her eyes, said, “It could be, sure. Though I don’t know if that makes it any better.”

Bobbi looked everywhere in her office except at Jessica. She missed Harriet now in a whole new way. Where Harriet had been endlessly supportive and constructive, Jessica could be blunt and tactless. Bobbi always preferred speaking to Harriet on just about every occasion. A bubble of anger pushed aside the nausea. “No – it doesn’t make it any better. Either way, if I hadn’t called in sick…”

Jessica straightened her spine and looked at Bobbi through half-lidded eyes. “Roberta, I’m not blaming you, no one is – the only person responsible is the one who did this.” She blinked, long and slow. “But would you rather pretend it was some other way? I’m just saying you should probably avoid talking to anyone from the newspapers. You know how they love to spin these things.”

“I just…” Bobbi rose unsteadily to her feet, waited for the dizziness to pass. She still hadn’t eaten anything and it was going on ten o’clock. She gripped the edge of her desk, leaned forward to get some blood back in her brain. “Are they still out there?”

“The police? Yes.”

“Did they take her body yet?”

“They’re taking it now, I think. And hopefully it draws off the press. I talked to them but—”

“Did you hear what happened to her?”

“She was stabbed multiple times. Cut across her neck. That’s what I heard.”

Bobbi reached her limit – Jessica’s callous way, the sterile smell of the office, the idea of Harriet’s tortured body sitting there in her car throughout the night – it had all become too much. She stumbled out into the hallway and headed toward the building’s rear entrance, hit the crash bar of the exterior door, and left.

---

The sun beat down, the air breezy and dry, pine needles baking in the heat. Bobbi walked toward the tree line, expecting another upheaval from her stomach, but there was nothing left to come out. She paced a circle, hands on her hips, taking in gulps of air, trying to settle herself.

The back door opened and Rachel cautiously stepped out. “You want to be alone?”

“No, it’s okay.”

Rachel came closer. “I’m sorry I lost it in there.”

“We’re all losing it. This is unreal. Just unreal. Poor Rita.” Bobbi felt the sting of tears but beat them back.

She looked around at the cars in the back lot, many of them double-parked, crowded together to keep the area clear out front. But it was quiet, just a few bugs zipping through, almost like nothing was happening.

“Let’s get out of here,” Rachel said. “They’re letting people go.”

“I don’t even know where I’m going to go,” Bobbi said. “Home? Sit staring at the wall?” She thought of Connor again. He was probably working but given the circumstances might be able to get away. She didn’t want to be alone.

“You probably need to eat,” Rachel said. “Have you eaten anything?”

Bobbi shook her head. “They asked me about Lennox.”

Rachel nodded. “They asked me about you. I mean… hey, you’re shaking. Are you okay?”

“You know what Jessica said to me?”

“Oh my God. She is in high-time bitch mode. Can you believe her? Stalking around in there. She’s crazy.”

“It’s just her defense,” Bobbi said. “I’m sure she’s hurting.”

Rachel blew air out of her lips in dismissal. “Don’t be her apologist. What did she say?”

“She just reminded me – Harriet was here because of me.”

Rachel clucked her tongue and crossed her arms. “Nice. Real nice. She’s a piece of work. Don’t even let that—”

“But no, I mean – she’s right. I was supposed to be here. What if that, oh my God, Rachel…” Bobbi could barely choke the words out. “What if that was supposed to be me?” It was a horrible thought now that she’d allowed it to fully form, the worst thought, and on top of it she felt guilty for focusing on herself instead of Harriet. “Our cars, Rachel, you know, my car and Rita’s are almost exactly the same…”

Rachel was staring now, a real holy shit face. “Your cars,” she said slowly, “and you even kind of… well you’re a lot younger, but your hair…”

The way she was looking her over, Bobbi had to face away.

She just stood there beneath the sizzling sun, wondering what came next.

---

The smell. The fucking smell – what was that? Spoiled milk? They said odors did things, could even trigger repressed memories. But he wasn’t remembering anything, not now. Just killing her, just the blood, and searching his soul to find satisfaction. Was he satisfied? He was excited, that’s what he was, and a little bit angry.

He drove through Lake Haven, not really seeing anything, thinking about how the stink of rotted milk had gotten under his skin, infected his brain, and made him want to shower with scalding water. How it had screwed him up.

And the car had been so damned hot. If he hadn’t cleaned up afterwards, he’d have left a puddle of sweat behind on the seats. Lucky he didn’t vomit.

He drove fast, eager to scrub himself in the shower, remembering how her blood had been like fireworks, spraying all over the car; some of it had squirted in his face and it had tasted like pennies, and that sensation, too, had brought the past to life…

A car blared its horn and he swerved, narrowly missing the oncoming traffic. He’d gone away for a second, lost in a dark place, filled with the odor of spoiled food, cool jets of air, music playing in the background – The Doors.

He braked for an intersection, waited for the light. While waiting he searched the cassettes on his passenger seat. That was the beauty of having an old car like this one – even if there was some rust and a tendency to overheat, it had a working cassette deck. Nothing quite like cassettes, nothing like the squeak of the gears that pulled the magnetic tape. He popped in The Soft Parade and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, first humming then singing along, off key, under his breath.

He’d never had a singing voice. Not even close. He’d had other talents, though, things people didn’t really understand.

Which wasn’t surprising, because people didn’t understand much of anything.

The light changed and he made a right turn, started out of town. Got the old car up to speed and dialed up the music, reminding himself that this thing wasn’t over.