A memorial service for Corina Lavoie, a funeral for Officer Cal Mullins. Bobbi had gone through it all, feeling sharper, more decisive than she’d ever felt in her life: She knew what she wanted. Her life was moving forward.

Trevor Garris. People said his name, but they stood close to a wall when they talked, their voices low. They closed doors to private offices and worked it all out. There was no trial, no one to prosecute. There was just a lot to discuss, plenty to process, victims and loved ones who needed to heal.

She packed up her office. No more working for Pierce County DSS. Rachel came in while she was sealing up boxes. Rachel wanted to see her stab wounds. Bobbi showed her, then they hugged, and Rachel saw her to her car, tears in her eyes, a crooked smile on her lips.

Lennox was still in the hospital. He’d been legitimately sick before Trevor Garris had beat him up and kidnapped him, brought him to Anita Richardson’s house. Spending the entire day there, subjected to further abuses, he’d gotten pneumonia. He was expected to make a full recovery, but it would take some time.

From his bed, he smiled at Bobbi. “How did Jessica take it?”

“I’m sure she’s happy to see me go,” Bobbi said.

“Nah.” He shook his head, coughed into a balled fist, then lay back again. “Nobody wants to see you go. What do you have planned?”

“I don’t know. Spend some time with Connor and Jolyon. Maybe go back to school. I like casework – it isn’t that.”

“I know,” Lennox said.

And she did like casework – it was gratifying to see how things had turned out with Carrie Lafler, for instance. Roy Richardson was now fully out of the picture, dealing with the fallout for helping Trevor Garris. He’d had no way of knowing, he claimed, who Garris really was, though he showed his own contempt for Child Protective Services. He’d taken money from Garris and then convinced Anita to take the kids to her sister’s for a few days, telling them that the house needed to be sprayed for termites. So he was looking at a little jail time.

There were no termites. Carrie Lafler had moved into the house with Anita, and the two of them were co-parenting the kids. Bobbi didn’t think it would last, but for now a new caseworker was seeing to it, and so far, so good. The kids seemed happy. They were safe.

She hugged Lennox and left the hospital, got into her car, loaded with the couple of boxes of her stuff from the office, and went to meet Mike Nelson at his house. She’d promised him.

He smiled when she came to the door. It was the first time she remembered seeing him since the morning they’d gotten egg sandwiches. She had no memory of him from that following night; nothing after images of Trevor Garris’s large shadow moving outside the children’s playhouse, the sensations of him grabbing her, cutting her – and then a gunshot in the night.

Mike was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with the picture of someone named “Howlin’ Wolf” on it. He gave her a tour, showed her the garden, everything popping – tomatoes and snap peas and peppers.

“Kristen wishes she could’ve met you,” Mike said, poking a cherry tomato in his mouth. “She’s coming back though, in two weekends. She says she’s going to come up more.”

“She’s checking up on you,” Bobbi said.

He smiled. “That’s fine with me.”

It was hard to find the right words, but she settled on two: “Thank you.”

He let her out of the garden gate, closed the door, and paused, looking lost in thought. Then he focused on her and said, “Thank you.”

There was a bit of an awkward silence, and he walked her back into the house, told her he had a gift for her and handed her a homemade CD in a slim jewel case. On it was written, Bobbi.

“Don’t know if you’ll like any of this, but… you know. Hey, how’s your… You doing okay? Everything healing?”

Just the mention of it made her cold, but she knew Mike meant no harm; he was genuinely concerned. Every night since Trevor, she retraced her steps, thought of what she could have done differently, what she’d done wrong.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Nothing, you know… My insides are all intact.”

He just looked at her, he had those kind eyes, and he nodded. “Well, like I said, give it a listen. It’s old man music, I guess. But I feel like you’re… you’re like an old soul. Man, that’s corny, huh?”

It was corny, but she gave him a quick hug, thanked him again, and showed herself to the front door before he could say anything else.

Connor was waiting for her at his place. The three of them – she and Connor and Jolyon – were going to head out of town for a few days. They’d discussed camping, but she didn’t want to be in the woods. She wanted to be around people. So they were going to hit up The Great Escape in Lake George, let Joly go on the rides. Eat some cotton candy.

Screw it, she was young, she could handle it.

---

Mike watched her go, feeling awed. This five-foot-five woman, taking on a guy like Trevor Garris? He’d seen it when he’d come up on the place; she was over there on the hill, going up against this monster, just about kicking his ass. She’d lasted longer than pretty much anyone else would have, but she’d been bleeding, suffocating. Taking too many hits.

Mike had never shot anyone. Never killed anyone.

He was on temporary leave, pending the Internal Affairs investigation, the first hearing scheduled for the next day.

Questions had been raised over how Garris learned Lennox Palmer had facilitated his initial placement into foster care along with the others if he’d been left out of the paperwork. Palmer claimed that Garris had been acting strangely after Fogarty’s death, the Durie case had come up, and Palmer had admitted his own involvement. It was a mistake that had nearly cost him his life; Garris had been on a mission to find everyone connected to what he considered the source of all his suffering.

Each night since, Mike had been lying there in bed, looking up at the ceiling, thinking about the moment he’d pulled the trigger. How it had been about getting Garris… stopping him… keeping him from killing Bobbi Noelle – but it had also been about something else, too.

After Garris, something changed; he no longer regretted his decision to not return to Brooklyn. He no longer felt like he’d let his father down. Garris was who he’d been put on this earth to stop.

But, then, maybe it wasn’t as grand as all of that. Maybe he’d been just doing his job. And maybe Trevor Garris was someone who started out as a kid with some terribly bad luck. The media vilified him, but Mike took no pleasure in what he’d done. Deep in the night, lying awake, some observant piece of his consciousness described the whole thing as a sad bit of theater – he’d had a role to play, Trevor Garris had had a role to play, and now the act was over.

The newspapers were also making hay over a major sting operation that involved a group of men feeding precursors to an ethanol plant in Pennsylvania, including some white nationalist motorcycle enthusiasts like Dodd Caruthers. And the DEA was very happy with Mike, so he had those things going for him, regardless of that inner voice from the ditch hours, assuring him that the world had not changed.

---

Standing in front of the mirror, looking at himself in the suit he’d chosen for the hearing on his officer-involved shooting, Mike’s phone rattled on the bedside table.

“You about ready?” Lena asked. “I’m still picking you up, right?”

As part of their investigation, the IAB had impounded his car.

“Yeah,” Mike said, “you’re picking me up.”

“Good. Did you eat this morning?”

“I did. I’m in good shape. They told me so at the physical.”

“You could’ve had a heart attack, chasing that guy up the tree, that’s what I think.”

He waved a hand in the air even though she was on the phone. “Hey… come on.”

“A little birdie told me you’ve had some health issues in the past. Let yourself go there for a little while.”

“The little birdie being Kristen.”

“We had a nice woman-to-woman talk, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Where was I?”

“Sleeping. Gardening. I don’t know.”

“Conspirators,” he said.

“Alright, alright… Oh, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He felt his skin prickle. “You’re picking me up in just a trench coat, nothing on underneath?”

“Aside from that. So – I got a letter. Well, I had a letter mailed to me. Sorry, that’s not making any sense…”

But he knew. “From Terry Fogarty?”

“Yes. That one. From Fogarty.”

“He found it.”

“He did. It’s from Steve Pritchard to Rita, and in it he gets into some persuasive language about wanting the Gloversville farm. And we’ve got Petrov on record saying that Pritchard wanted in on the meth operation. He wanted to use the farm, get paid for it. So after the hearing, why don’t we do a little police work together?”

“I’m on leave.”

“I’ll work, and you can watch. Let’s keep Pritchard in jail. Hey – I’m out front.”

“Already?”

Mike walked to the front door and opened it just as Lena pulled up to the curb, ending the call on her mounted cell phone.

He checked to make sure he had his wallet and his badge and house keys, then closed the place up, moved down the front walkway toward her.

She smiled as he approached, window down, the day hot, and he got that thing again, that feeling.

Damn.

She was the one.

Twice in one life – that was what you called lucky. Maybe, he thought, some things changed after all.

---