“As you can imagine, it’s been a madhouse all day. Let me check.” I hear the click of computer keys on the other end. “Here we go: Paula Kester and her child, Lucy Kester. Looks like mama is fine. Going to be released in the morning.” More computer keys clicking. “And Lucy Kester. Four-month-old female.” A pause, then, “Hmmm. Chief, I’m sorry, but the baby passed away two hours ago.…”

The news impacts me like a power punch to the solar plexus. Vaguely, I’m aware of her speaking. Something about a possible spinal cord injury. All the while the words I was loath to hear echo inside my head.

The baby passed away two hours ago.

“Chief Burkholder? You there?”

I’m gripping my phone so tightly my hand shakes. I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure how to feel. Guilty because I wasn’t able to save her. Angry because once again that bitch Fate was unjust to an innocent who didn’t deserve it. Hollowed out because I’m too tired to react to any of it.

“Thanks for the update, Cat. You guys keep up the good work.”

I end the call before she can respond. I sit there staring at my phone, my pulse thudding. “Goddamn it,” I whisper. “Goddamn it.”

Up until now I’d been operating on adrenaline. Doing what needed to be done and not thinking about any of it. Suddenly everything I’ve seen—the horrific injuries, the devastating damage, the senselessness of this random storm and the havoc it has wreaked on so many lives—rushes at me, and like so many times before in my life, I rage at the unfairness of it.

I rise abruptly, but I don’t go to the kitchen. I don’t want Tomasetti to see me like this. I don’t want to share this with him or talk to him or let him know how profoundly I’m disturbed by it. I’m a cop, after all. Good or bad, this is part of the job, and if I’m going to continue being a cop, I’d damn well better handle it. Toughen up. Stop caring so damn much.

I’m midway down the hall, intent on a shower and a few hours of sleep, when Tomasetti’s voice stops me. “Where do you keep the glasses?”

I stop, take an instant to settle my emotions, and turn to him. “Second shelf in the cupboard next to the sink.”

He nods but doesn’t go back into the kitchen to do whatever it was he was doing. He’s holding in his right hand the old bottle of bourbon I keep above the refrigerator. A kitchen towel is slung over his shoulder. He’s staring at me as if he just realized I’m bleeding.

“What is it?” he asks.

Not for the first time I’m reminded that he is my equal, not a man who will be ignored or lied to or misled. “I just called the hospital,” I hear myself say. “To check on the baby from the trailer this afternoon. Tomasetti, she died.”