The yards are small here, barely any grass out front. The sidewalk is cracked and the trees are thin. The sun beats down upon the black roofs and gives the neighborhood a sense of having its own ozone layer: McGowan hasn’t felt this hot in a long time.

If Zach Gold answers his door, she will first point her gun at him and demand he let her in. If he doesn’t answer, she will kick his door down and question him all the same. And if he tries to run? She will shoot him.

Rogue.

But who has gone rogue? Christ, even if Daphne was just a myth, a bedtime story, it’s something that should’ve come up sometime. Over lunch, at a police party, driving the streets with a colleague, in a meeting, on another case, on the phone. If there’s one thing McGowan has learned while moving from city to city, department to department, it’s that the most sensational cases come up in conversation. For law enforcement, those cases are the city’s history. More than the accomplishments of its citizens.

McGowan removes the gun from her jacket pocket at the foot of the stone porch steps. Let the neighbors see. Let the neighbors talk. Maybe one of them will tell her something, willingly, on their own, something they’ve wanted to get off their chest for a long time. No more playing by the rules here. No more quiet paperwork and questions asked in soundproof rooms.

It’s time to get loud.

She climbs the steps, gun trained on the door. She knocks with it.

“Zach Gold? Detective McGowan, Samhattan Police.”

Her voice is tired yet loud in the quiet early morning. Up the street, a door opens and closes. A car engine starts. Someone beginning their day, even as McGowan continues her long night.

“Zach Gold? A few questions, is all.”

She listens close for movement. Upstairs, downstairs, inside and out. She understands she could be standing on the front porch of the very man who is killing ballers from the high school and so he may not behave favorably. He may shoot at her from inside the house.

She knocks again.

Up the street, a Samhattanite yells to another. Someone is taking too long to get ready. McGowan looks to Gold’s driveway and sees there is no car. This scares her, briefly, not because she hadn’t thought to look there first, but because it might mean he’s somewhere else. Killing. Maybe McGowan’s CB is about to announce exactly what he’s up to as she stands impotent at his door.

“Mr. Gold?”

Peter Lords cited this man. Why?

McGowan tries the handle. It’s locked. She knocks again. Tries the door again. Locked. She looks up and down the street once, trains the gun on the doorknob, and fires.

The sound is so unbelievably loud that it temporarily wakes her from her lawless stupor. For the duration of two breaths she sees clearly what she’s doing and what she’s now done. There’s no coming back from this one.