“We’ll do our best.”

“When you see her, please tell her that. She needs to hear it. Okay,” Norton said, breathing deep. “All right, then. Follow me.”

We stepped out of the boathouse into the rain. Tim’s eyes swept the landscape, lingering on every brush pile and fallen tree, and we started up the long set of stairs. The climb to the house was brutal, and I was winded inside of three minutes. Those beautiful stone steps were even steeper than they’d looked from the water, and impossibly slick. All three of us wore rain boots with minimal tread. Tim’s a gym rat, and I stay in pretty good shape. But when we got to the top and crossed a wraparound porch to the house’s double entry doors, only Philip Norton wasn’t panting.

“Cam— Mrs. Sinclair is still upstairs. The rest are through there.”

“How’s she holding up?” I asked. “It’s a terrible thing, not knowing what happened to your son.” I kept my go-to line at the ready: No parent should have to outlive a child. I know how to make it sound unrehearsed, like I’m delivering it for the first time.

“Oh no,” Norton said. “Camilla Sinclair is Jasper’s grandmother.” My gaze flicked to Tim—how did you miss that?—but he was stoic, taking it all in. “Jasper’s parents,” Norton said, “passed on.”

“When was that?” I said.

“Almost two years ago.”

“Is she the owner of the house? Camilla Sinclair?”

“Yes, ma’am. Has an apartment in the city, too. Please, this way.”

Norton pushed open the door to reveal a wide entry with impeccable wood floors framed by a geometric border. The scent of the pine cleaner he’d used to make them shine like glass hung in the air. Somewhere on the main floor, a woman was crying. Her rhythmic sobs echoed down the hall.

The moment I’m about to start investigating a homicide, even a nebulous one like Jasper Sinclair’s, is a moment like no other. I can’t explain how it makes me feel, and believe me, I’ve tried—for Carson especially. It’s somewhere between the sick feeling of waking up to find a day you’ve been dreading for months is here, and a slap you don’t see coming. It’s physical, visceral, gutting.

For me, the moment doesn’t come when we get the call, but when I’m about to step into the crime scene and see the horror du jour. It’s my last chance to feel like an ordinary human being, sometimes for a long time, because I know the crime’s going to seep into my pores and cling to me like a nerve agent, slowly eating away at my body, mind, and resolve. It always does.

And the thing is, I can’t shake it unless I get a solve. The cases that get away from me, that I nearly get killed trying to crack and fail to get a conviction on anyway? The biological effects of those don’t go away. They’re an eye twitch I can’t contain. Seeping blisters on my lungs that burn with every breath. By the time I told Carson about Bram, on that bright fall day in Queens, my cuticles itched inexplicably and every morning my pillow was soaked with cold sweat. I didn’t want to believe this would hinder my ability to do my job, but it sure as hell made me uneasy.