AN HOUR LATER, Nate hurried toward the police department, a two-story brick-and-glass building in the center of town. An American flag flapped above the glass entry doors.

He’d missed roll call, but knew Lieutenant Dyson wouldn’t mind. This was Skamania. There were fewer than six thousand emergency calls and criminal cases a year. It was one of the best, and worst, things about taking the detective job here after the chaos of patrolling in Seattle.

Stevie hadn’t been carrying any oxycodone. But he did have an ounce of marijuana in his back pocket. Since he was underage, Nate had booked him for possession. He’d even seized the $4.92 Stevie had in his wallet for good measure.

Nate shoved a bite of a glazed donut into his mouth as he entered the station, all he’d had time to grab for breakfast this morning.

“Don’t worry, Ma,” he said into his cell phone, still chewing. He nodded at Thompson, who was on duty at the front desk, and moved toward the detectives’ area. He thumped Sanchez on the back and raised a hand good-bye to McManus, who was leaving. “I’ll visit him later.… I will, promise. I gotta go.… Yeah.… Yeah. Love you too.”

The police department was busy. Phones were ringing, keyboards clattering, papers shuffling. The smell of burnt coffee drifted in the air. The cubicles in the detectives’ area were squished at the back of the room.

Nate crossed to his cubicle, which was decorated with the traditional swag of a detective: pictures of his family, police awards he’d won, a trophy he’d brought from Seattle. He sat down to file his report about the overdose.

“You’re gonna get fat.” One of the other detectives, Kia Sharpe, nodded at the donut in his hand.

Nate patted his abs and grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “Never.”

“Life is not fair,” she complained.

Kia was the yin to Nate’s yang: a cynical pessimist with a fractious, snappy attitude. She had bitten-down nails, shaggy hair, and a jaw so square you could park a car in it. But beneath her dark eyes and black leather jacket, she was quick-minded and wily as a snake.

Before Nate could reply, Lieutenant Sam Dyson poked his head out of his office. “Sweeney!”

Nate hustled into Dyson’s office. The walls were covered with pictures: Dyson with the mayor, with his officers and detectives, riding horses with his children, holding his grandkids, a wedding photo with his wife. Medals hung on the spaces in between.

A photo on his desk showed Dyson and Nate’s dad, Matt Sweeney, back when they were partners, looking young and virile, both in full uniform standing in front of their patrol car. These days Dyson looked more like a cowboy than a cop, with a gray handlebar mustache, craggy eyebrows, and a face so creased he looked like he’d slept facedown.

“Hiya, Nate. How’s Emma?”