Because, as cranky, outspoken, and thin-skinned as he could be, Willy’s saving grace in a self-made ocean of misery, PTSD, old alcoholic memories, war-born nightmares, and underlying anger was his white-knuckled grip on a reborn life as a righteous man. As others in his place had claimed God as their savior, Willy had fought off his devils secularly and dedicated himself to Sammie, their child, his partners, and the truth as he knew it.

He could still be hard to bear. But as far as Ron was concerned, Willy’s inner fire was a real and rare pleasure to witness.

For him, hanging out with the man was a treat.

“How’s Emma doing?” he now asked.

Willy was driving, as usual. He scowled, keeping his eyes on the road. “Really? Why not cut to the chase and ask why Sam hasn’t chucked me out yet?”

“I gave up wondering about that years ago.”

“You insulting my beloved?”

Ron shook his head. “Right. You would go there. What can I say? I’m happy she hasn’t. Best thing that ever happened to you.”

Willy didn’t respond for a long count, either taking the comment to heart or simply reverting to silence for cover.

“You are so touchy-feely,” he finally growled. “No wonder you never left this beat.”

“I like it here.”

As Ron had expected, so much for chatting.

Willy pulled over to the side of the street, killed the engine, did a final perimeter check, and opened the door, saying, “Emma’s fine. Learning the alphabet at preschool.”

Ron chuckled and joined him, standing in the road.

South Main is not one of Brattleboro’s ritzier neighborhoods, as the patrol division of the PD could attest. Assaults, domestics, drug deals, and complaints in general were regular trade. But as with most things in this town and Vermont generally, the volume and intensity were not something to impress any big-city cop. Blessedly, the Green Mountain State remained among the three lowest rankers of the FBI’s crime statistics, alongside New Hampshire and Maine. Sin City, this was not.

Nevertheless, since they say size isn’t everything, Ron had never considered his beat as a walk in the park. Overdoses had gone through the roof, fentanyl was the new baby powder when it came to adulterating heroin, and those three interstate exits, right on the Massachusetts border, had helped turn the town’s official slogan of Gateway to Vermont into what many officers saw as a doormat.

The house Ron and Willy were facing, therefore, was no prize on any Realtor’s list, but had appeared more than once in the police blotter. It was an unloved and uncared-for example of late-nineteenth-century industrial housing, partly rotting, in dire need of paint, with crooked windows covered in plastic, a sagging ridgeline, and a front porch demanding caution when crossed.

Used to such settings, both men negotiated it without comment or trouble.

The door opened a minute after Ron pressed the bell, following an audible tread and a string of muffled complaints. Revealed eventually was a woman about five and a half feet tall, one hundred pounds, and dressed in a pink top, tight jeans, and a hard face.