“How do I know? I wasn’t gonna ask him. He was fine.”

“He didn’t refer to Donny? Or talk about his missing phone?”

“Nope.”

“Did you hear from Don again?”

“Nope.”

“Did you try contacting him? Texting him?”

“You’re kidding,” she shot back. “I got lucky. I wasn’t gonna mess with that again.”

Because Trevor Buttner was such a catch, Joe thought. He considered asking her about Trevor’s relationship with Angie Neal, and perhaps even Melissa’s dreams and hopes concerning her daughter’s future, but then figured he didn’t want to hear what she’d say. He’d let Fred Houston handle that.

He did take one shot into the dark, hoping for a miracle. “Did you ever hear Don talk about someone named Scooter Nelson?”

The answer wasn’t unexpected. “Nope.”

“You got red, Daddy?”

Willy pulled a red crayon from the box by his side. “Sure do.”

He slid it across the kitchen table to his daughter, who was studiously filling in a rainbow arching over the top of several stick children kicking a ball in a field.

Willy was busy with the picture of a weeping willow tree next to a house.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“You’re welcome, Emma. That’s coming along well. Are you happy with it?”

“I want to give it to Mommy.”

“She’ll like that. You want something to drink?”

The girl looked up. “Ooh. Yes. Can I have a chocolate milk?”

He rose and crossed to the fridge. “Sure. I’ll have it ready wicked fast.”

“Wicked fast,” she mimicked, getting back to work.

It was late afternoon. He’d given Louise the day off, picked Emma up from preschool, and would do a shift change with Sam when she got back from her day trip with Les. That’s when Willy was planning to leave for his more detailed conversation with Robin Whiteman.

It was one of the perks of working for VBI and under Joe Gunther that he could rearrange his schedule on the fly. He conceded that the agency got far more out of him than he was contracted to deliver, but he appreciated the flexibility and trust imparted in the exchange.

He needed it more nowadays, he realized. Never before had he seen time off work as more than the edge of a black hole. From childhood on, lack of mission equaled loss of control. Then, decades ago, just before self-destruction, he’d traded the NYPD for the Brattleboro PD, the city for the country, alcohol for abstinence, and a failed marriage for uninterrupted work. It had not been graceful. He knew how he’d come across—at best irascible, judgmental, and sarcastic.

But then had come that crippling bullet, and Sam, and finally Emma.

He gazed at the child as he mixed her chocolate milk with a spoon, still impressed by the depth of emotion he felt for her. Salvation clearly came in unexpected ways. All that was left now was to tame the panic he kept deep within that he’d lose it all through some blindingly stupid false move. People asked him why he didn’t replace the arm with something robotic, or just have it amputated to lessen the hassle. Not likely, he’d thought. I earned that arm. It reminds me of my frailty.