I grab a cup, fill it to the rim with coffee, and drink half of it down hot on the way to my office. Using my key, I open the door and flip on the light. The odors of paper dust and toner greet me when I walk in. It’s a small space, not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with bad lighting and a dingy window that looks out over Main Street. It’s jam-packed with a metal desk, a mismatched file cabinet, two hotel-fare visitor chairs, a half-dead ficus tree, and a bookcase upon which a broken coffeemaker sits. Shortcomings aside, this is my home away from home, and most days I’m unduly glad to be here.

Dropping my overnight bag at the door, I go directly to my desk and dial Sheriff Rasmussen’s number from memory. I’ve known the sheriff for almost a year now. We’ve drunk a few beers together and butted heads a couple of times, but he’s a decent man and a good cop. We worked closely together during the Slabaugh case last December. It was a difficult investigation, during which four people lost their lives, shattering a family and shaking everyone involved, including me. Especially me. It was the first time in the course of my career I used deadly force. I’m still dealing with the aftermath of that, mostly in the form of nightmares. On bad days, I still flash back to the moment I pulled the trigger, and I wonder if I could have done something different.

I keep tabs on the surviving children. Not as any kind of penance—that’s what I tell myself anyway—but because I care. I want to make sure they have everything they need and every opportunity they deserve.

On the phone, I hear Rasmussen’s voice telling me to leave a message, and I can’t help but think, Golf day. I let him know I’m going to be out of town for a few days and ask him to look in on my department. I leave my cell number and tell him to contact Glock if he needs anything in my absence.