“You got a way to get home to the city?” Warren asked me. “Family or friends or somebody who can pick you up?”

I didn’t know what to tell him. I had no family, not really. My parents died when I was thirteen. That’s the clinical way I describe it to people, which is easier than saying that my father murdered my mother and then killed himself right in front of me. After that, I moved in with my grandfather. Edgar’s ninety-four now and doesn’t drive. We get along, but we don’t get along, if you know what I mean. It’s always been that way.

As for friends, the childhood friend who had always bailed me out when things got bad was Roscoe Tate, and he died four years ago after bailing me out. Literally. That was the night I met Karly. I was covered in blood, my arm broken, my leg broken. Roscoe was dead behind the wheel, his neck snapped. I thought I must be dead, too. I stared through the car’s shattered windows and saw an angel staring back at me, her dress billowing in the wind, her hand reaching in to hold mine. Her quiet voice murmured that help was coming, that I was going to be okay, that she wouldn’t leave me.

That was Karly.

And now she was gone. Another car accident.

“I really don’t have anyone,” I told Warren.

“Oh,” the cop replied, his mustache wrinkling. “Well, we can figure something out. Don’t you worry, we’ll get you home.”

“Thank you.”

As we sat there, the door to the interview room opened. The deputy’s face bloomed with surprise, and he jumped to his feet, brushing sugar from his sleeves. A fifty-something woman, trim and small, stood in the doorway. Her size didn’t diminish any of the authority she conveyed. Her blond hair was pulled into a tight bun behind her head, leaving wispy bangs on her forehead. She had polite brown eyes and a calm, neutral expression on her mouth. Her uniform was slightly damp, as if she’d come in from outside, but the creases were crisp.

“Sheriff,” Warren exclaimed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were coming in.”

The sheriff gave her deputy an impatient look that said he shouldn’t have been surprised at all by her arrival at four in the morning. A river had flooded, and a woman had died in her county. Out here, that was a big deal.

“I’ll take over, Warren.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Warren made a quick exit with a sympathetic nod to me. The sheriff sat down and opened a file folder with a small stack of papers inside. With a glance at the top page, I saw an incident report from the Chicago police. I was pretty sure my name was on it.