“I’ll write up a report in the morning,” Brody said.

“We’ve got this, Brody.” Lance heaved one of the bikers to his feet. “Just take care of Chet.”

“Thanks.” Brody watched the biker limp away.

He turned back to Chet. His friend hadn’t moved. He was staring at Hannah with respect. Clutched in his fingers was the broken base of the tumbler. Light glinted off the shiny points of glass, and blood dripped from Chet’s hand to the floor. Blood pooled in fat drops at Chet’s feet.

“Looks like you cut yourself.” Brody started toward him.

Chet lifted his hand and drew his brows together. “I didn’t even feel that.”

Brody didn’t like the confused cast to Chet’s eyes. “You must have crushed the glass in your hand. Maybe you should lay off the steroids.”

But Chet wasn’t listening. He turned his hand over and stared at the palm.

“You’re bleeding all over the floor. How about you put down that glass before you make a bigger mess?” Brody asked.

Chet took the glass in his uninjured hand and poised the sharp tip over his opposite wrist. “Two inches north and I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this shit anymore.” A wistful look passed over his face.

Brody swallowed. His throat went dry as a sandbox. He’d been sweating from his altercation with the bikers, but his skin went clammy at Chet’s suicidal reference. “Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s her this time. You know that, right?” Chet’s lack of inflection was equally alarming. He was losing it.

Brody shook his head. “No. I won’t know anything until Thursday. I know the waiting feels impossible, but I need you to hold it together just a little longer.”

In truth, Chet could never be whole again. He was already as broken as the glass in his hand. His daughter’s disappearance and wife’s death had shattered him until all that was left was a ruined shell. How much longer could he hang on? How much grief could a person handle?

Chet shook the tumbler at Brody. “I saw her hair. Her clothes. It’s her.”

“So you’re basing the identification of a woman on the fact that she’s brunette and is wearing a New York T-shirt in the state of New York?” There were other similarities as well, but Brody wasn’t going to bring any of them up. Logically, the chance that the body was Teresa was small, but if a doctor says the odds a tumor is cancerous are five percent, no one focuses on the ninety-five. “You know the chances are far greater that it isn’t her. She hasn’t been near Scarlet Falls in years. All we have are a couple of coincidences. If you were working this case, you would never make assumptions on this little information.”