The drive back to her apartment had taken thirty minutes, the driver apparently not big on conversation, but Jo welcomed the silence. She’d enjoyed watching the city pass at night, the lights blurred, the windows lit; she knew she would probably be back in Irvine again at some point for lunch, perhaps back at UCI for a one-off lecture, but she wouldn’t be doing this journey every morning and evening. For the first time in almost half a century, she wouldn’t have any commute at all.

She thought about the first job she’d had, straight out of college, doing basic administrative work for the clerk at the federal courthouse; about her first day at the Sheriff’s Department as a deputy; about when she moved to the LAPD as a lieutenant in 1993; and finally, she recalled the day she’d left law enforcement for good, after twenty-eight years.

That day had felt similar to this one.

Similar, but not the same.

She’d known it was the right thing to do then, just as she knew now, but twelve years ago she hadn’t been tired of it all. Now she was exhausted. For the last six months she’d been waking up every day feeling like she was done. After forty years, she didn’t want to have to talk about crime or criminals any more, whether it was purely theoretical and in front of a lectern, or out on a sidewalk as she stood over a body. She was still fit and healthy, still felt as good now as she’d ever done, but emotionally she had nothing left to give.

She wanted a vacation.

She wanted to go and visit Ethan and Claire in San Francisco.

She wanted to sit and hold her granddaughter.

After the driver had dropped her off, she let herself in and dumped her bag on the couch, then went to the kitchen and got herself a glass of water. She noticed the answer machine was blinking red, its display showing one message waiting.

It could wait until morning.

She woke with a crashing headache at 8 a.m.

As she stumbled through to the bathroom with one eye squeezed shut, she tried to remember the last time she’d felt as terrible as this. It could have been twenty years ago. It could have been more than that. She’d pretty much given up drinking after Ira had died, except at the occasional social event: she’d stopped out of grief to start with, and then stayed that way because of Ethan. She’d been a single mom with a young kid, and she’d had a career that had taken every ounce of whatever she wasn’t giving to her son.

And whatever she wasn’t giving to Ethan never felt like enough.