It took every bit of determination Amanda Bonner had in her to walk across that grassy stretch once more. She knew the way so well it didn’t matter that it was still dark, sunrise not coming until seven thirty this time of year in the Northwest. In fact, she was surprised there wasn’t a path worn by her feet, so many times had she been here.

Amanda wished she could make the change, move from mourning her father’s death with visits to this quiet cemetery on that grim anniversary to celebrating that he had lived and loved her by visiting on his birthday instead. But it had been five years, and she felt no closer to being able to do that.

She’d reached it, that cold, metallic rectangle set in the grass. The small flag that was always there was slightly crooked, and she straightened it with the same reverence her father would have shown. The grave site was tidy, well kept, but the department saw to that. Cops took care of their own, even, or perhaps especially when one of them had gone down in the line of duty. They all knew they could be next.

Amanda stared down at the marker. She couldn’t see the letters in the darkness, but she didn’t need to. Her father’s name, and the dates of his birth and death, separated by that line, that short, featureless line that was a pitiful stand-in for the years between, for all the joy and pain, for a life.

In her mind she heard his voice, so clearly, at the funeral of the mother who had been gone for so long now. “It’s the hyphen, Mandy,” he’d said, using the nickname she’d hated, but now would give anything to hear again. “It’s not the dates that matter, it’s the hyphen. It stands for everything in between. The life you live. Do it right.”

He’d done it right. He’d been her hero, and in the end a hero to many more. He’d died doing what he’d sworn to do, protect and serve. He’d saved lives. Not to mention the countless other lives he’d touched, people he’d helped simply by doing his job.

She knelt beside the grave marker, reaching out to touch it. The metal was cold, not at all comforting, but she did it anyway, tracing the letters, avoiding the numbers.

Her throat tightened, and she had to swallow hard, then again, then a third time. She shivered. Despite her determination her eyes filled. She fought it. She was twenty-eight years old, damn it, her father had been dead for five years, and she should be in control of this by now.