They are two of the longest hours of my life. I’m nearly finished reviewing the disks when my phone jangles. I look at the display, but it’s Lois, not Tomasetti. Snarling beneath my breath, I hit Speaker.

“Chief, Aaron Plank is here to see you.”

Shock ripples through me. He’s the last person I expected to see. “Send him in.”

A moment later, Aaron walks into my office. He wears a corduroy blazer over khaki slacks and a nice pair of shoes. When he looks at me, his expression is sage and sad. “I heard about Todd Long,” he says.

Curious as to why he’s here, I motion toward the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “Have a seat.”

He takes the chair, wipes his palms on his slacks. “I’m heading back to Philly today. I wanted to talk to you before I left. To apologize, I guess.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about that.” But I give him a small smile.

“This has been tough.”

“It was a tough case for all of us.”

He fidgets, looking everywhere but at me, and wipes his hands again. Finally, he meets my gaze. “I just wanted you to know . . . I loved them. Despite what they thought of me, I loved my family. All of them. But Mary . . . she was special.”

A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow, force it down. I don’t know what to say. I barely know how to feel.

Aaron rises. Despite his youth, he looks like an old man this morning. Something in his eyes, in the way he moves. I realize this trip to Painters Mill has aged him in ways that have nothing to do with the passage of years.

He walks to the door, sets his hand on the knob, then turns to face me. “I’d like her journal when the police are finished with it.”

I manage to give him a nod.

At that, he turns and walks out of my office.

I stare after him, trying not to acknowledge the ache burgeoning in my chest. I find myself wishing I’d thanked him for coming in. Wishing I’d said something to let him know I understood. Some things are just too damn hard.

My phone rings. I look down and see the BCI number on the display. Mentally, I shift gears, slam the door on all those old emotions, and snatch up the phone. “What do you have?”

“The technician magnified the still.” Tomasetti’s voice is terse, tense. “He filled in the loss of resolution as best he could. I just e-mailed you the results.”

Without setting down the phone, I open my e-mail software, hit Send-Receive. An e-mail from BCI with an attachment appears in my inbox. I open it and click on the attachment.