Reaching beneath my coat, I pull out the faceless doll I’d found on her bed the night I discovered her journal. I know it’s going to get ruined, but it doesn’t matter. I think Mary would want it here. Kneeling, I prop the doll against the gravestone. It’s an incredibly sad sight. The faceless doll sitting against that smooth jut of concrete, getting wet. The doll that will never be hugged. Never be loved.

I know it’s stupid, but that makes me think of the child I had once carried inside my body. I went years without thinking of what I did. I never second-guessed my decision, never regretted it. I sure as hell never let myself imagine what might have been. Today, for the first time in seventeen years, I do. It’s a strange thought, but had I not opted to get an abortion after the rape, I would have a sixteen-year-old child.

Only then do I realize I’m crying. Open sobs that echo off the headstones and the bare branches of the bois d’arc tree. Rising, I pull the flask from my coat pocket and take another swig. The hiss of tires on wet pavement draws my attention. I look toward the gate to see Tomasetti’s black Tahoe turn into the cemetery. I watch as he parks beside my Explorer and gets out.

All I can think is that I don’t want him to see me like this. Quickly, I wipe my eyes, drop the flask into my pocket and watch him approach. He wears a charcoal-colored trench coat. London Fog. Beneath the coat, I see a crisp blue shirt and a gray paisley tie. Hermès. His strides are long and purposeful. His eyes are intent on me.

“For the chief of police, you’re a damn hard woman to find.” He reaches me and stops. “You didn’t answer your cell.”

“I’m off duty.”

He nods, looks over at the graves. He grimaces upon seeing the doll, then he turns his attention back to me. “You okay?”

For a split second, I think I am. I’m going to make some snide remark about his city-slicker clothes and give him hell for disturbing me during a private moment. Or maybe I’ll rub it in a little that my high-risk sting paid off. I’ll make fun of Skid’s partially shaved head. Brag about getting the sons of bitches responsible for the murders of this family. Instead, I put my face in my hands and burst into tears.

For a moment, the only sounds come from the patter of rain against the ground. The caw of a crow as it lifts from a twisted branch of the bois d’arc tree. And the sound of my sobs. Saying nothing, Tomasetti keeps his distance, waits me out.

“I’m sorry,” I say after a moment. “I’m a mess.”

“It’s okay.”