“Get your hands off me.” I pry at his hands. “Now.”

Carol looks up. Even locked in her own dolor, she knows the situation is about to explode out of control. “Stop it! This isn’t helping.”

Johnston stares at me as if he wants to tear me apart. I see grief and rage in his eyes, and I wonder how far he’s going to take this. “Please try to calm down,” I say. “I know you’re upset.”

“Upset is not the right word!” Grasping my collar, he yanks me toward him, then shoves me against the wall before releasing me.

“Don’t do this,” I try. “I need your help.”

“Pacifist Amish bitch!” He spits the words as if he’s bitten into something rotten. “I’ll deal with Detrick. Not you.”

Carol Johnston looks as if every bone in her body is broken as he takes her arm and they start toward the door.

That’s when I notice Tomasetti standing in the hall. He’s watching me, but I can’t read his expression. He steps aside to let the couple pass.

I stand behind my desk, staring, but seeing nothing. For the first time in the course of my career, I feel incompetent. I’ve faced intolerance before. But bigotry isn’t what churns like shards of glass in my stomach. Had you done your job, my daughter might still be here. The truth of those words guts me. Putting my face in my hands, I sink into my chair. Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti entering my office, but I don’t look at him. I feel old and as broken as Carol Johnston looked.

Sighing, Tomasetti settles into a chair. “Ugly scene.”

I’m so engulfed in my own misery I can’t respond.

“The perp got away,” he says. “He made it to the road, and we lost him.”

Another layer of disappointment settles on top of a hundred others. “Did you get anything useful?”

“Glock and a crime scene tech from BCI are working on footwear impressions and some imprints of the snowmobile’s skis. We think it might have been a Yamaha. Won’t know for sure until they match treads.”

I raise my head and meet his gaze. “I’ll get started on a list of people in the area who own Yamaha snowmobiles.” But I’m still thinking about the Johnstons. “Doc Coblentz show up?”

“They were moving the body when I left.”

“Did someone get photographs?”

“We got it covered.”

I sink back into my dark thoughts.

After a moment, he says, “Don’t let what he said get to you.”

My phone rings, but I ignore it. “Why not? He’s right.”

His eyes narrow. “About what?”

“I should have called for help.”

“Why didn’t you?”

The ringing stops. Seconds tick by. “Because I screwed up.”

“Why didn’t you call for assistance, Kate?”

I stare blindly at my desk blotter, but all I see is Brenda Johnston’s torn body lying in the snow. Her organs strewn about like trash.

He tries again. “Talk to me.”

I shift my gaze to Tomasetti. “I can’t.”