He was close enough for her to smell aniseed balls on his breath. When he wasn’t delivering briefings, he sucked them incessantly. The far wall was ablaze with orange fire, and that rise and fall of the sun, the corporate smell of the meeting room, the low buzz of an active investigation reminded her that the world kept turning. And so did she. Thirty thousand breaths a day, ten thousand beats of her heart, an echo of hunger in her hollowed-out stomach. She had always marveled at the families who kept going in the hours and days after a brutal, senseless death. But now she understood. She was here, at work. Breathing and thinking and talking. Still here. Shock, the brain’s sophisticated system of protection from reality.

“We’re all so sorry about Adam.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“I hate to ask, but did he say anything to you about where he was going? Anything at all?” A gentler tone. “Was anything going on at home that I need to know about?”

Tears filled her eyes, but they did not fall. She had replayed their last conversation countless times. “Nothing.”

A sharp, disappointed nod. Then kindly, but direct. “Would you—shouldn’t you—why don’t you take some leave?”

Wildeve pictured their home, its wide, empty spaces filled with memories of her husband. The pain in her head, and her heart.

“I can’t,” she said.

Mac studied her. His eyes were gray and red-rimmed, and there was dried egg yolk on his tie. But appearances were deceptive. He was sharper than the blade of a carving knife.

“The chief wants to assign you a family liaison officer.”

“No.” She was shaking her head. “I don’t want one.”

“You think you can handle this, but you’re in shock, Wildeve.” His voice was soft with sympathy. “And the crash is going to come.”

She couldn’t say it, couldn’t articulate the words. Some would think her unfeeling, uncaring even, but that wasn’t it at all. Not everyone would understand. She didn’t expect them to. But work filled up the wide-open spaces of her heart and mind. Stopped her from imagining the horror of his last moments. A distraction from the hole blown into her life. And a way to make his killer pay. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“In which case, I want you to have a poke around. See if you can unravel what Adam was up to. I know it’s a lot to ask but—” He didn’t need to finish. It made sense. She knew her husband better than anyone. “The minute—and I mean, the minute—it gets too much, you tell me,” he said. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“And I know you’re not going to like this, but I want you to take French with you.”

Oh, Christ on a stick. The guy’s a Grade A prick.