French got behind the wheel, and pushed it—the parking lot, the two-lane, the big artery that was the shortest route to the other side of Myers Park. Burklow watched the city pass, but fooled no one. As a cop, patience was his great strength, as was his fundamentally unforgiving nature. He would tolerate self-indulgence in a friend, but rarely in another cop. Victims came first. Resolution for the wounded. Justice for the dead. French checked the speedometer, but didn’t back it down. He worked the road at twice the posted limit: inside lane, outside. Seventy miles an hour, he threaded the needle with one hand tight on the wheel, the big cherry flashing on top.

When Burklow finally spoke, he kept his voice level. “I’m thinking now is probably a good time.”

“It’ll sound worse than it is.”

“Nevertheless…”

Burklow was watching intently, pricks of light in his eyes as the car threaded traffic and blew through lights. There was no easy way to explain. How could there be? “I’ve met the victim,” French said. “Before today, I knew her. I met her. Last week, I walked in on her with Jason. They were, uh … you know.”

“Sexually engaged?”

“I said it would look bad.”

Burklow stared through the side window as he’d done a million times, the tension apparent in his shoulders and jaw. Even the skin beneath his eyes was tight. “You recognized her at the scene?”

“It took a few minutes.”

“That’s why you left in such a hurry.”

“To look for Jason. To get ahead of it.” French took his eyes off the road to risk a glance at his friend. “It gets worse.”

“Not possible.”

“Gibby knows her, too.”

Burklow’s head snapped around as if he’d taken a punch. He loved Gibby like a son. They fished together, and watched football on Sundays. If Gibby needed advice, Burklow gave it. He was there when Gibby was born and the day he’d learned to drive. “Start at the beginning,” he said. “You leave something out this time, and I will fucking pound you.”

French dipped his chin, and did as Burklow asked. “There’s a rental house at Water and Tenth. There’s a bedroom upstairs…”

Inside Sara’s condominium, I poured wine, and her hands trembled as she took the glass. She sat on a white sofa in a room that was elegant and very adult. “I like your place.”

“It’s Tyra’s. She comes from money.”

It showed, I thought. Rich leathers. Real art.

Sara lit a candle, and sipped her wine. “Will you kiss me?” she asked.

“Are you sure?”

“Just for a little while. Just until.”