When lights finally appeared in the driveway, he told me to sit and wait, then went outside to meet my father. I didn’t sit. And no way in hell was I waiting. I crept to the front door, and watched Burklow argue with my father, poking him in the chest not once, but twice. I’d never seen him show such disrespect, but my father took it, responding in a fierce, quiet whisper that looked like pleading. When Burklow turned away, red-faced and still angry, my father followed like a whipped dog.

“Ken. Buddy…”

I missed the rest, but they looked nothing like buddies. For five full minutes they argued, and when it ended, it did so badly, Burklow’s voice rising as he towered over my father. “I don’t care about that. You should have told me at the scene. And don’t tell me I’d do the same thing, because I wouldn’t, not on a case like this.”

“You say that now—”

“Don’t. No.”

“You don’t have kids. You can’t understand.”

Burklow turned away, and I lost what came next. I stepped off the porch to hear better, and my father noticed without actually looking my way. He raised a finger, stopping me where I stood. He said something else to Burklow, who said, “No. Hell no.”

“Another day, twelve hours…”

But Burklow was done talking. He got in the car, slammed the door, and left rubber on the driveway. My father stared after him for a long time, then came to me, looking utterly worn. “Did you hear that?”

“Some of it. Not much.”

“Whatever you heard, forget it.”

“Was that about me? I heard him talk about your son. I saw how Martinez was acting.”

“It’s not about you. Don’t worry about Martinez.”

“It’s hard not to.”

He nodded once, but bleakly. “I need to speak with Jason.”

“That’s what this is about?”

“He may have information I need.”

“About Tyra?”

“I can’t talk about that.”

“Martinez and Smith are homicide cops.”

“Son…”

“Is she dead?”

“I told you, son. I can’t talk about that!”

The explosion pushed me back. The look in his eyes. The lines in his face. It was easy to forget that he hunted men for a living, but I saw it now, like he could chew me up, spit me out, and not taste a thing. I stepped back on instinct, and it was a bad moment between us, his hands rising once before dropping like leaves. I had nothing else to say, and neither did he; and when he turned for his car, there was a drag in his step. I watched his taillights fade, then took my hand from my pocket, considering the scrap of paper I’d carried there since the quarry.

On it was a phone number.

It was local.