“Water in the lungs,” he says, pulling them back into focus. The dead cop. The missing girl.

The drink immediately makes her face warm, which she’s sure shows in pink spots on her cheeks. “He went in alive,” she answers.

“Diaz called with cause of death—drowning,” Hurt says. “The parents had to identify,” he adds.

On the TV behind the bar, a baseball game plays, muted. The cherries in her glass knock around at the bottom like a pair of kids’ play balls.

“Probably right after you left with Jenkins,” he says. “Long day,” he says. “It’s why Diaz gets a BMW.”

Kateri laughs, not expecting the bitterness from Hurt. “She likes you,” she says.

He looks her in the eye. “She tolerates me,” he says. “From what I hear, she likes them even younger.” He laughs.

So Kateri puts her hand on Hurt’s arm. “Meet me at the morgue, Joel,” she singsongs, and he swats her away.

It’s a small department. Chances are high that they’ve had some encounter, even though Diaz is fifteen or twenty years older than he is. It happens in small towns. But Kateri doesn’t know anything at all about Hurt’s personal life. She’s not even sure he’s straight.

“How’d you leave it with the kid?” Hurt asks.

“He’s coming in tomorrow for questioning. He submitted DNA today.”

“Good,” Hurt says.

“Anything new in the woods?”

He shakes his head but answers. “Burnt wood,” he says, “that shows traces of accelerant. Nothing we didn’t expect. No further remains.”

Kateri puts her fingertips to her lips. She and Hurt sit elbow to elbow, not facing each other, both looking at the line of bottles behind the bar, where a row of tiny white lights behind them illuminates them red, amber, gold. The slow-moving ball game continues on TV. She has teased Hurt before about gin and tonic, that it’s a summer drink and this is a winter place. But it’s the only thing he likes. She likes the way gin smells but not the way it tastes. On Hurt, the smell is fresh. Something clean, antiseptic.

When the bartender comes back down, she orders another. And so does Hurt.

“Whoever killed her …” Hurt says, starting a fresh drink. She almost stops him, but she lets him go, lets him say what it is they’ve been dancing around. “Knew about the girl,” he says. “And took the girl.”

She nods into her drink.

“Both of those murders hinge on that kid.” He points his finger down on the bar. “So, who knows about her?”

“Shannon,” Kateri says. “And maybe people that Shannon knows.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hurt says. “I hate when there’s a kid involved.” The way he sits with his arms on the bar, when he says it he wags his hands open and his thumb accidentally touches Kateri’s pinkie, and it’s a sudden shock, a pop of electricity. Like dragging your feet and touching the doorknob.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No worries,” Kateri says.

Whiskey has always been her drink of choice. She’s gone through other phases: cheap vodka, beer when she was younger, she’s tried wine. What she loves is good American bourbon.