“No wonder you were so interested in me having been at the Reynolds residence.” Morgan fixed her eyes on him and tried to hide the disappointment she felt, in herself, mostly, for trusting him.

“It’s just … a connection I can’t ignore,” confessed Hudson. “Look, the county’s dive team found Clive Reynolds’s car when they were searching for the gun that shot Garrison.”

“So, what do you think is my connection?”

“I don’t know.” The way he said it sounded honest, not dismissive. His eyes roamed her like she was a book. What kind of book was she? Horror? Psychological thriller? Whatever genre, she’d have a fucked-up beginning, middle, and end. But what was this? A little black book sat near the stack of reports, a faded red ticket stuck between its pages. The words ADMIT ONE stared at her in bold caps, and she knew the scripted font that would be on the other side.

“… and for Eleanor Reynolds, the reopening of this case could either be the final turn of the key—or a cleared name. I’m Jada Taylor, and this is Channel 6…”

“Morgan.”

His voice sounded like he was underwater. Her coffee cup crashed to the floor, shattered on the hardwood, splinters of ceramic bone. She was gone before he could hurt her.

Or before she could hurt him.

12 HUDSON

December 23 and it was raining. Raining. Hudson looked out the spattered window. On the other side of it, everything was blurry like a Monet painting. The interior of the Impala smelled like leather and three different kinds of cologne. The only woman in the car was Riley, who rode shotgun. Hudson sat in the back with Devine. Kole drove.

They’d met at the police department, all sworn and civilian personnel. He didn’t know where the black umbrellas came from, but suddenly the parking lot was filled with them. He imagined from a drone’s perspective they would have looked like a swarm of beetles, their backs slick and glistening. When he stood near the other investigators, Hudson was glad when Miserelli appeared by his side. Dressed in full uniform and eight-point cap, she held on to his arm and they stared stoically at Garrison’s memorial. The signs were soaked. Blue and black ink ran together. The balloons were all deflated, the flowers sodden and encrusted in ice.

It was all in the rearview mirror, now.

No one spoke as Kole drove through the storm-darkened city. They passed the laundromat where the owner stood at the edge of the parking lot with his hat over his heart. In a residential area, people waved from their porches and wept. At the Fast Mart, the owner, José Guerrera, stood by the pump with a sign that said, Ofc. Garrison—A True Hero. Hudson’s eyes burned and a chill grabbed hold of his spine. Bile surged up his throat as his gaze caught the air compressor where he’d vomited after first seeing Garrison’s body. Jesus, it hadn’t even been a week ago. In some ways it felt like it had been forever, and in others, the wound was still fresh and searing. In the front seat, Riley stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to stifle a sob.