The tension in the Impala was thicker than concrete. Hudson knew it had to have something to do with his assignment of the Clive Reynolds case. Every chance he got, from telling everyone who would listen to knocking papers off Hudson’s desk, Devine made it clear that the high-profile case rightfully belonged to him. Hudson was a rookie who wasn’t cut out for detective work, and Devine was dead set on proving it.

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Hudson realized he was dead set on making sure Devine failed.

After Morgan had bolted from his house like a bat out of hell yesterday, Hudson scoured the contents of his coffee table, searching for what had caused her reaction. Rifling through the stacks of reports and Clive’s old bank statements, he discovered his first potential break in the case. Perhaps it wasn’t so much a break, though, as it was a new rabbit hole to explore: Every month, starting in September 1989 up until the time of his disappearance, there had been a withdrawal for ten thousand dollars. There was no check number to trace it to, no linked account. Every month, Clive must have gone to the bank and withdrawn the same amount of cash. For what, though? Had he been paying a debt? Paying someone off? Squirreling money away for his imminent departure?

Hudson would venture down the avenues of possibilities tomorrow. Today, he had to be present for Garrison’s last day aboveground.

They’d been warned time and time again how hard today would be. Hudson was more than ready for it to be over. “Bittersweet” wasn’t the right word to describe it. He imagined saying goodbye would feel like cutting off a gangrenous arm. It would be ungodly painful, but then there would be a degree of relief, hopefully, that it was all over. And in the days and months and forever that ensued, missing Garrison would ache like a phantom limb.

He didn’t imagine it; rather, he knew it for a fact. Nan was one phantom limb, now Garrison would be another. Two significant parts of him existing on a plane other than this one. What was the point of him staying here at all?

Slowly, the caravan crested over a hill and entered through the iron gates. It was so silent, Hudson heard the sibilant sounds of the tires on the wet asphalt. The Ironside was shrouded in mist. A conglomerate of neo-Gothic buildings, all black brick and red-roofed, it was once an all-female boarding school. Now, it served as a venue for weddings, youth clubs, and funerals. Vines crept across most of the windows like periorbital veins.