Because he’d left him alone. That’s why. And yet, what had Morgan said? That the suspect had just come in, shot Garrison, and left. What if it hadn’t been an armed robbery attempt at all, but a premeditated homicide? With Garrison as the target.

Jesus, Garrison. He thought of the ticket that he’d found in his friend’s trauma plate pocket and the recent PI job. What did you get yourself into?

The bagpipes commenced at the conclusion of the service. They exited the way they’d come in, with civilians leaving first, followed by the chief and his lieutenants. It sounded like a rushing waterfall, people standing from the pews and shuffling toward the vestibule. The pallbearers came and carried the casket down the aisle behind the bagpipers, and Hudson followed. When he reemerged to the elements this time, it wasn’t the wind that rocked him, but the sea of flags and eight-point caps.

Sworn officers from every jurisdiction in the state, and some from across state lines, had come to pay their respects. They stood in formation, saluting the casket.

“Oh my God,” he heard Riley breathe. She stumbled, her knees suddenly weak. Hudson caught her by the arm before she fell down the stairs.

“It’s like a scene from a movie,” someone else said behind him, and Hudson agreed. He had thought seeing them in the chapel was impressive, but to see them all here, sprawling across the lawn all the way to the edge of the water, was unbelievable. The mobile command center—a colossal black RV—was parked like a blockade. They helped one another down the steps to join the crowd, where they took their place in front of SWAT’s armored truck.

During the honor guard performance, Hudson stared at the back of an officer in front of him, letting his mind get lost as he studied the half-moon-shaped reflection from the officer’s flashlight onto his dark uniform shirt. The cold permeated the soles of his dress shoes, shooting pins and needles into his feet. Finally, a radio crackled to life over a loudspeaker. The Last Call.

“Radio Black Harbor 1978 … Radio Black Harbor 1978, do you copy? Black Harbor 1978 out of service. Thank you, Officer Garrison. We’ll take it from here.”

Someone next to him was laughing. Hudson turned, flush with anger, and realized that it was Kole. Except he wasn’t laughing. His face was strained, the tendons in his neck taut. His shoulders shook as he wept. Hudson reached out and touched the sergeant’s arm. Kole glanced at him and set his jaw, and they listened, then, as the waves crashed against the bluffs, taking more and more of Black Harbor with them. What Hudson wouldn’t give for the lake to take him, too.

And there at the edge, by the wrought-iron gate, was someone who didn’t belong. Someone who looked like he’d walked onto the set of the wrong movie being filmed. He wore a black leather jacket and black pants, signature black stocking cap. From far away, Hudson could see his tattoo like an inkblot on his neck. Tobias Shannon, better known as Hades.