Clive’s photo filled the screen. He wore a suit and tie, arms crossed, smiling like a man on top of his world. A cold phantom hand gripped Morgan’s spine and wouldn’t let go. Her gaze flicked to the papers on Hudson’s coffee table. Clive’s name was all over them. She saw the photos of the drowned car, too. It looked like a tick, all turgid and white. There were bank statements and other boring white paper documents; glossy, grainy photographs; handwritten letters …

“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.