Garrison had also sent her back that horrible silver gun, and she and Danny had driven it out together to the place where Sheriff Cherry had found Rodolfo’s body, the place where she’d almost shot Fox Uno, and buried it there as deep as they could.

Danny had said maybe she should talk to Dr. Harlow as well, and she’d said she’d think about it.

He’d told her to think about it hard, and then he’d kissed her, helping her wipe the dirt from her hands.

She’d kissed him back, held on to him, and they’d stood there together like that for a long time.

You couldn’t ignore or bury them . . . if you didn’t work to heal them, they only made you sicker and sicker over time . . .

Even good memories, like those America had of her mama and her papa and her brother, could turn into bad dreams, too. All the doubt, the unknowing, the regret. The sadness and loss.

Those memories could be just as hard to heal from.

Maybe when Danny took Zita to Dr. Harlow, she would go with them to check it out. Even if she wasn’t ready to commit to anything like that, not yet.

Just as she wasn’t committed to responding to Ron Delaney, who’d e-mailed her a bunch of information about the courses she’d need to take if she wanted to pursue forensics. He’d explained that DPS was always hiring and that he’d help her with the coursework any way that he could. She had saved the e-mail, but looked at it only every now and then.

She settled on the bench, with Danny next to her and Zita between them. Zita was chattering a mile a minute and Danny was laughing along with her, still not understanding much of what she was saying, and he had his arm stretched out around them both.

This was the second time they’d made plans with Vianey and Marco, who appeared to be getting serious. Vianey had confided in America that Marco was thinking about leaving the department and going back to school, to be the doctor he’d always wanted to be. He hadn’t decided yet, but it was on his mind.

After the Far Six, he wasn’t sure he was cut out to carry a badge and gun.

Across the street, a young couple she didn’t recognize was getting into a car, one that looked like her brother’s old Charger. This one was black, too, all beat up, with some remnants of old green paint. Rodolfo had painted his car with green snakes, and had kept it perfectly clean. He used to spend all Saturday washing and polishing it, so he could drive it over the river for a night in Ojinaga.

She remembered that . . . him waving good-bye to her, smiling, before he left.