Clare thought of the shy young man, vacuuming one-handedly, polishing the choir stalls, humming to himself when he thought no one could hear. "Especially Amado's," she said.

Isabel leaned back into her pillows. Framed in white, the violet and green on her face stood out in high relief, until she seemed to be made of bruises and tired, flat eyes. "It's our fault. Mine and my brothers'. No, I know"-she held up a hand to stop Clare's objection-"we weren't the ones actually tortured him to death. But we're to blame. All of us." She looked out the window. "Christies stick together," she said. "That's what we had drummed into our heads by our dad. Stick together. Watch out for one another. You wouldn't think something that sounds so good could twist around and hurt so many people."

"Isabel," Clare said, "what we talk about privately stays private. I can't-I won't-repeat anything you say to me. But if you know why those men came to your house and what they were after, please, please tell Deputy Chief MacAuley."

Isabel rolled her head toward the window. "I'm tired, now."

Clare stood up. The girl's flat affect worried her. A lot. She dredged one of her cards out of her pocket. "Isabel, I'm leaving you my numbers. If there's anything I can do for you, if you want to talk to me about anything, call me. At any time. Would you do that?"

Isabel made a sound that was something like a laugh. "You think I might kill myself?"

Clare thudded back into the chair. "Are you thinking about it?"

"Suicide's a sin. Don't you know that?" She closed her eyes. "Please go."

Clare got up.

"Wait," Isabel said. "Would you do me a favor?"

"Uh… if I can."

"My jeans are in the closet over there. Could you get them for me?"

Clare crossed to the closet. Wondered if a word to Isabel's nurses would be enough, or if she ought to go straight to the social services caseworker. She handed the jeans to Isabel, who removed a very expensive-looking little cell phone from the front pocket.

"I been carrying this around every day for months," she said. "But I never turned it on. I wonder if there's any battery left."

"Um," Clare said. "Maybe. You may not be able to get a signal in here, though."

"I don't want to use it to call. I just want the address book."

"The address book." The caseworker, she decided. Isabel's voice was too light, too disconnected.

"I have to make arrangements," Isabel said. "For when my brothers get out of jail."

XIX

Hadley left Flynn's duplex before dawn so she could slip into her own bed without the kids-or Granddad-noticing she hadn't been there all night. She kissed him and whispered, "Thank you." He reached for her sleepily, one long bare arm, but she laughed quietly and said, "No. One more time and neither of us will be able to walk."

She wasn't sure she could manage it, even without an extra toss. No wonder the matrons in LA went for younger trade. Eventually, you'd croak from sheer exhaustion, but oh, my God, what a way to go.

She drove the cruiser home, to discover MacAuley had left her a voice mail. She had a mandatory day off, courtesy of her ever-increasing overtime. She supposed it was the best excuse he could come up with. She wondered if Flynn got the same message.

She got an hour's sleep in before Geneva woke her up. She tried to interest the kids in the novelty of a stay-at-home day with Mommy, but Rec Camp was going to Aquaboggin-"With ice cream cones afterward, Mom!"-so she settled for a special breakfast of scrambled eggs before taking them to the middle school. On Barkley Avenue, a glint of red hair made her whip her head around, but it was just the director of the Free Clinic, unlocking the door.

She got back home, dodged Granddad's none-too-subtle remarks about late nights, tossed a load into the washer, and crawled back into bed as soon as he left for St. Alban's. She dreamed; intense, erotic dreams about Flynn's lean body and his hands all over her, and woke up reaching for him, sweaty and aroused. She curled around herself and thought, It's just sex. It's been a long time. Don't be stupid. He wasn't even her type. She liked her men edgy and artistic, with long hair and suffering eyes. Not overgrown Eagle Scouts.

She had half a million things to do, but she wound up spending most of the day swinging on the front porch, drinking lemonade and watching bumblebees flit from the peonies to the sunflowers and back again. She called in, once, to get word on the chief. "No change," Harlene said. "Still unconscious, still on a ventilator. But the doctor's real hopeful."

Hopeful of what? That he dies before he wakes up and realizes how bad it is?

She rocked and rocked on the narrow porch, one bare foot braced against the railing, a notebook propped against her thigh. Writing down pros and cons of staying on the force. PROS: Good pay, great benefits, only six weeks more of Basic. CONS: Could die or be disabled (insurance?), no natural ability, ugly uniform. That last was small change, but she thought she ought to put it down, to keep honest.

She wrote co-workers under CONS, then thought for a minute and included it under PROS as well. She wrote Flynn's name between the two lists. She added an arrow pointing to the CONS side, then another pointing to PROS. Then another, and another, until his name radiated dozens of sharp-tipped lines in every direction.

She wrote FEAR beneath Flynn's well-armed name. She wrote PUNTA DIABLOS under that. Then HUMVEE/HUMMER? Then 5. She slashed out the 5 and replaced it with 3.

She stared into the heat shimmers rising off Burgoyne Street. Across the way, one of her granddad's elderly neighbors waved. Hadley absently raised a hand.

The crunch of tires rolling into their drive snapped her out of her thoughts. It was an Aztek. Oh, no. She glanced into the window behind her before recalling she was alone for now. She held out the hope that he was just returning something she had left behind until he rounded his truck and she saw his face, shining like the sun.

He bounded up the steps, Romeo in baggy shorts and a MILLERS KILL MINUTEMEN T-shirt. He held a small wrapped package in one hand. Oh, hell, no. He tossed it onto the swing's cushion and squatted in front of her, crowding the space between the swing and the railing. He grinned, half-pirate, half-moonstruck. "Hi," he said.

Oh, shit. This was going to be like shooting a puppy.

"Hi," she said. "Uh, I see you got the day off, too."

"We're supposed to if we've been involved in a shooting. According to the regs, MacAuley should get a week off while the state investigates, but I guess nobody expected the chief and the deputy chief to both exchange fatal fire with suspects in the same incident." The whole time he was talking like one of her instructors, he was looking at her lips, her neck, her cleavage, as if he were picking which dish on the buffet line he would dig into first.

"Oh," she said.

"Are your kids here?"

"No. Nobody but me until Rec Camp gets out." Wrong answer. Heat flared behind his eyes. Against her will and good sense, her body responded. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea, some part of her that wasn't her brain suggested. Maybe just once-or twice-more?

"No. No, no, no." She pointed to the empty seat beside her. "Sit."

He scooped up the package and sat down. The swing creaked beneath his weight. "I got this for you," he said. He handed her the paisley-wrapped gift. She took it reluctantly. It was just the right size for a bracelet or a necklace. Heavier, though. He liked books. Oh, my God, maybe it was a collection of love poems.

"You shouldn't have," she said.

He smiled, pleased with her, with himself, with the whole world. "It's not anything."