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this way, more real, younger and less processed and pretend.
    She turned to talk to one of her coworkers. Her face had no bruises or cuts, no swollen mouth. She still had the thick scar on her upper lip where it had been split open a few years ago, but that had healed as much as it ever would. Her eyes looked clear. She’d put on some weight, too, no longer looking like one of those half-starved refugees on TV.
    Thank God.
    Relieved, he turned to go. He was nearly to the exit door when her voice came again.
    â€œWade?” she cried. “Is that you?”
    He stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn around. Everything in him told him to run. To run as fast as he could out to Wes’s car and to never look back. To get away from her and to stay away.
    But he couldn’t do it. Had never been able to do it.
    Slowly, he turned around.
    By this time, she’d stepped up to the front counter. He saw tears in her deep brown eyes.
    â€œIt is you!” Her smile revealed an incomplete set of teeth. “I knew it!”
    She was out the door that led from the food prep area and standing in front of him before he could even take a breath.
    And he knew right then it was all over. The basketball at the Y, the B average in school, the bedroom and bathroom he had all to himself.
    He was no longer blessed, but damned.
    Damned straight to hell.
    And, this time, he could blame no one but himself.

 
    THIRTEEN
    HOUSE CALLS
    Megan
    Thursday morning, the W1 Division captain called the staff in early for a briefing. We officers—uniformed, plainclothes, and detectives alike—crowded into the conference room.
    The Big Dick had been lucky enough to snag a chair up front. Summer had been unlucky enough to land the seat next to him. By the time I arrived, it was standing room only. I managed to squeeze myself into a small space between two male officers, a Latino named Hinojosa and a stocky African-American named Spalding, both of whom were veteran cops in their thirties. After offering them a nod in greeting, I turned my attention to the front of the room and Captain Leone, a fortyish guy with spongy dark hair and wiry eyebrows that threatened to reach out and grab you. Terrifying. Brigit sat at, and on, my feet, her rigid stance indicating she didn’t like being boxed in by the crowd. Couldn’t much blame her. With any luck, this briefing would be quick.
    The captain stepped up to the podium and scanned the group, his face blank with a practiced impassivity perfected during years as a homicide detective. If I hoped to make detective someday, I should probably work on my poker face. My emotions tended to be obvious, as evidenced by my gastronomic response to seeing that bludgeoned corpse on Monday.
    â€œListen up, folks,” Leone barked, the crowd immediately quieting in response. “It’s been a busy week. We’ve had reports of two home burglaries, one in Mistletoe Heights, the other in Fairmount. The thieves took the usual. Jewelry. Electronics. Silverware. Both homes were unoccupied at the time. The couple who owns the first house was on a cruise. The second house was owned by a single woman who was away at her cousin’s wedding in Sonoma, California. Best we can tell, both burglaries took place in the late afternoon, after school hours but before most people get home from work. Residents of Mistletoe Heights and Fairmount are understandably concerned. Spend a little more time in these neighborhoods, let the people know we’re looking out for them. All right?”
    Murmurs of assent came from the officers gathered.
    â€œOkay. Item number two, the murder at Forest Park. I’ll invite Detective Jackson up here to give y’all an update.”
    As Detective Jackson stood from her seat and made her way to the front of the room, Captain Leone stepped aside to allow her to take the podium.
    Jackson leaned forward, resting her arms on the podium and curling her fingers over the