The Bodies Left Behind

driving a used Camry—very used. The waterlogged Honda had died in the line of duty, according to the insurance company, thus excluding it from her personal auto policy.She’d paid for the car herself, from her savings, which hurt, particularly since she wasn’t sure about her financial future.
    Graham had moved out.
    They’d discussed the situation several times again after April 18. But Graham remained badly shaken by Eric Munce’s death, for which he still blamed himself—though not Brynn, not at all (what a difference between him and Keith).
    Graham had been gone only a few days, moving into a rental unit twenty minutes away. She found herself sad and troubled . . . but in some way relieved. There was also a large numbness factor. Of course, domestics were her specialty, and she knew it was far too early to say for certain where their lives were headed.
    He was still paying his share of the bills—more than his share, actually, picking up all of Anna’s medical expenses that the insurance company wasn’t. But their lifestyle had been based on two incomes and Brynn was suddenly much more conscious of finances.
    She ate a bit more of the cooling soup. Her phone buzzed. Joey was calling and she picked up immediately. It was just a check-in and she made cheerful comments as he told her a few things about gym and science, then hung up to hurry off to his final class.
    After allowing that Graham might have been accurate in his comments about the boy—and about her rearing of him—she’d done some investigating (and interrogating) and learned that the reports of Joey’s ’phalting were true; he’d hitched rides on trucks a number of times. Only by the grace of God had he been savedfrom serious injury. The class cutting too had occurred.
    She’d had several difficult talks with the boy—prodded largely by her mother, which had surprised her.
    Brynn had swooped into her son’s life like a tactical officer from a helicopter. He was only allowed to board at a local free-style course, when she was there with him. And he had to wear his helmet, no ski hats.
    “Mom, like, come on. Are you kidding?”
    “That’s your only option. And I keep your board locked up in my room.”
    He’d sighed, exaggeratedly. But agreed.
    She also required him to call in regularly and to be home within twenty minutes of the end of school. She was amused to see his reaction when she reminded him that the police have an arrangement with the local phone company that allows them to track the whereabouts of cell phones, even when they’re not in use. (This was true, though what she didn’t share was that it would be illegal for her to use the system to electronically check up on him.)
    But if she was getting the rebellious behavior under control, there seemed to be nothing she could do with his moods about Graham’s departure. Although her husband stayed in regular touch with his stepson, Joey wasn’t happy at the breakup and she didn’t know how to do anything about that. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d walked out the door. She’d fix it, though at the moment she didn’t have a clue how.
    She pushed the soup away, reflecting that so much had changed since that night.
    “That night.” The phrase had become an icon in her life. It meant a lot more than a chronological reference.
    She was single again, had an injured mother in her care and a troubled son to keep an eye on. Still, nothing in the world would stop her from finding Michelle and Hart and bringing them in.
    She was, in fact, wondering if there was anything she could salvage from the meetings she’d just had with the detective and FBI agent when she realized the bar was deathly quiet.
    Empty. The waiter, busboy and bartender were gone.
    And then she had a memory: seeing a slight man walking behind her on the way from the police station here. She hadn’t thought anything of it, but now realized that she’d stopped at one point to look in a store window; he’d stopped as well, to make a phone call. Or to pretend to.
    Alarmed, she started to rise but felt the breeze of a door opening and sensed people behind her, at least two, it seemed.
    She froze. Her gun was under her suit jacket and a raincoat. She’d be dead before she undid two buttons.
    There was nothing to do but turn around.
    She did so, half expecting to see Hart’s gray eyes as he steadied the gun to kill her.
    The heavier of the two, a man in his sixties, said, “Detective, I’m Stanley