The Bodies Left Behind

publicity for?” Brynn was suddenly awkward; her face burned like that of a middle-school girl alone at a dance. She thought back to her very first traffic stop. She’d been so nervous she’d returned to her squad car without handing the driver his copy of the ticket. He’d politely called her back and asked for it.
    Nervous now, nervous all last night—after her mother had said she’d “run into” Graham at the senior center, and Brynn had stopped her cold.
    “So, come on, Mom. What is this, a campaign to get us back together?”
    “Hell, yes, and it’s one I aim to win.”
    “It’s not that easy, not that simple.”
    “When’ve you ever wanted easy? Your brother and sister, yes. Not you.”
    “Okay, I was thinking about going to see him.”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “I’m not ready.”
    “Tomorrow.”
    A worker stuck his head in and asked Graham a question. He answered in Spanish. All Brynn caught were the words for “in the middle.”
    He turned back, said nothing.
    Okay. Now.
    “Just wondering,” she said. “I’m on break. You’ve been up since six, I’ll bet. And I’ve been up since six. Just wondered if you wanted to get coffee. Or something.”
    And, she was thinking, to spend some time talking.
    Telling him more about what happened that night in April.
    And telling him a lot of other things too. Whatever he’d listen to, she’d tell him.
    Just like a few weeks ago when she’d sat in the backyard with Keith and done the same. Part confession, part apology, part just plain talking. Her ex, though cautious at first, had been pleased to listen. She wondered if her present husband would. She surely hoped so.
    Several heartbeats of pause. “Sure,” he said. “Let me finish this board.”
    “Okay. I’ll be at the diner.”
    Graham turned away. And then stopped. He looked back at her, shook his head, frowning.
    Brynn McKenzie found herself nodding. She understood. Understood completely.
    Graham Boyd had been flustered at first, seeing her just appear like this. He’d agreed impulsively, not knowing what to make of her invitation. Now, reality had returned. He was recalling his own anger and pain from that night in April. And from the months leading up to it.
    He had no interest in whatever she was up to here.
    Ah, well, she couldn’t blame him one bit. The momentfor conversations of the sort she had planned had come and gone long ago.
    Flawed jaw set and fixed cheek taut, Brynn gave a wan smile. But before she could say, “That’s okay,” Graham was explaining, “I’m not really into the diner much anymore. There’s a new place in the mall opened up. Coffee’s a lot better. Pretty good hot chocolate too.”
    She blinked. “Where is it?”
    “Downstairs, next to Sears. I’ll be ten minutes.”

ROADSIDE CROSSES
    Jeffery Deaver
    Available in hardcover from Simon & Schuster
    Turn the page for a preview of Roadside Crosses

MONDAY

Chapter 1
    Out of place.
    The California Highway Patrol trooper, young with bristly yellow hair beneath his crisp hat, squinted through the windshield of his Crown Victoria Police Interceptor as he cruised south along Highway 1 in Monterey. Dunes to the right, modest commercial sprawl to the left.
    Something was out of place. What?
    Heading home at 5:00 p.m. after his tour had ended, he surveyed the road. The trooper didn’t write a lot of tickets here, leaving that to the county deputies—professional courtesy—but he occasionally lit up somebody in a German or Italian car if he was in a mood, and this was the route he often took home at this time of day, so he knew the highway pretty well.
    There . . . that was it. Something colorful, a quarter mile ahead, sat by the side of the road, sitting at the base of one of the hills of sand that cut off the view of Monterey Bay.
    What could it be?
    He hit his light bar—protocol—and pulled over onto the right shoulder. He parked with the hood of the Crown Vic pointed leftward toward traffic, so a rear-ender would shove the car away from, not over, him, and climbed out. Stuck in the sand just beyond the shoulder was a cross—a roadside memorial. It was about eighteen inches high and homemade, cobbled together out of dark, broken-off branches, bound with wire like florists use. Dark red roses lay in a splashy bouquet at the base. A cardboard disk was in the center, the date of the accident written on it in blue ink. There were no names on the front or back.
    Officially these memorials to traffic