The Bodies Left Behind

the kitchen. Midwest pretty. Her high cheekbones made her look a bit Native-American, though she was exclusively Norwegian-Irish and in roughly the proportion her name suggested: Kristen Brynn McKenzie. People sometimes thought that, especially with her shoulder-length hair pulled back taut, she was a retired ballet dancer who’d settled into a size-eight life with few regrets, though Brynn had never danced, outside of a school or club, in her life.
    Her one concession to vanity was to pluck and peroxide her eyebrows; more long-term tactics were in the planning but so far none had been put into practice. If there was any imperfection it was her jaw, which, seen from straight on, was a bit crooked. Graham said it was charming and sexy. Brynn hated the flaw.
    He now asked, “His arm—it’s not broken?”
    “Nope. Just lost some skin. They bounce back, that age.” She glanced at the kettle. He made good pasta.
    “That’s a relief.” The kitchen was hot and six-foot-three-inch Graham Boyd rolled his sleeves up, showing strong arms, and two small scars of his own. He wore a watch with much of the gold plate worn off. His only jewelry was his wedding band, scratched and dull. Much like Brynn’s, nestled beside the engagement ring she’d had on her finger for exactly one month longer than the band.
    Graham opened cans of tomatoes. The Oxo’s sharp round blade split the lids decisively under his big hands. He turned down the flame. Onion was sizzling. “Tired?”
    “Some.”
    She’d left the house at five-thirty. That was well before the day tour started, but she’d wanted to follow up at a trailer park, the site of a domestic dispute the afternoon before. Nobody’d been arrested and the couple had ended up remorseful, tearful and hugging. But Brynn wanted to make sure the excessive makeup on the woman’s face wasn’t concealing a bruise she didn’t want the police to see.
    Nope, Brynn had learned at 6 A.M. ; she just wore a lot of Max Factor.
    After the predawn start she was planning to be home early—well, for her, at five, but she’d gotten a call from an EMS medical tech, a friend of hers. The woman began: “Brynn, he’s all right.”
    Ten minutes later she was in the emergency room with her son.
    She now puffed out her tan Sheriff’s Department uniform blouse. “I’m stinky.”
    Graham consulted the triple shelves of cookbooks, about four dozen of them altogether. They were mostly Anna’s, who’d brought them with her when she moved in after her medical treatments, but Graham had been browsing through them recently, as he’d taken over that household duty. His mother-in-law hadn’t been well enough to cook, and Brynn? Well, it wasn’t exactly one of her skills.
    “Ouch. I forgot the cheese,” Graham said, rummaging futilely in the pantry. “Can’t believe it.” He turned back to the pot, and his thumb and forefinger ground oregano into dust.
    “How was your day?” she asked.
    He told her about an irrigation system gone mad, turned on prematurely April first then cracking in a dozen places in the freeze that surprised nobody but the owner, who’d returned home to find his backyard had done a Katrina.
    “You’re making headway.” She nodded at the tile.
    “It’s coming along. So. The punishment fit the crime?”
    She frowned.
    “Joey. The skateboard.”
    “Oh, I told him he’s off it for three days.”
    Graham said nothing, concentrated on the sauce. Did that mean he thought she was too lenient? She said, “Well, maybe more. I said we’ll see.”
    “They oughta outlaw those things,” he said. “Going down railings? Jumping in the air. It’s crazy.”
    “He was just in the school yard. Those stairs there. The three stairs going down to the parking lot. All the kids do it, he said.”
    “He has to wear that helmet. I see it here all the time.”
    “That’s true. He’s going to. I talked to him about that too.”
    Graham’s eyes followed the boy’s route to his room. “Maybe I should have a word with him. Guy-to-guy thing.”
    “I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t want to overwhelm him. He got the message.”
    Brynn got her own beer, drank half. Ate a handful of Wheat Thins. “So. You going to your poker game tonight?”
    “Thought I might.”
    She nodded as she watched him roll meatballs with his large hands.
    “Honey,” a voice called. “How’s our boy?”
    “Hey, Mom.”
    Anna, seventy-four, stood in the doorway, dressed nice, as usual. Today the