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fallen from a twenty-story building and broken every bone on impact. My second thought is, why did they bother to put me back together again? If I finally got the courage up to jump, couldn’t the rest of them leave well enough alone?
    Then I see him, head slumped forward in the chair next to the foot of my bed.
    My heart constricts. I think: I love you.
    My head explodes. I think: Get the fuck away from me!
    Then: What the hell is his name again?
    The man’s face is weathered, heavily lined with worry and stress even in sleep. But it gives him a lived-in look that is far from unattractive. Closer to early forties than late thirties, dark hair shot through with liberal streaks of gray, body still lean after all these years. I like that body; I know that with certainty.
    And yet, I don’t want him to wake up. Mostly, I wish he’d never found me here.
    â€œMommy, I can fly,”
Vero whispers in the back of my mind.
    I think of that old pilots’ joke: It’s not the flying that’s the hard part; it’s the landing.
    The man opens his eyes.
    It comes as no surprise to me that they are brown and somber and deep.
    â€œNicky?” he whispers, arms already springing out, body on high alert.
    â€œVero?” I croak. “Please . . . Where is Vero?”
    The man doesn’t speak. His body collapses back, my first words having already taken the fight out of him. He places a hand over his eyes, maybe so I won’t see the answers lurking there.
    Then this man I love, this man I hate—what the
hell
is his name?—whispers heavily, “Oh, honey. Not again.”

Chapter 4
    H ER NAME ’ S ANNIE . Good girl, too. Four years old, a little rambunctious, but has the drive. Won’t find a better worker; that’s for sure.”
    The handler, Don Frechette, reached down and scratched his dog affectionately behind the ears. In response, Annie, a high-spirited yellow Lab, waved her tail so hard she nearly whacked her own face.
    Wyatt liked dogs. Last cold case he’d worked, the cadaver dog had found a fifty-year-old bone in a dry creek bed. The bone had looked like a desiccated twig and smelled like dirt. One of the younger officers had nearly cast it aside before the accompanying forensic anthropologist had caught his arm.
This old thing?
the officer had asked.
But it’s just a stick.
    The forensic anthropologist had found it funny. Later, however, she’d confessed to Wyatt that she considered the whole thing amazing as well. The bone had long since lost all organic matter, she explained. What was left for the dog to scent? But the dogs always know, she mused. Forget the latest advancement in GPS tracking and forensic analysis; anytime she was out in the field, she just wanted a good dog’s nose.
    Tessa had expressed an interest in getting a dog. Maybe he could take her and Sophie puppy shopping this weekend. Visit the local animal shelter, bring home a new addition to the family. Surely that’d earn him some points with the kid.
    Or would that be trying too hard? Tessa had made it very clear the worst thing he could do was try too hard.
    It wasn’t that Sophie hated him, he reminded himself. Maybe.
    â€œConditions?” he asked Frechette, gesturing to the man’s light rain jacket, then the dog’s thin coat, given the low-forties chill.
    â€œNot a problem. We’ll warm up soon enough. I don’t mind the cold. Pools the scent, keeps it low, easier to track for the dog. And Annie fatigues faster in heat. Morning like this, clear skies, low temps, she’ll be raring to get to work. Now, you said it’s a car crash.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œGlass?”
    â€œQuite a bit around the vehicle.”
    â€œShe’ll need her boots, then. Other terrain?”
    â€œMostly mud, one briskly moving stream. There’s some prickly shrubs, the usual mess of random rocks and broken branches. Getting down is a little