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stucco. Nice and neat, no surprises, their shadows falling the same way on the same white concrete driveways lining up to the same clean black asphalt.
    There were people who would call this subdivision “cookie-cutter.” But Landry prized order. It was an American thing, miles and miles of houses that looked the same. Like McDonald’s. When he thought of his country, he thought of McDonald’s, shopping malls, and subdivisions like this, all of them uniquely American. It was the new way. It was the twenty-first century.
    He parked out front and went inside. Cold—Cindi kept the air conditioner cranked up.
    Shutting the door on the hot California light, Landry experienced a brief twinge of futility. It happened more and more as he got older, the feeling that he was dispossessed. Life didn’t have much purpose other than the purpose he gave it—his family, the racetrack, his job. It was that feeling that had caused him to go back to Iraq.
    Landry was good at one thing—he was a warrior.
    With Cindi and Kristal gone and the house empty, the feeling came back in spades. He set his keys and wallet and change on the dresser and walked to the kitchen. Not having his girls with him made him restless. He took out the orange juice and drank it right from the carton.
    Orange juice was starting to give him heartburn, but he ignored it. The same reason he wouldn’t go to a doctor for any ache or pain or even the flu. Doctors only look for trouble, and when they find it, before you know it they put you in a hospital where a cold can turn into pneumonia and you’re on life support.
    Of course in his job, he had regular checkups. He didn’t comply, he’d be out, and the only thing he loved more than his wife, his daughter, and the ponies was his job.
    He did things for his government that no one talked about. The only difference, as far as Landry could see, was that in this job he’d never been face-to-face with his employer. In fact, he didn’t even know the name of the company. Some operations, he knew, needed to be outsourced. But the job was the same: to protect and defend the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic.
    Landry couldn’t stand being in this empty house. He decided to go to his brother’s barn at Hollywood Park and check on their Derby hopeful, see if the quarter crack on his foot was any better. He headed back to the bedroom to get his wallet and keys, stopping by the open doorway to Kristal’s room.
    Cool air came from inside, scented with strawberries. His daughter’s lair. A Keep Out sign had been tacked to the door, but she left it open all the time—mixed signals. Kids, he found, wanted their parents to interfere. They craved structure. They knew that life was hard and scary and treacherous, so they wanted someone to protect them. Even when Kristal protested, it was halfhearted.
    Landry rarely crossed the threshold into her room, however, because he trusted her. She knew damn well she’d better do the right thing, and therein lay the trust.
    He was about to start down the hallway again, but his eye caught the poster on Kristal’s wall.
    Brienne Cross.
    He’d glanced at the poster a few times on his trips down the hallway to the bedroom, even though he didn’t like the way it made him feel.
    But this time, he found himself unable to turn away.
    It was as if he were in a forest, and something caught his eye, and he’d looked away and then back again, and saw an exotic bird in the branches where none existed before. He thought Kristal had taken the poster down. It had been well over a month since Brienne Cross died. He’d read Kristal’s raw grief on Facebook, the childlike grief of losing an idol, but he’d thought that was over.
    And yet, the poster remained.
    He shrugged. Turned away. Almost.
    His neck creaked as he looked back. Something compelled him. It felt as if he were in a long tunnel, and the only way out was to look at Brienne Cross.
    Brienne lay in an