1 Thursday, November 2 I would not have pulled the trigger. It was just after ten when I tuned the boxy police scanners to their stations. I set the Bearcat to cover Precincts 1, 5, and 7. The HomePatrol would hit Precincts 20 and 24. I tuned the Whistler to listen in on Precincts 19 and 23. I lined them up on the marble coffee table next to the picture of Simone on Eric''s shoulders at the Bronx Zoo. The photo of me in dress blues, shaking the police commissioner''s hand. My leather holster, empty now, yet clinging to the shape of its old duty, its new regrets.

On the windowpane, I watched the same scene that played out a thousand times each day, like the jumbled pieces of a puzzle I was sure would never fit. A hand that was my hand reaching for my sidearm. My Glock aimed at my partner''s head. A thumb that was my thumb cranking back the hammer. My voice, a command: Don''t move. I would not have pulled the trigger. I knew this like I knew my own name. What I didn''t know was why I had done it, why I had blown up my life for the sake of a perp who was caught hours after I helped him get away.

This was three, maybe four, minutes of my life. Yet, like an explosion, it had devastated everything. I turned up the volumes on the scanners until they hurt my ears. I closed my eyes. I waited for the static to drown out my noise. On the north block of Seventy-Ninth at Columbus, an officer called in a Level 1. Shots fired. Dispatch sent an Emergency Service Unit for an evidence search.

At the Port Authority, a man was struck by a northbound A Train. A robbery. A traffic accident. A suspicious vehicle on Fifty-Seventh and Lex. But no homicides. I sat on the sofa that still carried Eric''s musk and wool scent. I sipped water like I had a reason to be sober. But there were no homicides.

On other nights, when a Signal 7 had come through, I would piece together enough of the scene to interrupt my regularly scheduled spiraling. A woman killed in her apartment was usually a domestic. A man killed in the park was a mugging gone awry. Shot in a vehicle meant gang violence. Sometimes drugs. After a while, these images would blot out the memory of how I''d ruined everything. Finally, I could sleep. But not tonight.

It was close to midnight when my cell buzzed. It was my little brother. He''d already tried me three times this week. Each time I felt a little guiltier for not answering. If he really needed me, I told myself, he''d text. As I waited for voicemail to pick up yet again, outside my window, the video-arcade lights of the Empire State Building shifted from blue to red. I used to love their predictability, the way they could surprise me. Now as they blurred against the rain, all I felt was an overwhelming sense of the city''s indifference to me, even after all I''d done to keep it safe.

I swiped to answer the call. "Leigh? It''s me, Ronan." "I know who it is," I said, my voice a little hoarse. "Your name comes up on my phone." "I know, but it''s polite. Hey, sorry to call so late. I''ve been trying to reach you. Did you get my messages?" I assured my brother that, yes, I''d gotten his voicemails, which had all said, unhelpfully, Call me back .

Yes, I was fine. I was Busy Evaluating My Options. I was Reassessing and Regrouping. I was Planning Next Steps. I was the same as every other time he''d called over the past six months, still trying to imagine the future, still stuck trying to decode the past. "I''m sorry, Leigh." Over the line, a pause like an axe swinging. "And Eric? Are you guys still separated?" "I knew it was coming," I replied.

By which I meant, I hadn''t seen it coming at all. I stood up too fast, stumbling. I strode past the uncluttered living room, cavernous now with Eric''s things gone, and into the galley kitchen, where it was always dark, always wet smelling. I started opening a bottle of wine with the corkscrew I''d left out after I''d put my four-year-old to bed. I never started drinking until after she was down. I pretended this made me virtuous. "You know, Leigh," Ronan said, "we would hire you." The cork popped, loud like a safety disengaging.

It jolted my gut. We , as in the Copper Falls Police Department. We as in the tiny police force housed in the stone building just off the main street. In winter, they hung Christmas lights. On the Fourth of July, they had a booth for twisting balloons into hats. I said, "I can''t ask you to do that." "You don''t have to. That''s why I''ve been calling.

It''s already done." "What do you mean it''s already done?" I pulled the screw from the cork. "You''re just asking me now." "I cleared it with the chief. Leigh, you''re hired." "Ronan." The corkscrew clattered against the bowl of the sink. "I didn''t ask for this.

" "Hey, calm down. It''s no big deal. You''re my sister, right? It''s my job to help." As Ronan spoke, I pulled a glass from the open shelving. I filled it to its brim. The glug was loud, like a drain emptying into a sewer. But if Ronan heard, he didn''t say. In my family, alcohol was believed to disinfect even psychological wounds.

In this, we were all devout. I stood at the counter. I held the glass to my lips. "Does your chief even know why I was suspended?" "He didn''t ask so I figure he doesn''t care." I went back to the living room. I shook my head. I swallowed another mouthful of wine. "I''m telling you, Leigh, he loves the idea.

A big-city cop? On his squad? Plus, we don''t have any women." "So I''d be a quota hire?" "Is that any worse than being hired because you''re my sister?" I eased onto the sofa in front of the window. I placed my glass on the arm. "Come on," Ronan said. There was a smile in his voice that begged me to reciprocate. "Don''t you miss it? Even a little?" It''d been fourteen years since I''d stepped foot in the place I''d grown up. Yet I could conjure its image as effortlessly as if I''d just left: sunset oaks that arched over the drive leading up to the old house. Knobby balustrades like turrets surrounding the porch.

Wide, wooden stairs that bent with every step. In the distance, the waterfall, the creek. Everywhere, the scent of water. I pictured the rooms-all those rooms-cathedral height and embellished with decorative woodwork. Ceilings stamped in tin. The house was beautiful from a distance. Yet even in my memory, even after all these years, I could still sense it. That residue that could never be washed away, like stains after a flood.

The water recedes and you paint over its marks. Yet still the mold grows. It will always grow. You will always be sick from it if you stay inside that house. "That''s a generous offer." I rubbed the warmth back into my skin. "Please, extend my thanks." Ronan made a sound like a tire deflating.

In the background, the floor groaned. "You didn''t even think about it." "I did think about it. But I''m not going to uproot my life." "Your roots are here, Leigh. We''re here. Me. The uncles.

The town. Everybody. Would it be so bad? Coming back?" Before me, raindrops raced. Behind them, new ones wove down their tracks. I wished for lightning, for the bray of thunder. Outside, there were only sirens. Their urgency. Their rush.

They faded as they sped away. "Look," Ronan said. I took a drink. "I know you''re some big-time detective. I know small-town policing isn''t, like, on your vision board or anything." "I don''t have a vision board." "But before you turn us down, please just remember one thing." I stared at the callus on my trigger finger.

It had turned yellow, the way leaves change color before they fall. "Here, at least, we look after our own." The slap was not subtle. But it was also deserved. I had, after all, abandoned my family to become a soldier in a faceless city. I had put my trust in people who weren''t my own. Really Leigh , I could hear him thinking, in a city like that, what did you expect? I looked away from the police scanners, toward the tunnel of my kitchen, gray scale now, cast in darkness. "What would I even do there?" I was just humoring him.

I needed him to see for himself this wouldn''t work. "I''m a detective," I said, "not a beat cop. There''s no major crime." A tinge of hope spread through Ronan''s voice. It made me feel sorry for him. "I can think of lots of major crimes. There was that family reunion. The one where everyone got burned alive? The FD says that was arson.

" I knew what he was talking about. It was Copper Falls lore. "That was more than sixty years ago." "Okay. Well. How about those guys who tried to cook up meth? Out in the Sticks?" "I''m homicide," I said. "Dead bodies only." Ronan was quiet for a long moment, so long in fact that I thought I''d finally ended the conversation.

I expected him to say something too earnest, to add a You can''t blame a guy for trying . Then the calls would stop. "Leigh," Ronan said. "There''s something else." "Unless it''s a dead body, I don''t care." "It''s not a dead body." "Then I don''t-" "It''s not one dead body." Ronan''s voice sounded strange, reluctant.

"It''s three of them." 2 Friday, November 3