Serena drove north in silence as she headed back toward Duluth. She normally played music in the car to keep her company, but this time, she preferred the quiet. The only noise came from Elton. With every car that passed in the opposite direction on Highway 53, the dog put his paws on the half-open window and barked hello at the other driver. He got multiple waves in return.
It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. She still had half the drive back to Duluth, and she realized she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since the night before. As she got to the town of Minong, she remembered a greasy spoon she’d visited with Jonny once before. It was a couple of blocks east of the highway. She made a quick right turn, trying to remember exactly where it was, and she drove up and down a few blocks before she located the saloon with its weathered wooden front, looking like something out of an old Western.
“What about you?” she asked Elton. “You hungry?”
The dog didn’t answer, but he put his nose to the window and inhaled the smell of barbecued pork wafting from the restaurant. Serena took the hint.
“Okay, pork sandwiches for all.”
She got out of the Mustang and made her way to the bar entrance. Inside, the aroma of meat was even stronger, and she could hear her stomach growling. The interior was decorated in the same Gary Cooper kitsch as the outside, with old farm tools hung on hooks and black-and-white photographs mounted in cheap frames. She expected to find sawdust on the floor. There were only a handful of tables filled by people eating a late lunch, but it was midafternoon in Wisconsin, and the bar counter was crowded with plenty of drinkers.
The bartender was a busty blond in her early twenties. She greeted Serena with a big white smile. Alcohol bottles glistened in glass rows on the mirrored shelves behind her. “What can I get you?”
“Can I get an order to go?”
“Sure, check out the menu, and see what you like. Be back in a sec.”
She handed Serena a menu, then retreated down the bar to pour a tap Michelob for a man at the far end. Serena decided on one pork sandwich for her, one for Elton, and a basket of onion rings for them to share. When the bartender got back, she rattled off her order. The girl wrote it down, then nodded at a large group toward the back of the restaurant.
“Just so you know, it’ll take a few minutes to get it ready. Those folks just put in their order, so the kitchen’s slammed.”
Serena shrugged. “I’m in no hurry.”
“You want a drink while you wait? Beer or something? I make a mean Bloody Mary, too.”
Serena stared back at her, and her mouth went dry.
She took in the bartender’s cheerful, pleasant smile. She was a small-town waitress asking a simple question. Serena had been asked that same question hundreds of times over the years by hundreds of different bartenders. After a while, the answers came without even thinking about it. Without any hesitation. Without longing or yearning or regret.
No, thanks, I’m good.
No. Really. Nothing for me.
Or maybe: Just a Diet Coke.
6,607 nights. Not a drop of alcohol.
And yet this time, sitting in the bar, Serena felt the old longing come back, like a dragon rising over the mountain, spreading its wings and exhaling fire. She could smell it in the bar around her. She could imagine it on her lips, cool and smooth. She could anticipate the sensation it would bring, the warmth in her chest that spread through her body, the numbness easing her mind and dulling away fear, anger, grief, frustration, longing, and pain.
Her tongue slipped across her lips, wetting them. She wanted it so much.
Sweat made a clammy film on her skin. It was the sweat of shame, of desire, of guilt, of indecision. Yes, she wanted to say.
Yes, Absolut Citron, two ice cubes.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
“I... sure, I—” she began. The word actually started coming out of her mouth with a wolflike hunger. Yes.
Then, coming to her senses, she slapped both hands on the bar and jerked up from the stool. “Skip it,” she said, barely finding breath for the words.
“What?”
“Skip the food. I have to be somewhere. I can’t wait.”
The bartender looked at her with a puzzled expression. “I thought you weren’t in a hurry.”
“I was wrong.”
Serena turned away with a flush of shame. Her voice was overly loud, and everyone turned to watch her. She could feel their eyes on her back as she ran from the saloon. When she got to the Mustang, she practically threw herself inside. Her chest heaved, and her lungs struggled for air. With a soft whimper of concern, Elton nudged his nose against her from the other side of the car, and she put her arms around the dog and buried her face in his fur.
“Oh my God,” she murmured.
This time, she’d survived.
This time, she’d walked away and saved herself.
But Serena was under no illusions. The devil was awake again, and he was leering at her with cunning eyes and very sharp teeth.
9
Stride walked into the Public Safety Building for the first time since he’d been shot, and warning bells didn’t go off, and the world didn’t end. Passing through the maze of cubicles, he tried to act normal, as if he’d been doing this every day without the interruption of the past fourteen months. But that was impossible. Everyone saw him. Everyone stopped talking. Somehow, they could read his face and recognize that he didn’t want special attention for this moment, and they gave him space. No one came up to him, or hugged him, or cried, or called out, Welcome back.
Their reaction was much quieter and, to him, more profound. One by one, as he made his way from one end of the building to the other, they all simply nodded at him. And they smiled.
He bypassed his own office, because for now, it wasn’t his office anymore. The lieutenant’s chair belonged to Maggie. The one empty office on the floor had been occupied until recently by Abel Teitscher, who’d spent decades on the force as a smart detective but a mostly unlikable man. They’d clashed throughout Stride’s tenure, especially after Stride had returned from a short stint in Las Vegas with Serena. Abel had taken over the detective bureau during Stride’s absence, but his personality had left the staff in near revolt, and Deputy Chief Kyle Kinnick — who went by the nickname K-2 — had been more than happy to demote Abel upon Stride’s return. Abel had never forgiven the insult.
Now he was gone — finally retired after all these years.
Stride wandered into the office, which had already been stripped of anything personal. Abel’s photos and commendations had all gone with him. However, the man’s dense musk cologne had seeped into the walls and would take a long time to dissipate. There were files on the desk and case summaries scrawled in Abel’s handwriting on two whiteboards near the window. Most cops did that kind of thing by computer now, but Abel had always preferred writing out his notes on every case by hand. Stride actually liked that about him.
He sat behind the desk and looked out the window. The police had moved out of downtown a few years earlier, and now they were located high on a hill in a remote part of the city, close to the forest. Stride liked it here, liked not being among the politicians of city hall. Instinctively, like a muscle memory, he reached for a cup of coffee or a can of Coke on the desk, but of course, nothing was there. Caffeine was off the list for his postsurgery regimen.
Sitting there by himself, he thought: Now what?
He got out of the chair and went to the whiteboards and tried to decipher Abel’s handwritten scrawl. There were at least a dozen cases summarized on the two boards. Some were cold cases that Stride remembered; others were new since he’d gone on leave. Abel, efficient as ever, had written them down in chronological order, from oldest to most recent.