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He reached for his pocket ’link. Within seconds, Sade was on-screen. “Did Grant work with a CPS rep, Karin Duberry?”

“The one who was strangled last year?”

“I don’t—” He looked toward Eve, got a nod. “Yeah.”

“Sure. They were on cases—same side and opposing. Why?”

“How about both of them going before Judge Moss?”

“Had to, I’d think. Odds in favor. What’s the deal, Dave?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mind?” Eve asked, and before he could answer took the ’link herself. “Lieutenant Dallas. Do you remember any threats by any participant in a case where Moss, Duberry, and Swisher were all involved?”

“Nothing springs. You’ve got copies of the case files. There’d be notes. Jesus, these are connected? You think the people who killed Grant blew up Judge Moss, killed the caseworker?”

“I’m looking into it. I’ll need you available if I need to talk to you again.”

“You can count on it.”

Eve handed the ’link back.

“Thanks, Sade. I’ll pick you up at two-thirty.” He shut off the ’link. “We’re going to the funeral together. Look, Lieutenant, I can go over the case files myself. See if any of them bring back any coffee-break chatter. Grant and I bitched to each other plenty. You know, partners.”

“Yes, I know partners. If you think of anything, get in touch.”

“I will. I wondered, before I go . . . I wondered if you could give me an idea when I could hold the memorial? I thought as Grant’s partner, as their friend, I’d make the arrangements. I’d want to talk to Nixie, make sure we do this in a way that makes it as easy for her as possible.”

“You need to hold off awhile. I can’t allow her to attend a memorial until we’re satisfied she’s no longer in any jeopardy.”

“All right, but could you just . . .” He lifted his briefcase, opened it. “This is the picture Grant kept on his desk. I think she’d want it.”

Eve looked down at the four smiling faces, the family grouped together in what seemed to be a casual photograph at the beach. The father’s arm slung around the son’s shoulder—the hand reaching to lay on the wife’s, his other drawing his daughter back to him. The mother with her arm around the son’s waist—fingers hooked in the belt loops of her husband’s jeans. Her other hand holding her daughter’s.

Happy, she thought, carefree summer day.

“I took it, actually. It was one of those weekends at their beach place. I remember I said, ‘Hey, let me try out my new camera. You guys get together.’ They moved together just like that. Big smiles.” He cleared his throat. “It was a good weekend, and Grant really loved that picture. Christ, I miss him.”

He broke off, shook his head. “Nixie, I think Nixie would like to have it.”

“I’ll make sure she gets it.”

When he left she sat there, looking at the summer moment, that frozen slice of careless family fun. They hadn’t known there wouldn’t be another summer.

What was it like to have that sort of bond? That sort of sunshine ease, as a family? To grow up knowing there were people there to lay an arm over your shoulder, reach for your hand. Keep you safe?

She’d never known that. Instead she’d grown up knowing there were people who would hurt you, just for the sport of it. Beat you, rape you, break you because you were weaker.

Until you got stronger, until there was that one mad moment when the knife was in your hand. And you used it until your skin, your face, your hands were slick with blood.

“Eve.”

She jolted, dropped the photograph, and stared up at Mira. Mira sat, turned the photograph around on the table to study it. “A lovely family. Look at the body language. A loving and lovely family.”

“Not anymore.”

“No, you’re wrong. They’ll always be a family, and moments like this one are what make that last. This will comfort Nixie.”

“Father’s partner brought it in, along with Jenny Dyson. She and her husband are dissolving the guardianship. They won’t take her.”

“Ah.” The sound came out as a sigh as Mira sat back. “I was afraid of that.”

“You figured something like this?”

“Was afraid,” she repeated, “that they might feel unable, unwilling to take Nixie into their home. She’s too strong