He tips his hat and the two men start toward their respective vehicles.

I glance at my watch, surprised to see it's almost 3:00 A.M. "You want body shops or farms?" I ask Glock.

"Body shops." He grins. "Amish don't trust me for some reason."

"That's because you cuss too much."

He grins. "Now that makes me feel misunderstood."

"Hit every body shop or auto shop that does collision work, including anyone who works out of a home shop or keeps a can of Bondo on his workbench. If someone brings in a vehicle with a messed-up grille, I want to know about it."

"I'm all over it."

"I'll get Skid and Pickles to cover these farms in the morning."

We saunter to the place where the accident happened and look in both directions. The gra.s.sy shoulder is trampled from all the traffic and muddy where the fire department flushed away the biohazard. The tractor that hauled away the dead horse left deep ruts. I think about the hit-and-run driver and something scratches at the back of my brain.

"Where was he going anyway?" I say, thinking aloud.

"If he was headed west," Glock replies, "he was on his way to Painters Mill. Millersburg, maybe."

"If he was stinking drunk, where was he coming from?"

Our gazes meet. "The Bra.s.s Rail," we say in unison.

The Bra.s.s Rail Saloon is a couple of miles down the road; the scene of the accident is smack dab between that bar and Painters Mill. It's one of the area's more disreputable drinking establishments. If you want to get drunk, fight, buy dope, or get laid-and not necessarily in that order-The Bra.s.s Rail Saloon is one-stop shopping.

"Probably a long shot." But I can't quite dispel the rise of dark antic.i.p.ation that comes with the possibility of that all-important first lead.

"Unless the bartender remembers someone leaving in a souped-up truck five minutes before the accident."

"Stranger things have happened." I fish my keys out of my pocket. "Let me know what you find out from the body shops, will you?"

"You bet."

I leave him there, frowning and looking just a little bit worried.

I swing by the house for a shower and a few hours of sleep. I don't notice the blood on my shirt until I'm standing naked in the bathroom and look down at my uniform heaped on the floor. I'm usually pretty mindful of any kind of biohazard, but I don't remember when I picked it up. I don't know whose it is.

I look down at my hands and see dried blood on my palms and beneath my nails and cuticles. That's when it strikes me this blood represents the death of a man I've known most of my life. The deaths of two innocent children. The injury of a third child. And the h.e.l.l of grief for a woman who was once my best friend.

Unnerved, I turn to the sink, grab the bar of soap, and scrub my hands with the single-minded determination of a mysophobe. When my flesh is pink, I twist on the shower taps as hot as I can bear and spend the next fifteen minutes trying to wash away the remnants of the accident, seen and unseen.

By the time I pull on a tee-shirt and sweat pants, I feel settled enough to call Tomasetti. I want to believe I'm calling him because he's a good investigator. Because he'll offer some gem of advice. Because he's great to bounce ideas with and he rarely fails of give me something I can use. But the truth of the matter is I need to hear his voice. I want to hear him laugh, hear him say my name. Or maybe I just need him to help me make sense of this.

I walk into the kitchen. The wall clock tells me it's three thirty in the morning; I shouldn't bother him at this hour. Like me, Tomasetti's an insomniac. Sleep is tough to come by some nights. For a moment, I sit there debating. In the end, my need to talk to him overrides decorum. I grab my cell phone off the counter where it's charging, pour myself a cup of cold coffee, and punch in his number.

He picks up on the second ring. "I was just thinking about you."

I can tell he was sleeping, and that he's withholding his usual upon-wakening grumpiness. His voice, so calm and deep, fills me with a sense of optimism and reminds me that the good things in life balance out the bad.

"You were asleep," I tell him.

"This might come as a shock to you, but a man can actually think about a woman while he's sleeping."

"So you were mult.i.tasking."

He pauses. "Is everything all right?"

He asks the question with the nonchalance of someone inquiring about the weather, but he knows something's wrong. I don't like it, but he worries about me. Because I'm a cop. A woman. Or maybe because he knows how easily those you care about can slip away.

I stick to cop-speak as I tell him about the hit-and-run, using terms like "hit-skip" and "juveniles." I don't mention my past friendship with Mattie or that I'd known both of them since I was a kid. I don't tell him that when I close my eyes I see the faces of those dead children.

I don't have to; he already knows.

"How well did you know them, Kate?" he asks.

To my horror, tears sting my eyes. Though he can't see me, I wipe frantically at them, as if somehow he'll know.

"Mattie was my best friend," I blurt. "I mean, when we were kids. I knew Paul, too. Back when he was a skinny Amish boy with a bad haircut. We lost contact after I left, but those days were-" I fumble for the right word.

"Formative." He finishes for me.

"I never had that kind of friend again."

"Until I came along."

I laugh and it feels good coming out. "I knew you were going to make me feel better."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not really. Holmes County is the primary agency."

"You notified NOK?"

There are times when silence is louder than words. This is one of those times. But I know if I speak, he'll know I'm an inch away from going to pieces.

"Are you okay?" There's nothing casual about the question this time. He knows I'm not okay and he's trying to figure out what to do about it.

"This is going to sound corny, but I think I needed to hear your voice."

"My shrink would probably call that some kind of breakthrough."

"For me or you?"

"Both of us."

I laugh, but I can't think of a comeback.

"Kate, do you want me to drive down?"

"Do I sound that bad?"

"Maybe I just want to spend some time with my girl."

"Is that what I am, Tomasetti?" I say the words in an offhand manner intended to lighten the conversation.

"You're my best friend."

Somehow the exchange has turned too serious, too personal. I try to think of some flippant response that will make us laugh and move the conversation back on solid ground, but I'm too moved to speak. All I can think is that if I do and he hears the emotion in my voice, he'll know something about me I don't want to share.

"In case you're wondering," he says easily, "that was a favorable observation with regard to our relationship."

"I know."

"I thought you might want to say something reciprocal, like 'you're my best friend, too.'"

"You are. I hope you know that."

"I do now." He pauses. "I'm taking some vacation time. I could drive down and we could hang out. Go on a picnic. Have s.e.x. Not necessarily in that order."

A laugh squeezes from my throat. "Tomasetti, you are so full of s.h.i.t."

"Don't go all sentimental on me. I'm getting choked up."

"I didn't know you were on vacation."

"It was a take-it-or-lose-it situation."

I think about that a moment. "Let me tie up a few things here, and I'll let you know."

"Don't wait too long."

"I won't."

"You sure you're all right?"

"I am now," I tell him and disconnect.

Sleep is a fickle thing that has little to do with fatigue and everything to do with peace of mind. When I finally fall into a fitful slumber, I dream of Mattie and Paul, and two dead children who stare at me with accusing black eyes and rotting mouths that chant schinnerhannes! schinnerhannes!, which is the Pennsylvania Dutch word for a man who hauls away dead farm animals.

I jerk awake to the sound of tapping. I'm tangled in the sheets and slicked with sweat. I don't know the source of the sound, but I'm relieved to be free of the nightmare's grip. I sit up, listening. A glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand tells me it's almost 4:30 A.M. I'm trying to convince myself I only imagined the sound when it comes again and I realize someone's at the door.

Throwing the blankets aside, I get up, snag my revolver off the nightstand, and pad into the hall. Tap. Tap. Tap. Not the front door, I realize, and I move silently through the dark and into the kitchen. A few feet away from the back door, I recognize his silhouette against the curtains. Setting my weapon on the counter, I cross to the door and open it.

John Tomasetti stands on my back porch, frowning as if he's got every right to be here despite the hour and I've kept him waiting too long. "I'm sorry to wake you," he begins.

I laugh at that because we both know he's not. I take a moment to process the picture of him, standing there, looking at me as if I'm the only person left in the world and he's ravenous for company, and I know this is one of those small slices of time that I'll never forget. Instead of his usual slacks and jacket, he's wearing faded blue jeans and a navy golf shirt. Shoes that look like a cross between a hiker and a work boot. His usual office pallor has been replaced by a tan.

"Vacation looks good on you," I say.

"You look good on me."

That makes me grin and I open the door wider. "Is everything okay?"

"You mean aside from the slight paranoia that goes along with parking in the alley behind the police chief's house?"

"I thought that was part of the allure," I say.

"Not even close."

I catch a whiff of his aftershave as he steps past me, and my midsection flutters in a way that's now familiar: a powerful mix of attraction, affection, and excitement.

"You know we're probably not going to be able to keep this a secret too much longer," I say, closing the door behind him.

"I'd hate to be the one to put a black mark on your reputation."

"One more added to the collection isn't going to make a difference."

Up until this point, we've sort of been dancing around each other. Not getting too close. Not touching. Neither of us wanting to make that first telling move. If it wasn't such an uncomfortable moment, I might have laughed at the absurdity of it.

I break the silence with, "I've got a couple of Killian's in the fridge."

"I thought you might."

Before I can turn away, he reaches out and takes my arm, pulls me to him. Wrapping his fingers around both my biceps, he pushes me backward until my rump collides with the counter. I look into his eyes to find them dark and fixed on me, and my knees go weak. Then he bends to me and his mouth is on mine. I dive into the kiss with everything I have. His lips are firm and warm and move against mine with an urgency that sucks the breath from my lungs. My arms go around his neck. My body presses flush against his. I feel the hard ridge of him against my belly. His hands skim restlessly down the sides of my ribcage. Sensation courses through me with such power that I have to close my eyes against it, like some crazy ride at the county fair, the kind where you're dizzy and holding your breath but you never want it to end.

After a moment, he pulls back and smiles down at me. "I've missed you."

"I can tell."

He laughs and then goes to the fridge and pulls out two beers. He hands one to me and, watching each other, we twist off the caps and sip.

"How's the investigation going on the hit-skip?" he asks.

"It hasn't changed in the last hour." I'm still reeling from the effects of the kiss as I relay everything I know so far.

"You think it's someone local?" he asks.

I go to the fridge, find some grapes, cheese, and crackers, and toss them onto a plate. "Probably. If not Painters Mill proper, then Holmes County or one of the surrounding counties. Vehicle was probably a truck." I carry the plate to the table and sit.

Tomasetti takes the chair across from me, and for several moments we're caught up in our thoughts.

"How's your friend doing?" he asks.