Billie Mitchell sat on her heels in the dusty alleyway between abandoned shops. Her back was pressed so hard against the comfortingly solid wall behind her, that she knew she’d have bumps and creases in her skin from the irregularly shaped bricks. Sweat gathered between and under her breasts, and her leg muscles ached from the miles of crouching, crawling progress they’d made to get here, to the center of an enemy-filled town. She sat perfectly still, not shifting to flex her cramping calves or reaching up to wipe away a drop of sweat caught on her long eyelashes. She held her M4 against her chest as if she was cradling a teddy bear.
Someone had been out here for a cigarette recently. Her nose and throat burned with the scent of cheap smoke, probably laced with more than nicotine. She kept her breathing shallow. Weak, sore, burning. On the outside, she was calm and untouched by the swirling dust and the stench of the trash-filled alley.
“Hey, Beast,” Mike whispered. She turned and looked at his grinning face. The sun was behind him, creating a halo of light around his head. Regulations meant little out here, and he hadn’t shaved for days. “I’ll bet you dessert that the cockroach over there makes it to the street corner before we do.”
A large roach scuttled along on the other side of the alley, traveling over rocks and twigs with purpose. Their point man, Hamilton, was either the most cautious person alive or just the most closely related to the sloth. Smart money was on the bug, and dessert—even though it was probably only a tiny package of cookies—was a hot commodity these days. Still…
“You’re on,” Billie said, unable to resist a bet. She raised her voice slightly. “Yo, Hamill. We’ve got to be at the LZ before dawn. Let’s move.”
“No fair,” Mike protested. He stood up and walked over to the roach. “Hurry up!”
“Mike!” Billie yelled, suddenly terrified. She ran toward him and caught one last look at his relaxed smile and cheerful blue eyes before the cockroach exploded and he disappeared.
“Aunt Billie! Aunt Billie!”
The children’s shouts were accompanied by a stomach-crushing leap onto the bed. Billie gasped, pressing her palms into the mattress as she struggled to figure out where she was and whether she was in danger. As the weirdly combined fragments of truth and fiction making up her dream shattered, she managed to see what was in front of her open eyes. She was in her apartment. The small weights currently holding her down were Mike’s children. She was safe.
Mere seconds passed before she felt her reflexes relax enough for her to tickle the kids until they writhed and giggled on her bed. Another few moments and her heart rate and breathing slowed and she was laughing along with them. Even though she tried not to sleep deeply enough to lose herself when the children were at her house, the wrenching moments between waking and settling back into her present surroundings were always a little frightening, especially when her two human alarm clocks kept her from easing slowly and carefully into the wakeful world.
The three of them collapsed back on the bed, and Billie’s gaze moved to the photo on her dresser of her and Mike sitting outside a canvas tent. A wicked dust storm made the sky behind them look threatening and dark, but they wore shorts and bright smiles as they posed for the picture. They were a contrasting pair—Mike was tall and blond with the handsome and healthy look of a Tommy Hilfiger model, while Billie was shorter and dark-haired. She was private, both in expression and personality, while he was as open as anyone she’d ever met. They were an unlikely combination, but they’d become best friends from the first moment they met. And now he was gone…
Billie refused to get sad while his kids were here. “Who wants pancakes?” she asked, getting out of bed and pulling a sweatshirt on over the T-shirt and sweats she was wearing.
“I do! I do!” Ryan and Callie were only a year apart in age, at six and seven, and most of their conversation seemed to be in the form of a chorus. Words and phrases were echoed between them, proving how close they were as siblings, not just in years.
Billie walked to the kitchen like a monster in a horror film, lurching and dragging her feet since one child was wrapped around each calf. Their infectious smiles and obvious delight at staying with her helped her maintain her happy mood—they were as good for her as she seemed to be for them. They sat on stools at the chipped laminate counter while she cooked, chattering on about friends at school and the vacation they were taking with Mike’s parents later in the summer. Billie cracked eggs and poured milk while she listened. She’d spent months in therapy after she’d returned from her deployment, minus Mike forever, but the sessions had never been as helpful as times like this were for her. The failure had been partly due to the mission’s level of security—how could any therapist really help her when the most she could say was some version of I was somewhere, and something happened, and now I’m sad. No specifics meant no real understanding or sympathy. Billie was so accustomed to keeping classified information out of her conversations that she even omitted it in her own mind. She never thought of the place names or the specifics of her missions, especially the final one. Everything was vague. Mike had been there, and she had been whole. Then he was gone and she was bleeding and in pain.
She was healed on the outside, now. And her occasional weekends with Mike’s kids healed her insides a little more every time. They anchored her in the present as few other things and people were able to do. They reminded her of the past and of Mike, but led her into the future as well, with their conversations and anticipation and the glimpses they showed of the teens and adults they’d eventually become. She was able to settle somewhere in the middle while she was talking to them. She was here , the same way she was when riding a horse or patrolling with her mounted police unit.
Billie ladled the first batch of pancake batter onto an electric griddle and got syrup and butter out of the fridge while the discs browned. She flipped them and smashed them with her spatula, preferring thin, crepe-like pancakes to the fluffy thick ones she got in restaurants. A throwback to the breakfasts her dad used to cook when he was at home and not at sea on the fishing boats. Old habits.
Billie piled the finished pancakes onto plates and started another batch while Ryan and Callie ate. She gave them the second batch as well before making a plateful for herself and dousing it with sugary syrup that had probably never seen the inside of an actual maple tree. The three of them were hungrily demolishing the remaining pancakes when someone knocked on the door.
“Mom’s here!” Ryan yelled, hopping off the stool and running to answer the door. Beth Grant came in and dropped some bags on the floor before grabbing Ryan in a hug.
“I missed you,” she said, putting him down and hugging Callie next. She picked up the bags again and brought them into the kitchen. She gave Billie a kiss on the cheek. “I missed you, too. I brought you some grown-up food to thank you for watching Ryan and Callie again.”
Billie had been watching Beth’s entrance with a feeling of relief. The years following Mike’s death had been hard on her—Beth had seemed to age twice as fast as normal, and the blond good looks that had meshed so well with her husband’s had been overlaid with dark circles and frown lines. Lately, Beth had been smiling more and her skin color was brighter and healthier. Billie had a suspicion there was someone behind those changes, but she was waiting for Beth to bring up the topic first. She peered into one of the bags and saw a bottle of red wine and a six-pack of beer. “Grown-up food? All I see in here are grown-up drinks.”
Beth started emptying the other bags. “I brought steaks for that silly little grill you have on your patio, and fruits and vegetables. Real food.”
“I eat real—” Billie started to defend her eating habits, but Beth waved her off.
“When I was here on Friday, I noticed that your fridge was full of the kids’ favorite foods and old takeout containers. You only buy groceries for them.”
Billie wanted to protest, but she decided to let Beth believe her statement was true, and that Billie only cooked on the rare weekends when the kids were with her and the rest of the time either grabbed a bite in a nearby bar or brought home dinner in a fast-food sack. In reality, Billie rarely ate takeout, and the cartons Beth had seen were her coworker’s leftovers from when he had visited her earlier in the week. Don Lindstrom’s wife didn’t approve of him eating fried food and burgers, so he came to Billie’s once or twice a week with a contraband meal. Billie gave him safe haven, with the warning that if Marie ever asked her what he was eating at her place she wouldn’t lie for him.
Billie didn’t want to admit she had a fridge full of children’s food because she ate the same way herself. Chicken nuggets, fish sticks, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on soft white bread. As much as she tried to break away from the past, Billie couldn’t keep herself from craving the foods she’d eaten as a child. She put up with the teasing she got from the other members of her team, and at least when the kids were here, she had an excuse for eating the way she did.
Billie put a large bag of broccoli in the vegetable crisper while Ryan and Callie rinsed their breakfast dishes. “How was your weekend?” she asked after Beth had sent the children to the spare bedroom to pack their things.
“It was fine. I learned a lot, and the keynote speaker was one of my favorite professors back when I was getting my teaching certificate.” Beth put the breakfast plates into the sink and ran the tap water while she talked, keeping her face averted from Billie. “I feel guilty leaving the kids with you while I travel so much.”
“You don’t need to feel guilty. Not at all,” Billie said. She kept herself busy rearranging the groceries in the fridge and giving Beth some space. Beth’s job as a school administrator meant she had to travel to seminars and symposiums on a regular basis. And Beth knew how much Billie loved having Mike’s kids be part of her life. She figured Beth’s concerns were stemming from a different source.
“There’s this guy…”
Billie kept her face neutral even though she wanted to smile. Of course there’s a guy she wanted to say. She’d suspected as much for several months now. “Who is he?” she asked.
“He’s a principal in the Ferndale school district. We’ve been to most of the same seminars over the past year and we talk a lot. About work. We had coffee together.”
She said the last sentence with as much shame as if she’d confessed to murdering someone. Billie closed the refrigerator door and faced her.
“This is good, Beth. Very good.”
Beth shook her head, and Billie saw her eyes redden. She stepped closer and put her hand on Beth’s shoulder.
“I’m just not sure what to do. If it’s been long enough…If this would hurt Ryan and Callie…If I’m even ready.” Beth gave Billie’s hand a squeeze and then she sighed audibly. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Forget I said anything.”
Billie shook her head. Beth had never mentioned anyone before, but Billie had no doubt other men had shown interest in her during the past few years. “Has he asked you out before this?”
Beth shrugged. “Once or twice. He knows about Mike and he doesn’t push, but he’s let me know he’s interested.”
“You’ve never mentioned this before.”
Beth looked away. “I don’t know why. I guess I didn’t want to bother you with it.”
“Or maybe it’s because now you want to go out with him.”
Beth was silent for so long that Billie thought she might have misread her. When she finally spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.
“You were his best friend, Billie. Sometimes I thought the two of you were even closer than he and I were, because of everything you went through together, everything the two of you shared and that he wasn’t allowed to talk to me about.” She paused and visibly inhaled. “I need your honest advice, Billie. What do you think he’d say to me right now?”
Billie wanted to launch into a series of encouraging platitudes. Time heals all wounds; it’s time to move on; Mike would want you to be happy. There was some truth to them, but Beth wanted honesty. And Billie wanted her friend to have hope for the future again. She chose her words carefully.
“Mike was one of the most matter-of-fact people I’ve ever met, about both life and death.” She thought back to the days before each mission, when they had to write letters home in case they didn’t survive. Billie had written to her dad and sisters, feeling the distance between them measured both in miles and in emotional connection. The letters had been a chore to her, a necessity before she was allowed to go into the field. Hers had all been alike and as impersonal as a form letter, unlike the ones Mike wrote for Beth. “He knew the odds of being hurt or killed were high. He accepted it, and I know how proud he was that you did, too.
“If I could talk to him right now about you and what you’re going through, he’d say Of course she’s moving on. Why wouldn’t she? He wouldn’t be at all surprised that someone is interested in you because he always talked about how gorgeous and smart and wonderful you are.” Billie paused and took a breath, making an effort not to look like she was gasping for breath. The nightmare and the resurfacing memories over the weekend had weakened her. Now, thinking of Mike and imagining what he would say to Beth, she felt her insides clench. But she kept her tension inside. Not on her face and not in her voice. It was what she was expected to do, what Beth needed from her. She exhaled and continued.
“More important, though, he wouldn’t be surprised in the least to hear that you might want to let someone new into your life. He’d expect it. He’d see it as a natural and human thing to do because he understood more than most people that life would go on whether we survived a mission or not. He’d never judge you for moving on, or condemn you to the life of a martyr. He’d want you and the kids to live a full and happy life.”
Beth wiped away the tears on her cheek and hugged Billie. “Thank you,” she said when she pulled away. “You’re pretty wise for someone who avoids romantic relationships of any kind.”
Billie laughed. “I don’t avoid them. I just move around too much to find someone and settle down. It’s a family trait, I suppose.”
“Hmm.” Beth glanced around the apartment with an unreadable expression. She didn’t say anything else, and Billie was about to ask what was on her mind but she had a feeling she knew what Beth was thinking. Billie had pictures crowded on the walls, and every surface was covered with something personal—mementos from her travels, more photos of the friends she’d made in the service and in the department, and pieces of tack she’d brought home from the police barn to either clean or repair. She looked like a settler here, not a temporary occupant. What Beth didn’t know was Billie had always lived this way. She’d been shuffled from house to house because of her dad’s job. He was on the boat for long periods, and she and her sisters had stayed with someone different almost every time he left. Spreading the wealth, he called it. Desperately trying to find someone willing to take in three kids was more like it, in Billie’s opinion. Still, she and her sisters hadn’t had much choice, and they’d gotten in the habit of unpacking and making each new room their own as soon as they arrived. Billie had never shaken the habit, no matter if she’d been at an army base for two weeks of training or here in Tacoma for almost a decade. She might give the appearance of being settled, but her heart was always prepared to move again.
Callie and Ryan came back into the room lugging their suitcases. Billie would miss the kids’ company, but she was relieved to have the conversation end in the chaos of good-byes. She was willing to listen to Beth’s issues but much less comfortable when the topic of her own love life—or lack of one—arose.
As soon as her guests were gone, Billie showered and got her police uniform out of the closet. She pulled on the tight navy pants and straightened the seams so the extra material designed to protect her inner thighs from the stirrup leathers was placed just right. She buttoned her freshly ironed shirt and tucked it in before buckling her duty belt around her waist. The belt was modified from the one she’d worn as a patrol officer to make it easier for her to move on horseback, but it still held everything she might need while at work, from gun to handcuffs to notepad.
Even the act of putting on the outfit of a mounted patrol officer soothed her. She loved Beth and the kids, but being around people who’d been through trauma always made her relive her own. She was as exhausted by their presence as she was uplifted by the children and her friendship with Beth. Soon she’d be with her horse, Ranger. Grooming him and riding the streets of Tacoma. He’d put her back in balance.
Her first mount, a gray mare named Corona, hadn’t worked the same magic as Ranger. Billie had joined the unit with little riding experience, trusting her sergeant and fellow officers to help her transition from a beginner with only a handful of therapy lessons to a capable rider. Instead, she had found herself in the middle of an unanticipated battle to destroy the unit and take over the land where the police barn now stood. Billie had managed to seem confident even though she was never certain whether Corona would do her job or decide to bolt or buck, but she’d spent more of their training sessions on her butt on the ground rather than in the saddle.
Then Rachel Bryce had stepped in as sergeant and put her on Ranger. Billie had finally found the healing and strengthening kind of partnership she had been hoping for when she had joined the team, not just with Ranger, but also with Rachel and Cal—Rachel’s girlfriend and the team’s trainer—and her teammates Clark and Don. Don especially was an odd choice for someone she now considered to be one of her closest friends. They were far apart in age and interests and lifestyle, but they’d bonded over the horses and their friendship had carried over into everyday life beyond the barn. The mounted team had come to mean everything to her.
She checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror and straightened the small TPD pins on her lapels. She combed her hair and was clipping back her too-long bangs to keep them out of her eyes when her cell buzzed. A photo of her lieutenant, Abigail Hargrove, popped up on her screen.
“Hey, Hargrove. What’s up?”
“Murder and mayhem.” Abby was speaking in her work voice, crisp and no-nonsense. When they’d first met, Billie had doubted there were any other sides to Hard-Ass Hargrove, but lately she’d discovered the funny and playful woman beneath the controlled officer persona. Love had been good for her. Abby was all business today, though.
“Another homicide last night. Drive-by. I need you to canvass the area with the witness, so report to the one sector substation instead of the barn.”
Billie sighed. No time with Ranger today. Instead she’d be subjected to the fresh trauma of a murder witness. “Fine. What are we looking for? Did they see the shooter?”
“No. She doesn’t seem to have any useful information since she was looking for something on the floor when it happened, or getting carsick, or whatever. But driving around the area might jog her memory. Plus, she’s pretty upset, obviously, and I want you to spend time with her. You’re one of the best in cases like these, and I’m sure you’ll be able to calm her down and get a clear story from her.”
Great. An afternoon playing grief counselor. Billie was flattered by Abby’s praise because she knew Hargrove never gave it lightly. The only reason Billie was so good at working with frightened or traumatized people, though, was because she had all her own grief sitting right under the surface of her skin. Maybe other people sensed it was there and knew she understood them, or maybe the currents of PTSD just made her more sensitive to the resonating vibrations coming from victims of trauma. Whatever the reason, these interactions eroded her strength a little more each time, and she was left fighting harder than ever to conceal and control her own feelings and memories. But she had to put aside her personal issues and do her job. “I’ll be there,” she said.