“So you were the officers who responded to the scene, when the baby went missing,” the reporter said. It was the skinny guy who’d talked to the woman on Quebec Street, after Brandon had pulled his weapon. He beamed like this made them old friends, reunited after twenty years.

“Matt Estusa,” he said. “I know Kat there, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

He nodded toward Kat, helping move traffic, slowed by gawkers. He looked at Brandon’s name tag.

“Officer Blake,” Estusa said. He held out his hand, gave Brandon the smile again. Brandon shook the guy’s hand, felt like the guy held on a little too long. They disengaged.

“First jumper?” Estusa said.

“Yeah.”

“Must be hard when you know the victim,” he said.

“Not hard. Just sad,” Brandon said.

“Yeah, from what I hear, this Chantelle had kind of a hard life. Drug problems, father of the child away in the war. Then this with the baby.”

Estusa had his arms folded, a notebook stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. Topsiders, an expensive-looking runner’s jacket, a runner’s watch. Brandon wondered if Mia knew him. Or Lily and Winston.

“I was just talking to the detectives,” Estusa said. “They said she was pretty freaked out.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Brandon said. “Her baby.”

“Yeah, but the drugs. Not like she was the perfect mother.”

“Doesn’t mean she wouldn’t be upset.”

“So she kills herself. Kinda too bad. I mean, now the kid’s got nobody. The dad, I guess he’s a combat vet, got PTSD, she had to go to court to get custody. Now the guy’s at sea, didn’t even come back when his baby went missing. You’d think that a father would—”

“He’s back. Boat turned around soon as they heard.”

“Oh, well. My apologies to him. Toby something.”

“Koski,” Brandon said. “I’m sure it’s in the reports.”

“Oh, yeah.”

They stood as the wrecker driver checked the hooks. There was a Wellesley College sticker on the back window.

“Must be a previous owner,” Estusa said, nodding toward it.

“I don’t know,” Brandon said.

“I mean, she doesn’t seem like Wellesley material. Maybe community college, on a welfare program.” Estusa grinned.

“What do you know about her?” Brandon said.

“Just what I heard.”

“Shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Or read.”

Estusa’s eyebrows twitched. He kept up the smug grin as the wrecker pulled away.

“You ID her?” he said, like he was commenting on the weather. Rain letting up.

“Some of us knew her,” Brandon said.

“Is that hard for you?”

Brandon turned and looked at him. “What?”

“The violent death stuff, I mean. After, you know . . . what happened with you.”

“Thought you said you didn’t know me.”

“No,” Estusa said. “What I said was that I hadn’t met you. I read the stories from back then. Everybody did. Would have written them but I was on City Hall.”

Brandon didn’t answer.

“You still with her? The woman you saved?”

Again, no answer.

“Mia, right? I always thought that was a cool name. So some of us, we were surprised when we heard you’d joined up with Portland PD. Or any PD, for that matter. I mean, when you’ve already had that experience, the fatal shooting and all, to put yourself in the position of maybe having to do it again.”

Brandon turned to him and smiled. “Geez, Matt, I thought you’d want to cover today’s story. Chantelle Anthony and the missing baby. Not my story.”

“In a way, it’s all connected,” Estusa said, easing his notebook out of his back pocket, a pen from the other side, like a dove from a hat. “All of the death, the trail of tragedy, you know.”

Brandon didn’t answer.

“So,” Estusa said, “maybe we could get a coffee, when you get off your shift. Talk a little.”

“About what?” Brandon said.

“About how you’re doing. I know this may be difficult for you to dig back up, but it’s very unusual for anyone to have done what you did. Had to do. How many police officers begin their careers with that experience? And recent, too. It’s not like it was ten years ago.”

Estusa smiled, his eyes crinkling. His sympathetic face, Brandon thought. The guy was good.

“I’d love to talk to Mia,” he said. “About her recovery, the two of you coping with the past, and now the present. Does she worry about you? Does she fear that you both dodged a bullet and another one might be coming?”

Brandon looked away. Flashed back to Fuller, the black blood spatter on the white wall. His cry as the life drained out of him. Mia’s dry sobs as Brandon led her away. He turned to Estusa, his smile still in place.

“There’s nothing to say,” Brandon said.

“Oh, I know how you feel. But it really is of interest to anyone who read those stories. I mean, Sergeant Griffin’s murder—it shook the community to its core. They’ll want to know how you’re doing, what it’s like to move forward with this. As a young guy. As a young police officer.”

“I don’t think so,” Brandon said. “It’s over. Done.”

“But you must think about it. I mean, when you hear a gunshot? When you see Griffin’s friends? When you and Mia are alone? I mean, it has to be there.”

“Sounds like you’ve got the story written. Don’t need me.”

Estusa grinned. “Oh, that’s just the writer in me. I don’t know what the actual story would say.”

“No, I’m really not interested.”

“Well, just think about it,” Estusa said. “We can touch base tomorrow, the next day.”

“I did think about it. No, thanks.”

Estusa’s expression changed, smile in place but harder, like concrete had dried.

“You know I can write it without you,” he said.

“How will you know what I think when I hear a gunshot?”

“I can talk to your fellow officers. I can talk to experts.”

“Sounds pretty dull to me.”

Estusa sidled closer.

“Brandon, I’m gonna be straight with you: This is a good story. It’s a very good story. An important story. And no offense, but I’m not gonna drop it just because you don’t want to take part. What kind of reporter would I be?”

“A reporter who cops’ll talk to.”

“Hey, don’t pull that one on me. I have plenty of sources. More than enough. In a year I’ll be out of here anyway.”

“Headed for the big time?” Brandon said.

“Bigger,” Estusa said.

“National Enquirer hiring?”

Brandon paused.

“Okay, you know what I want to say?” Brandon said. He moved close, took Estusa by his thin, bony arm. Light rain spattered the notebook page but the pen was poised. Brandon leaned over, close to Estusa’s ear.

“Go to hell,” Brandon said.