Brandon sped over the bridge, Mia beside him. It was a little after six, a Sunday morning, no traffic. He hit seventy, the harbor flashing by, Mia holding onto the seat. On the Portland side of the bridge, he slowed, ran the light on Fore Street, blasted through the sleeping Old Port, flashed up Fore Street and onto the Eastern Prom.

They saw the blue lights, an ambulance coming off Congress. Brandon slid the truck to a stop and Mia jumped out and they trotted toward the house. O’Farrell was in the driveway, talking to a detective Brandon didn’t know. In the unmarked cruiser behind him Lily sat alone, a tissue pressed to her face.

The detective walked back toward the house. Brandon and Mia approached O’Farrell, who said, “So I hear you know these folks.” He looked at his notebook. “Lily Lawrence and Winston Clarke. With an E.”

“Lily’s a good friend of mine,” Mia said. “Is she okay?”

“Physically okay,” O’Farrell said.

“You talk to her?” Brandon said.

“Tried. She’s pretty shook.”

He looked at Mia. “You want to see if you can get her calmed down so we can get a better idea of what happened?”

He walked with Mia to the cruiser, opened the far door. She got in and Brandon saw her embrace Lily, Lily bury her face in Mia’s shoulder. O’Farrell came back.

“Hope it helps,” Brandon said.

“Your girlfriend was her first call,” O’Farrell said. “They go way back?”

“I don’t know about that. Book club. They hit it off.”

“Well, they’ve got something in common now.”

Brandon looked at him.

“Shootings, I mean,” O’Farrell said. “How many people have—” He saw Brandon darken, dropped it. Took out a notebook, flipped the pages.

“Renford Gayle. Black guy. New York.”

“He’s the dead guy?”

“On the kitchen floor as we speak. Nine millimeter right through the heart. Boom.”

“Who shot him?”

“She says she did. Your friend.”

“My God. I just thought it would have been—”

“The boyfriend. I know. But he said this Gayle guy broke in, had a gun, demanded money, then the boyfriend—”

“Winston.”

“Right. The dead guy, not dead yet, he orders Winston to give him all the money.”

“From what? The restaurant?”

“I guess Mr. Winston—”

“That’s his first name, actually,” Brandon said.

“Right. I guess he sometimes took the receipts from the restaurant home with him. Looks like preliminarily the perp followed him home a little after three, waited until everybody was asleep. Breaks in. Door was pried open. They look up, he’s standing by the bed, pointing a three fifty-seven.”

“Jesus.”

“So your friend Lily there, all she’s said is that she couldn’t let him die. Her boyfriend.”

“So she got the gun away from him?” Brandon said.

O’Farrell looked away as the crime-scene guys arrived. “Third floor. Can’t miss him.”

They trudged past, boxes in hand.

“Had her own gun—or they did. Way I picture it, the intruder gets the drop on the guy, orders him out of the bedroom to get the money. Doesn’t realize there’s a gun in the bedroom. The girlfriend, she gets the gun, follows them out, and pow. All she wrote.”

“One shot?”

“Hers. Down he goes.”

“But if he’s brandishing a weapon, making threats.”

“Self-defense, way they tell it.”

“Where’s Winston?”

“They’re taking his statement out back.”

“He upset?”

“Not as much as the lady. Then again, he maybe just got his life saved. What do you know of him?”

“Just met him a couple of times. Seemed like a nice guy. Likes to tell stories, buy people drinks at Rendezvous—named after his hometown on Barbados.”

“I knew he was from somewhere like that,” O’Farrell said.

“He and the girlfriend pretty tight?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, very. Kind of the cool Portland couple.”

“What’s she do?”

“Hangs out. Socializes. I don’t know what else.”

“Not hurting for income, looks of things.”

“I think her family has some serious cash,” Brandon said.

“Trust-funder,” O’Farrell said, like it explained a lot.

“His car here? The shooter?”

“We’re thinking it’s this Lexus, parked around the block. Stolen out of New Jersey, illegal New York plates. Had ’em bring the drug dog, sniff around. Dog lit up.”

“Drugs in the car?” Brandon said.

“No, but lots of residue.”

“So he’s a runner?”

“Musta already made the drop,” O’Farrell said. “This Winston guy dealing, you think? Out of the restaurant or something?”

“No sign of it that I’ve seen. But I can say he’s no wimp. Guy tried to pick a fight with me here at their house, this dinner party we were at. Had a thing about cops. Winston slapped him down, hustled him out the door, nice wrist lock.”

“Well, Mr. Tough Guy oughta be glad his lady friend is quick on the draw.”

They stood for a few minutes, O’Farrell on the phone to New York, Brandon watching the scene. He turned to watch as the ME’s people bumped down the steps with a stretcher, a green plastic sheet over the dead guy, the legs of the stretcher scissoring out. The guy’s feet were sticking out, Nike logo on the soles of his shoes. The stretcher rattled by, and Brandon got a closer look. Air Jordans. O’Farrell turned to go, turned back. “Blake. You know the Tribune is asking about you.”

“Estusa?”

“It’s been a year, hasn’t it?” O’Farrell said.

“And three weeks.”

“They’re cooking up something.”

“What’d you tell him?” Brandon said.

“That you had the makings of a very good cop,” O’Farrell said.

“Thanks.”

“I got you hired, Blake,” O’Farrell said, with the barest hint of a smile. “Just protecting my ass.”

Lily and Mia were still in the back of the cruiser, Mia’s arm around Lily, Lily’s face pressed against Mia’s shoulder. Brandon walked by the car, heard Lily’s sobs through the glass, saw Mia patting Lily’s arm. He read her lips: “It’s going to be okay.”

It hadn’t been okay for Brandon and Mia, not for a long time. Mia had wanted to go to counseling, so Brandon had gone with her, but the counselor, a bald guy with a beard and little round glasses, kept asking Brandon how he felt.

“Relieved,” Brandon had said.

“That’s good, but aren’t you also troubled, having taken a life?”

“Not really,” Brandon had said. “I’m just glad he was the only one.”

“It’s really okay to let it out,” the counselor said, smiling in a way Brandon supposed was meant to get him to spill his guts. “What are you feeling deep down?”

“Deep down?” Brandon said. “I’m really, really glad I didn’t miss.”

But everybody was different. That’s what the shrink at the Academy—another guy with a beard and glasses—had said. After a fatal shooting some cops were fit for duty the next week. Others were never the same.

So Brandon could try to talk to Lily, tell her not to focus on her shooting the guy, but on the alternative. This dirtbag kills her. He kills Winston. He goes and spends their money on a week of hookers and a couple of cases of Cristal.

Be glad you didn’t miss.

Brandon walked up toward the side door of the house, saw curtains move in the windows of the big Victorian next door. When he turned the corner he saw Winston, head in his hands, sitting at a patio table with Pelletier and a detective from homicide named Amy Smythe, worked day shift. Brandon had seen her picture in the paper, nodded to her in the hall. She was a stud; he was a newbie.

“Officer Blake,” Smythe said.

He walked over as they all got up. Smythe put a recorder in her jacket pocket. Winston looked at her and she nodded, and he walked toward Brandon. He looked weary, like he might fall. He extended his hand and Brandon took it and Winston drew him close, clasped his arm, then pulled him into a hug. Brandon felt the other cops watching, the rookie all tight with some guy mixed up in a drug shooting. He stiffened, tried not to recoil.

“Brandon,” Winston said. “It’s crazy, man. I can’t believe it. It’s like a movie.”

“I know. But it turned out all right. It’ll be okay.”

“Coming from you, I believe that, man. Keep telling me. Lily—”

“Mia’s with her.”

“The detectives, they’ll talk to her now?”

“Nothing to worry about. She just tells exactly what happened. It’ll sort itself out.”

“Right. But man, this guy, he was gonna kill us, I know. He wanted us to go in the car, go to the bank.”

“That’s never good.”

“Lily had no choice.”

“I’m sure.”

“Brandon, they said you could take me for a coffee. We can’t go back in the house.”

Brandon said okay, and they turned. Smythe had gotten in the cruiser, on the other side of Lily, Mia still sitting there, Lily with her head raised, wiping her eyes.

“Oh, baby,” Winston said, and he started for the car.

Brandon grabbed his arm, said, “You can’t talk to her yet. Let’s go.”

“She’s gonna have trouble with this. I mean, man, she’s, like, sensitive.”

Brandon led Winston away, toward the truck. “She’ll get over it,” he said. “Believe me.”

They were crossing the lawn when someone called, “Officer Blake.”

Brandon turned back, saw Smythe, beckoning him with a forefinger, like a schoolteacher pulling him aside on the playground. He walked over as Pelletier led Lily back to the patio table, Mia standing by the cruiser.

“Your buddy there,” Smythe said.

“Not really my buddy.”

“Whatever. Pay attention to what he says.”

“Why?”

“Easy to tell the truth twice,” Smythe said. “If you’re fudging it, then each time it gets harder. You lose track.”

“You think something’s not right?”

“I don’t think anything, Blake, not until I’ve got all the data.”

Data, Brandon thought. It was like she was a teacher. Blonde hair pulled back, square serious jaw. Mrs. Smythe, cute but tough.

“Kinda awkward, like I’m wearing a wire or something. I mean, these are my girlfriend’s friends.”

“You’re a cop, Blake,” Smythe said, as she turned away. “Get used to it.”