127

They cast Ashlyn Southernwood’s ashes to the wind, let them fall onto her grandmother’s headstone, let the wind scatter the rest.

“I think she would have wanted it like that,” Nicole Corbine said when the urn was empty and Ash was gone. “She couldn’t ever stay in one place, you know?”

“Sure,” Stevens said. “Sounds like someone else we know.”

Mila smiled at that, a tentative smile, and they stood there a few minutes more, until the chill off the lake became too much to bear, and then they bundled their coats around themselves and started back to the gates.

Windermere hung back, just a couple of steps, stole one last glance at the gravestone, Ashlyn’s remains already all but vanished. She felt foolish for making a scene, stupid, knew she was supposed to be the tough cop, the hard-ass, knew a life behind bars was supposed to be punishment enough.

And then Ronda Sixkill was beside her, falling in step, and they were walking together. Ronda didn’t say anything for a few steps, and then she did.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, you know?” she said. “Even if you’d killed him, you’d still be hurting.”

Windermere didn’t say anything. She’d read Ronda’s file. She knew the woman’s history.

“That anger, it doesn’t go anywhere,” Ronda said. “There’s nothing that satisfies it, even after he’s dead. It just eats and eats and eats, sends you in circles, fighting the same battles over and over, even though there’s no one left to fight. You can’t fall for the trap.” She touched Windermere’s shoulder. “You stopped him, Agent Windermere. You put him away. You did good.”

Windermere nodded ahead, toward Mila Scott. “Tell that to her.”

“She knows. You saved her life, too, don’t forget.”

“I just wish we’d done more,” Windermere said. She wanted to argue the point, but they were at the cemetery gate, and Mathers and Stevens were there, holding the gate open for them, and besides, Windermere figured she’d said all she could say.