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through an endless procession of schools. I worked at Starbucks. I walked a lot. I saved up money for a sewing machine. I started my own business, making custom-designed window treatments and matching throw pillows.
    I liked Boston. Returning to the city of my youth had not left me paralyzed with fear. Quite the opposite, in fact. I felt safe amid the constantly moving masses. I enjoyed strolling through the Public Garden, window-shopping on Newbury Street. I even liked the return of fall, where the days became oak-scented and the nights cool. I found an impossibly small apartment in the North End where I could walk to Mike’s and eat fresh cannolis any time I wanted. I hung curtains. I got a dog. I even learned to cook corn tamales. While at night I stood at my barred fifth-story window, cradling my mother’s ashes in the palm of my hand and watching the nameless strangers pass below.
    I told myself I was an adult now. I told myself I had nothing left to fear. My father had directed my past. But I owned my future and I would not spend it running anymore. I had picked Boston for a reason, and I was here to stay.
    Then one day it all came together. I picked up the
Boston Herald
and read it on the front page: Twenty-five years later, I’d finally been found dead.

P HONE RINGING .
    He rolled over. Grabbed a pillow. Stuffed it over his ear.
    Phone ringing.
    He threw down the pillow, yanked up the covers instead.
    Phone ringing.
    Groan. He grudgingly peeled open one eye. Two thirty-two a.m. “Frickin’, frickin’, frickin…” He slapped out a hand, fumbled with the receiver, and dragged the phone to his ear. “What?”
    “Cheerful as always, I see.”
    Bobby Dodge, Massachusetts’s newest state police detective, groaned louder. “It’s only my second day. You can’t tell me I’m being called out my second day. Hey.” His brain cells belatedly kicked to life. “Wait a sec—”
    “Know the former mental hospital in Mattapan?” Boston Detective D.D. Warren asked over the line.
    “Why?”
    “Got a scene.”
    “You mean
BPD
has a scene. Good for you. I’m going back to sleep.”
    “Be here in thirty.”
    “D.D….” Bobby dragged himself to sitting, awake now in spite of himself and not feeling amused. He and D.D. went way back, but two-thirty in the morning was two-thirty in the morning. “You and your friends want to harass a rookie, pick on your own department. I’m too old for this shit.”
    “You need to see this,” she said simply.
    “See what?”
    “Thirty minutes, Bobby. Don’t turn on the radio. Don’t listen to the scanner. I need you to view it clean slate.” There was a pause. More quietly, she added, “Bobby, keep it tight. This one’s gonna be ugly.” And then she was gone.
             
    B OBBY DODGE WAS no stranger to being called out of bed. He’d served nearly eight years as a police sniper with the Massachusetts State Police Special Tactics and Operations Team, on call twenty-four/seven, and inevitably activated most weekends and major holidays. Hadn’t bothered him at the time. He’d enjoyed the challenge, thrived on being part of an elite team.
    Two years ago, however, his career had derailed. Bobby hadn’t just been called out to a scene; he’d shot a man. The department ultimately declared it justifiable use of deadly force, but nothing had felt the same. Six months ago, when he submitted his resignation from the STOP team, no one had argued. And more recently, when he’d passed the detectives’ exam, everyone had been in agreement: Bobby’s career could use a fresh start.
    So here he was, a two-day-old Homicide detective, already assigned half a dozen active but not urgent cases, just enough to get his feet wet. Once he proved he wasn’t a complete and utter moron, they might actually let him lead an investigation. Or he could always hope to catch a case, be the lucky on-call suit who was roused out of bed for a major incident. Detectives liked to joke that