CHAPTER NINETEEN

The sun had barely finished rising when Lennon drove through the cemetery gates. She parked and walked slowly toward the familiar grave, resting her hand on top of the stone when she stopped in front of it. It was cold beneath her palm, not just from the chill of the night but also because Tanner’s family had chosen a beautiful spot beneath a large oak that kept it mostly in shade.

Lennon threw down the blanket she kept in her trunk and knelt on the dewy grass and ran her hand over his name. “Hi, Tanner. I’m sorry it’s been so long.” She reached out and plucked a dead leaf off the fall flowers planted in front of his grave. Unlike her, Tanner’s mother came here regularly and made sure the plantings were fresh and his stone was free of dirt and moss. She continued to care for him in the only way she was able, and Lennon hoped it helped her, even if only a little.

“I haven’t checked in on your parents in too long either.” What had it been? Three months now? Four? In the thirteen years since Tanner had died, Lennon had never gone that long without contacting them, and now it almost felt like she’d have to explain herself if she called. So she’d kept putting it off. Because really? She didn’t have an explanation. She’d just been busy living and working. And she’d thought about them, but she hadn’t reached out. She hadn’t even called to wish them a happy Thanksgiving. A lump formed in her chest, and she felt a flailing inside. Maybe being too busy was only an excuse. Maybe she’d wanted to put some distance between them. Maybe she was ready , and so instead of addressing it, she’d told herself she’d just forgotten.

“I don’t want to let them go,” she told Tanner as though he’d been keeping up with her inner thoughts, her inner struggling, “because it feels like letting another part of you go too.” She let out a shaky sigh. “But sometimes I wonder if it keeps us all stuck, in a way. Sometimes I wonder if that ringing of the phone each month is just a reminder of the pain, and maybe, in a way, they dread it.”

Or maybe I do.

Maybe those calls had started feeling like an anchor to the pain and she’d wanted to unmoor herself and create some distance. She wanted to know what that shore looked like from a different vantage point. Maybe if she drifted for a little while, the sunrise would come into view.

She shifted so she was sitting on her hip and brought her legs to the side. “Work has been intense though, Tan. You’d laugh so hard if you saw me walking around crime scenes and standing over dead bodies in the ME’s office. Remember that time I almost passed out when you sliced your foot on a piece of glass at the beach?” She let out a huffy laugh. “I’ve changed a lot since high school. I wonder how you would have changed. I miss you, you know that?” The rawness of grief had faded, but sometimes, even more now than when she’d begun healing, she’d feel a wave of it. It felt like losing him all over again when she considered who he’d be now. Because she—they—hadn’t only lost Tanner when he was nineteen; they’d lost him at every age he’d never be. And so in some sense, the loss never stopped. In many ways, it deepened over time.

She’d never forgotten the way the lights buzzed that night. A dying bulb, an electricity short; she had no idea what had caused it. But she did remember the loud buzz and the tremble of light and dark that had washed over his face the last time she saw him alive. And even now, when the sadness overcame her, in the background she heard that never-ending electrical buzz.

God, they’d have been married for almost a decade now, if their plans had become reality. They’d probably have a couple of kids. They’d have gone on that honeymoon to Tahiti. She’d have used the passport that, instead, had expired in the back of her sock drawer. That version of herself felt so far away suddenly, a dream within a dream, a movie she couldn’t remember the name of. A song she still knew the melody for but could no longer sing the words.

The thought made her picture the songbird Ambrose had spoken of, the one that had appeared so vibrantly in her mind, the notes of a misty song trailing from its beak as it welcomed the dawn. The image had been so beautiful, and she’d only been told the story. What must that have been like in person?

Her finger paused over the last letter of Tanner’s name as Lennon realized she’d been thinking about Ambrose while sitting in front of Tanner’s grave. Ambrose, who hadn’t even called her since they’d slept together. Ambrose, whom she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about.

What are you doing here, Lennon?

“Anyway,” she said quickly, moving her mind from that question. “I’ve been partnered up with an FBI agent. And ... I don’t know how to describe him. It’s like he’s jaded and innocent and gruff and soft. He walks around crime scenes and fights drug-fueled psychos, but then he also tells stories about songbirds and blushes when my mom says he smells good. I’m not sure what to make of him. You know how I am. I like straightforward. I like black and white. I’m not good with shades of gray.” For whatever reason, she pictured Ambrose Mars eating that fruit cup, examining each piece of fruit as though it was a tiny marvel. And then she saw him telling the story about the man who’d been saved by the sea lion, his soft voice enthralling an entire room. The way his unusual eyes had hung on her and the way she’d felt held captive. In the end, stories are all we have.

“He’s hard to describe,” she murmured. “But I trust him—professionally, anyway. He proved that he has my back when things go south. I’m going to make sure he’s not put in that position again. I’m going to be much more careful. I promise, Tan.” She brought her hand to the bruised eye that she’d pretty successfully—she thought—managed to cover with makeup. “This won’t happen again ...” She trailed off. As if she needed to reassure Tanner of her safety.

“What I really came here to say is that I miss you. I don’t want you to think that I don’t. No matter what. I ... if I don’t come here as much it’s not because I’ve forgotten. I never forget. I carry you with me, and I always will.”

She didn’t know what else to say to him, so instead she just sat there, watching the sun rise higher in the sky and picturing his face, forever young and beautiful.

“Good morning,” she said to Adella as she took off her coat and hung it on the back of her chair. Adella gave her a nervous glance, her gaze going over Lennon’s head right before she heard Lieutenant Byrd’s voice behind her.

“Gray, can I see you in my office?”

“Sure,” she murmured. What the hell was going on? She looked back at Adella, but she had already turned back to her computer screen.

Lennon followed Lieutenant Byrd to his office and closed the door behind her. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Do you know who he is?”

Lennon sat down slowly on the chair in front of the lieutenant’s desk. “Do I know who who is?”

“Ambrose Mars.”

She gave her head a small shake. “You told me he’s an FBI agent here to work the ‘BB’ pill case with me.”

“Well, he’s not. He’s not an FBI agent, and apparently that’s not his real name either. Ambrose Mars doesn’t exist.”

The internal alarm bells started slowly at first and then swelled into a clanging symphony. “I’m sorry, what ?”

“He walked away from another scene yesterday and took a handful of evidence with him. When I called the field office in Pleasant Hill, where he supposedly came from, I discovered there’s no one there by that name.”

She felt dizzy and like she might puke. What the fuck was going on? There had been another scene yesterday? Why hadn’t anyone called her?

“He doesn’t fucking exist,” the lieutenant practically spat out.

Doesn’t exist. But he most certainly did exist. He’d been in her apartment. He’d been in her parents’ home. He’d kissed her naked breasts, for Christ’s sake. He was inside my body. God, she felt like she might be hyperventilating. He’d been lying to her? Posing as an FBI agent? She pressed her fingers to her temples, as if trying to stop her brain from misinterpreting the words the lieutenant was saying to her.

“This is a catastrophe,” Lieutenant Byrd said. “Someone infiltrated the SFPD, stole three case files and crime scene evidence, and then up and disappeared.”

“How, though?” she asked, her voice a mere croak. “I thought the call came down from the chief’s office. They ... sent him here.” Someone called. They’d said he was good with the down-and-out. And he was. He’d seemed empathetic. He’d seemed ...

“The call came from the right number, so there’s either someone working with him internally or they managed to get hold of technology to make it look like the right number. It’s being investigated with the utmost fervor.” He paused. “They’re looking at you, too, Lennon.”

“ Me? ” she asked, the outrage that was beginning to spark inside her clear in her voice. He’d lied to her. He’d used her.

“He was at your house a few nights ago. After hours.”

What? How did the lieutenant know that, if it wasn’t him who’d given Ambrose her address like she’d assumed? Then she remembered the call. The bruise cream.

Adella. She’d ratted her out and made it look like Lennon was part of some scam the fake agent was running? She felt like tearing someone’s eyes out and collapsing in tears. “He came over, supposedly to check on me after my attack.” He brought me watermelon stars and held me in his arms. Those sparks ignited into flames, anger burning away the tears that had threatened to fall moments ago.

“Well, regardless, Internal is taking this extremely seriously. They want you at their offices right away. And Lennon, I’m sorry, but you’ll need to turn in your gun and badge.”