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street, as if out of casual interest.
    “ What's the problem officer?”
    “ I can't tell you Sir. Please,
go back down the street and find another way around.” He speaks
politely, and I get the impression he's already done this a few times
this morning.
    I nod and put the car in
reverse, my expression growing in fury as the police officer makes
his way back up to the incident site. I know right away that it's the
house I was intending to visit this morning. The source of Kitty's
call was inside. It's her aunt and uncle's house, and I know
immediately that the two bodies being carted out of it are theirs.
    The thought makes me burn as my
hands grip tight at the steering wheel. Carmine sent someone else,
someone who'd kill two innocent people in their attempt to track down
this girl. I don't kill innocent people , I think to myself. My
wife. My baby daughter. They were innocent.
    I can feel my hands shaking now
and I pull up on the side of the road. Suddenly I'm there again, in
Baghdad on tour when I get the call. The call that changed my life,
that ruined my life.
    I'd been on patrol with my unit
when my Captain got some news on the radio. I remember vividly the
moment as he looked over at me, his eyes growing sullen. But he never
said anything, not right then. We were on active duty, and we needed
to finish the patrol before returning to base. Yet I could sense that
something was up, and that it involved me.
    When we returned to base he took
me aside and told me the truth. It hit me like a truck, knocking the
breath from my body.
    “ Colt, there's something I
need to tell you,” he'd said to me. “It involves your family.”
    Those first words had primed me
for something awful. I felt my blood run cold at the look in his eye.
He wasn't just any officer. He was a man I'd known for years, one I
trusted, one I counted as a friend. That he was the one telling me
made it unbearable. I knew, just from the look on his face – that
sad, pained, look – that my life was about to change.
    “ What?” I asked him, my
voice stern, threatening to crack.
    I remember how he took a few
deep breaths before speaking again, as if trying to compose himself.
As he did I spoke again: “WHAT?” This time my voice had grown
louder, quickly demanding of the truth.
    “ There was an accident, Colt.
I'm so sorry...”
    I remember nothing more from the
conversation. I know it went on a little longer, but my memory hits a
blank from there. Trauma, that's what it was. The emotional trauma of
learning that my beautiful wife and my gorgeous baby girl has been
killed. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I could do nothing but
stare forward as my body began to shake. They told me my legs gave
way, that I dropped to my knees and just stayed there, staring and
shaking as the Captain told me what had happened.
    A fire, in our house. They'd
both been trapped as they slept together in the same bed, the fire
engulfing them in their sleep. Since then I've never been able to
shift the vision of them, screaming and terrified, as the red and
orange tongues of the flame licked at their skin, turning it black. I
can't help but think of it sometimes, as much as I hate to. It's a
constant threat in my head, the darkest of memories, of images, that
will never leave me.
    There's a knock on the window,
and I look to my left to see the same police officer from before. I
glance quickly at my hands and see that they're still locked to the
steering wheel, squeezing tightly at the leather. I slowly unclasp
them, leaving imprints of my hands, and press the button to open the
window.
    “ Are you OK Sir,” the man
asks quickly. “You look very pale.”
    “ Thank you officer,” I say,
“I'm fine. Seeing the ambulance outside the house just brought back
some memories for me, that's all.”
    My eyes are looking forward, but
they shift momentarily to catch the officer's gaze. He has a
consoling look on his face, his eyes showing a level of pity, as if
he knows what I'm