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at least the beige water lapping at the shoreline was as easygoing and warm as the locals. Lakes around here seemed bottomless and chill and the abrupt meeting of rocky shore and black water made you feel helpless, easy prey for snakes and leeches.
    She reflected on another course she’d taken through the State Police: a water safety rescue seminar. It had been held at a lake just like this and though she’d done the exercise—swimming underwater to rescue a “drowning” dummy in a sunken boat—she’d hated the experience.
    She now scanned the surroundings, looking for boaters in trouble, car accidents, fires.
    For intruders too.
    There was still enough light to navigate by and sheshut the lights out so as not to announce her presence. And drove even more slowly to keep the crunch of the tires to a minimum.
    She passed the first two houses on the private road. They were dark and set at the end of long driveways winding through the woods. Large structures—four, five bedrooms—they were old, impressive, somber. There was a bleakness about the properties. Like sets in the opening scene of a family drama: the homestead boarded up, the story to be told in flashbacks to happier days.
    Brynn’s own bungalow, which she’d bought after Keith bought her share of their marital house, would have fit inside either of these and still have left it half empty.
    As the Honda crawled along, she passed a small bald patch between copses of fir, spruce and more hemlock, giving her a partial view of the house at number 3—the Feldmans’—ahead and to her left. It was grander than the others, though of the same style. Smoke trailed from the chimney. The windows were mostly dark, though she could see a glow behind shades or curtains in the back and on the second floor.
    She drove on toward the house and it was lost to sight behind a large copse of pine. Her hand reached down and for reassurance tapped the grip of her Glock, not a superstitious gesture, but one she’d learned long ago: you had to know the exact position of your weapon in case you needed to draw it fast. Brynn recalled that she’d loaded the weapon with fresh ammo last week—thirteen rounds, which wasn’t superstitious either but more than enough for whatever she’d run into in Kennesha County.Besides, it took all your thumb strength to jam the slick brass rounds into the clip.
    Tom Dahl wanted his deputies on the range for a checkup once a month but Brynn went every two weeks. It was a rarely used but vital skill, she believed, and she blew through a couple boxes of Remingtons every other Tuesday. She’d been in several firefights, usually against drunk or suicidal shooters, and had come away with the sense that the brief seconds of exchanging bullets with another human being were so chaotic and loud and terrifying that you needed any edge you could get. And a big part of that was making automatic the process of drawing and firing a weapon.
    She’d had to cancel her session last week because of another incident with Joey—a fight at school—but the next morning she’d made her range time of 6 A.M. and, upset about her son, had run through two boxes of fifty rounds. Her wrist had ached from the excess for the rest of the day.
    Brynn slowed about fifty yards from the Feldmans’ driveway and pulled onto the shoulder, sending a startling cluster of grouse into the air. She stopped, intending to walk the rest of the way.
    She was reaching for her phone, in the cup holder, to shut the ringer off before approaching the crime scene, when it trilled. A glance at caller ID. “Tom.”
    “Look, Brynn . . .”
    “Doesn’t sound good. What? Tell me.”
    He sighed. She was irritated he was delaying, though a lot more irritated at the news she knew was coming.
    “I’m sorry, Brynn. Oh, brother. Wild goose chase.”
    Oh, damn . . . “Tell me.”
    “Feldman called back. The husband.”
    “Called back?”
    “Com Central called me. Feldman said he’s got