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was right. She did have a flat stomach.
    And she did look good.
    Her phone vibrated against the hard wooden surface of the bench, and she reached down and turned it off.
    No way in hell Dad was screwing this up too.
    She needed the costume. They’d gotten front-row tickets for Britney Spears on Friday, and it was gonna rock hard. But before that, they were going to the Parade of Lost Souls party. They had to.
    Bobby Ryan was going to be there.

 
    Nine
    As Striker drove back to St Patrick’s High, he felt as if they were on a House of Horrors ride at the carnival. Small swells of anxiety crept into the back of his heart, causing it to beat a little faster with every mile. He felt hot. His skin was sweaty.
    He pulled at his shirt collar to get some air, then gave Felicia a quick glance. He saw the relaxed expression on her face and the casualness of her posture, and he wondered how the hell she could be so cool all the time.
    Her ability to distance herself was unnerving.
    They drove on. The weather was cold and blustery, but the eleven o’clock sky remained clear and bright. Sunny, even. Unusually beautiful for such a fall day, especially one so late in October.
    It seemed wrong, given all that had happened.
    Imperial Road curved lazily around the woodlands as they followed it south, the road surface uneven and slippery. They passed through the swerving tunnels of maple trees until the north end of the school came into view.
    A mob of people had gathered. Clusters of mothers and fathers massed near the roundabout. A handful of officers were speaking with them. Most of the parents were as white as sheets. Some of their faces were filled with fear and longing. Others were loud and hostile, ready to riot at a moment’s notice. An explosive tension filled the air.
    Striker felt sick for them. From this day forward some of their homes would feel empty, filled with an unnatural silence; a grief too deep to be explained. He knew this because he had felt it after Amanda died. Even after two long years, there was still a strange emptiness inside his core. A dark and hollow place.
    He looked ahead and spotted a white unmarked Crown Victoria, parked out front of the school. The White Whale, everyone called it, because there was no colour less operational than white.
    The Crown Vic belonged to the road boss. Car 10. Meaning the Inspector of the day. There were many of them that ruled the road, and most of them were men Striker not only respected but admired. Guys like Jean Concorde who had been one of the best investigators the Department had ever seen, or Reggie Yorke, who was as operational as men come, spending the bulk of his time with Strike Force and the Emergency Response Team. Hell, even Davey Falk was a good man, lacking the operational and investigational skills the other two Inspectors had, but making up for it with his steadfast support of the men and women under him. All were exceptional men, and Striker hoped to see one of them behind the wheel of the White Whale.
    But as he and Felicia drove nearer and the occupant came into view, Striker’s hopes faltered and were replaced by a morbid feeling of something between frustration and disgust. It was the Deputy Chief himself.
    ‘Oh Christ,’ Striker said. ‘It’s Laroche .’
    ‘Avoid him,’ Felicia said.
    ‘Just what we need now. The one guy in the Department who can make even an Active Shooter situation worse.’
    ‘He’s not that bad.’
    ‘Of course you would say that.’
    Felicia shot him a fiery look, as if preparing for an argument, but then let the comment go.
    Striker slowed their speed as they passed the white Crown Victoria. Inside the car sat Deputy Chief Laroche. His dyed black hair, which was slicked back over his head in an oily smear, contrasted with the unblemished white of his skin. As if to counteract the glare of his face, he’d adorned himself with a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses with overly dark lenses. He wore the standard white shirt