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  A chorus of cheers and whoops erupted. Tracy’s classmates patted her on the back and shook her hand.

  “One seventy-seven,” Decker said. “Ninety-eight percent.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Tracy said.

  Decker grinned. Then he became serious again and shouted, “You’re all dismissed. Next group, step to the line.”

  As Crosswhite and the other twelve shooters gathered their things and stepped away, Decker and the other spotters returned to the far end of the range.

  “One seventy-seven,” Decker said, passing Nolasco. “And that was with her gun jamming. One question, Johnny.”

  Nolasco gave Decker a simmering glare.

  “Will that be check or cash?”

  CHAPTER 6

  They gathered in the back of the Tin Room, twenty-three men and two women. Class 672 had started with twenty-nine recruits. Three had washed out. One had gotten hurt. Bob Manion poured their glasses full from pitchers of beer and held his glass high. “Here’s to finishing,” he shouted, causing the others to erupt in boisterous agreement.

  “Hold on. Hold on,” Jenny said, raising her iced tea.

  “Hang on,” Manion shouted, his voice rising above the others. “Costco’s got something she wants to say.”

  The others began to chant, “Costco! Costco!”

  “You all know I’m not much with words, so I’m going to keep this brief.” Jenny looked to Tracy, seated at one of the high tables. “Here’s to Tracy.”

  The roar was deafening.

  Tracy stayed until just after eight, when the melancholy set in. She felt camaraderie with her classmates, a sense of belonging she no longer felt in Cedar Grove. She’d loved teaching and had thought she’d spend her entire life in the small town, eventually moving into her childhood home. But after Sarah’s disappearance, Cedar Grove had become claustrophobic; Tracy couldn’t look anywhere without seeing Sarah or hearing her voice inside her head. Memories flooded her, and when they came, so did the depression.

  She’d had to leave. She’d had to get out.

  New surroundings had helped, but she also found that she couldn’t run from the dark moments and sense of loss that would come on suddenly and often without warning, shrouding her like a fog and suffocating her.

  She felt it coming on now. Was it guilt? Regret? Anger? Maybe all of the above.

  In need of fresh air, Tracy slid from her seat and made her way to Jenny. “I’m going to head back,” she said over the din of her classmates and the sound of Eric Clapton and his guitar.

  “You’re leaving? We’ve ordered food.”

  “I’m good,” she said.

  Tracy gestured for them to step outside.

  “I need a little down time,” Tracy said. “You stay. Have fun. When you’re ready to go, call, and I’ll come get you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s only a couple blocks. I can walk.”

  “No,” Tracy said. The fervor of her response caused Jenny to take a step back. “Promise me you won’t walk.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Promise me.”

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  “You’ll call.”

  “I’ll call if I can’t get a ride. I’m sure Gunner Bob will drop me off.”

  “Or you’ll call,” Tracy said.

  “Or I’ll call.”

  Tracy turned to leave.

  “Tracy?”

  Tracy looked back, and for a brief moment she didn’t see Jenny, she saw Sarah: standing in the rain, wearing Tracy’s black Stetson, watching as Tracy drove away. It was Tracy’s final, lasting image of her sister.

  “Thanks for everything,” Jenny continued. “I wouldn’t have passed without you.”

  “I told you, you’re stronger than you think.”

  “Listen, my parents and sisters are coming up for graduation. I’d like you to meet them and come to lunch with us.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Tracy walked down 152nd Street, turned left at the corner, and continued to where she’d parked her truck. The sky was clear, the stars prominent, and the cool air was already helping to push back the darkness.

  Then she noticed him sitting on the hood.

  “Detective Nolasco.”

  Nolasco slid off her truck but remained positioned between her front bumper and the bumper of the car parked in front of hers. He checked his wristwatch. “Must not be much of a celebration.”

  Tracy didn’t respond.

  “You didn’t beat me, you know. They counted one of your shots, but I know you missed.”

  “I don’t really care.” The street was deserted. Across it, the church parking lot, which looked like it also served as the grade-school playground, was empty. Tracy sensed Nolasco had been drinking. “I’d like to leave, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why’d you volunteer that day? What, you didn’t like the way I was treating your little friend? Shit, you should have thanked me.”

  “Yeah? Why is that?”

  “Because there’s going to be a whole lot more of it. The brass upstairs may want more of you on the force, but I can assure you we don’t.”

  “I’ll remember that. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  “What is it with you?”

  She sensed him goading her. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

  “Why do you want to be a cop anyway?”

  “I answered that question at the oral boards.”

  “You like the feel of the gun on your hip, or maybe cuffing a guy. That what turns you on?”

  “You have no idea what turns me on.”

  “Maybe we could find out?”

  She smiled. “You really want to risk your balls in my hands?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about your hands.”

  “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That I don’t have a big swinging dick and we can stand here comparing sizes. You have no idea how to relate to women, do you?”

  “Maybe you could teach me. Or are you a dyke? You and Costco got a thing going?”

  “It’s not that you don’t want us in the department because you’re afraid we won’t be as good as you,” Tracy said. “You’re afraid we’ll be better.”

  “I don’t want you because you don’t belong.”

  “Well, now I’m here. Live with it.”

  Nolasco twirled his car keys around his finger and stepped onto the sidewalk. Tracy slid past.

  “You think come graduation you’re done?”

  Tracy unlocked the truck cab. “I think come graduation I’ll just be getting started.”

  “I hope you like patrol. You’re going to have a lot of years to practice doing it. Good luck getting promoted. Where do you think you’re going to end up?”

  “I told you,” she said. “I intend to take your job.”

  She slid into the cab, shut the door, and started the engine. Pulling from the curb, she completed her thought out loud. “Then I’m going to find out who killed my sister.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © May 2014 C. Dugoni

  ROBERT DUGONI is the critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling author of the David Sloane series: The Jury Master, Wrongful Death, Bodily Harm, Murder One and The Conviction. He is also the author of the bestselling stand-alone novel Damage Control, as well as the nonfiction exposé The Cyanide Canary. Dugoni’s books have been likened to Scott Turow and Nelson DeMille, and he has been hailed as “the undisputed king of the legal thriller” by the Providence Journal and called the “heir to Grisham’s literary throne.” Bodily Harm and Murder One were chosen by Library Journal as one of the top five thrillers of 2010 and 2011, respectively. Murder One was also a finalist for the American Bar Association and University of Alabama Law School 2012 Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction. My Sister’s Grave is the first entry in the Tracy Crosswhite series. Visit his website at www.robertdugoni.com, email him at bob
@robertdugoni.com, follow him on Twitter @robertdugoni, and find him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AuthorRobertDugoni.