side, and jumped in.

Paramedic Gerald Trujillo, in the driver’s seat, didn’t say good morning. The daily niceties between them had fallen away a while ago. They were partners, each knowing what the other required.

Gerald drove the ambulance out of the bay and into the street. She picked up the radio, saying to Dispatch, “Santa Fe, Piñon Medic One en route to car fire.”

As Gerald flipped on the lights and sirens, Lucy smiled. She hadn’t lied to Nathan when she told him she was boring. She was—most of the time. A couple of times a week, though, right when the sirens started to blare, she became a true blue action hero.

“God, I hope it’s not her,” Gil heard one of the Protectores say as he stared at the ashes.

“I kind of hope it is in a way,” another answered. “You know, to help the family deal with it.”

“Yeah, but at least before they had hope,” the first one said.

“There was never any hope,” a third man said, before making the sign of the cross, kissing his thumb, and glancing up at the sky.

“I hope it’s not her,” the first one said again.

Gil knew whom they were talking about: Brianna Rodriguez.

While Gil had been waiting for Liz, he had called Santa Fe dispatch to see if any children had been reported missing in the past twenty-four hours. The answer had been negative, which he knew it would be. A missing child in Santa Fe was so rare, he would have known about it the moment it happened. Then the dispatcher had added, “There’s always Brianna.”

Two-year-old Brianna Rodriguez had gone missing during a family barbecue more than a year ago. The unofficial theory was that Brianna had been swept away by a monsoon-fueled flash flood. The family’s backyard was unfenced and backed up to an arroyo, like many Santa Fe homes. It had started to rain when they noticed she was gone, and within minutes an intense flash flood from a summer monsoon had filled the arroyo to the top, washing away any trace of Brianna. They had done ground searches and dog searches and interviewed everyone and anyone who had ever seen the girl. The Protectores, like Gil, had probably helped with the search, volunteering their free time to comb the neighborhood.

The only other possibility was that it had been a stranger abduction, which had been mostly discounted—until now.

“Is this kid big enough to be her?” one of the Protectores asked.

“Brianna was thirty-one and a half inches tall and twenty-two pounds,” Gil heard someone say next to him. He turned and saw Detective Joe Phillips, who had somehow walked up to Gil’s side without him noticing. Of course, Joe had served in the military, so he had been trained to be invisible. “She was a preemie, so she was a small kid,” Joe added as he watched Liz sweep ashes into a plastic evidence bag. Phillips was in his late twenties and had become a detective only a few months ago. He had been with the department for two and a half years following a stint with the Pennsylvania state police. Gil didn’t know much about Phillips’s life before he came to New Mexico, other than that he had gone into the army after high school and done a tour in Iraq. Gil had heard that Phillips had gotten married and divorced at some point, even though the man seemed too young to have an ex-wife. Phillips looked even younger than usual this morning. His red hair and goatee needed a trim, and he was dressed in T-shirt and jeans, as if he had just rolled out of bed. Gil knew he had worked Zozobra the night before—like most Santa Fe police officers—and wondered who had called him.

Phillips turned away from the ashes and looked at the rising sun, rubbing his eyes. He had been the first officer on scene when Brianna was reported missing. He had set up the initial search perimeter and set up a command center until a detective could arrive. That detective had been Brian Fisher, who committed suicide six months ago using his service weapon. A few months before Fisher died, the Rodriguez family had filed a lawsuit for police harassment against the department, Fisher, and Chief Kline.

Gil walked over to Phillips but said nothing, waiting for the other man to speak.

“It’s her” was how Phillips started. Gil still said nothing. “I thought we’d find her alive. Fisher—that goddamn moron—always knew she was dead.”

Phillips turned to face