lives was an unceasing ability to cause the ones who loved us pain.
There had been a time, many years ago, when Peggy, in her own clumsy way, had let me know that she had a thing for me and was willing to prove it. But that had been lifetimes ago, for both of us, and I had not considered her offer seriously, knowing even then that she believed me to be far better than I would ever be. I had caused her pain, I could feel it in her still, but I had not caused her that pain out of indifference. Not back then. The truth was I’d been afraid of letting her down by who I really was. Now I realized that her belief in the best of others had been all the reaching out that she could manage in the solitary life she had chosen for herself. And that her belief in the best of me would have been a gift had I been able to accept it. I felt as if I owed her an apology of sorts. But I did not know where to start.
Instead, I watched her work while a new understanding of her opened before me. Peggy’s real world came alive in her microscope. It was her window to discovering magical landscapes on the most ordinary of surfaces. Peggy not only shunned the wider world, she longed to live among the miniscule wonders of the objects she searched each day. She saw beauty in the rough surfaces she examined for evidence. She saw each grain, each ridge, every imperfection, as evidence of divine creation, proof positive that a greater hand was at work. Perhaps it was this certainty that made it impossible for her to truly be a part of the human race, with all of its folly. And, if so, was it so bad that she had reached out to others only when the basic needs of her heart made it necessary? She was truer to herself than most. Why had I not seen that before?
Maybe Peggy could help me.
After all, she saw beyond the ordinary every day. Maybe she could guide Maggie toward reopening the Alissa Hayes case. I knew all Maggie had to do was glance at the file and she would instantly see the connections between the two murders—though she’d have nothing but contempt for Danny once she realized he had either chosen to stay silent about the connection or, worse, not seen the similarities at all.
Evidence bags from last night’s crime scene were stored in a cardboard box on the counter by Peggy’s elbow. She was funneling them to the proper specialist for examination. She had placed three small bags to her left, awaiting her own scrutiny, and had processed nearly a dozen more, separating them into piles for further analysis. I stared at the bags, searching my memory, trying to identify something among the evidence that would make it obvious that this latest murder was connected to Alissa Hayes. I remembered so little beyond the initial crime scene.
Why had I not paid more attention when I was alive?
What had we nailed Alissa’s boyfriend on? It would have been something obvious as Danny and I had been incapable of spotting more. Bobby Daniels had been a student, just like Alissa. He’d also been a real Poindexter, neat and clean in his pressed jeans and starched flannel shirts and shiny work boots. Who the hell starched their flannel shirts? His hair was clipped short and his little glasses had sat on his nose so precisely that I had loathed him on sight. It was as if his very being was there to mock my own sloppiness, to make it more obvious that I clawed through each day barely managing to hold it together.
I had let my self-loathing and dislike of him interfere with my judgment. That had been the first step I took down the wrong path. Where had it led me?
I remembered a little more. He had been a geology major and classmate of Alissa’s. That was how they had met. When we first tied the crime to him, it was simply because it was an easy connection. There had been fingerprints on her belongings found at the scene, plus his hair and fibers from his hiking jacket were found on her body—though that could have been explained by their relationship had he bothered to try. His DNA, too, was present, but the boy had not denied that the