“A little less.” She ran a thumb inside the waist of the saggy pants. “I didn’t know I was such a porker before.”

“Yeah, a real porker. You could sprint circles around most of the force even back then. No donut runs for Mace Perry.”

As sunlight spilled through the windows, Beth watched as Mace took her time with each bite and drank the coffee in careful sips. Mace caught her sister eyeing her and put her fork and cup down.

“Pathetic, I know,” Mace said.

Beth leaned across and wrapped long fingers around her sister’s forearm. “I can’t tell you how good it is to have you back safe. What a relief it is-”

Beth’s voice faltered and Mace saw the tall woman’s eyes suddenly tear up; the same eyes that had stared down the worst the city had to offer. Like Mace, she’d started as a beat cop in the toughest neighborhoods of D.C. that no tourist would ever have ventured into unless he was tired of living.

The chief hurried over to the counter and poured another cup of coffee, gazing out the window into the small backyard while she regained her composure. Mace returned to her meal. In between bites she asked, “So what was it you kept for me?”

Relieved by this change in subject, Beth said, “Follow me and I’ll show you.”

She opened the door to the garage and nudged the light on with her elbow. It was a two-bay arrangement. In one parking slot sat Beth’s black Jeep Cherokee. The vehicle sitting in the other space caused a grin to spill over Mace’s face.

A Ducati Sport 1000 S motorcycle painted cherry red. It was the only thing Mace had ever splurged on. And still she’d gotten it dirt cheap and secondhand from a portly cop who’d bought it after going through a midlife crisis only to realize he was terrified to ride the damn thing.

She stepped down to the garage floor, ran her hand along the upside-down high-performance Marzocchi front forks forged from glorious brushed aluminum.