His cop instinct was tingling.

Trish said, "Something's happened."

His stomach dropped. Kept his footing. "Jesus, spit it out."

She shook her head. If it was anybody worth crying about, she'd done hers already and was through. Which made him think…no.

"Something happened last night. A shooting. I'm sorry."

"Cindy?"

She couldn't look him in the eye. "I'm sorry."

He reached back for his chair. Wasn't even close. Caught himself, then sank to the floor, cross-legged, face in his hands. He wasn't one to cry. Wasn't one to yell. What he felt was tight. All his nerves and tendons and muscles tight to the point of tearing. Teeth might explode. Throat closing up.

No idea how long he sat like that. Could've been ten seconds. Could've been an hour. Trish left him alone. Not a hug, not a pat on the shoulder. He looked up and she was back in the same spot near the door, arms crossed, looking across the lake at the other ice houses. Then she lit a cigarette.

He remembered the gun in his pocket. So did she, obviously. That's what it had come to.

Bleeker pushed himself off the ice. Cleared his throat. "Dead, right?"

Trish nodded. "And Erik Poulson, too."

"Who did it?"

"Couple of black guys. Probably Somali."

Fuck. It was a small town, small police department. Out of three detectives, he was the one who best knew how to deal with the Somalis

"Why don't you let me drive you back? You're in no condition."

He thought about it. A kind act on her part, no ulterior motive. But that was the problem. To go with her meant he would lose control of the situation. She wouldn't be the only one to give him a ride or babysit him at home.

Bleeker shook his head. "I can drive."

"Ray, come on."

"I said that's okay." A little too loud. "I'll follow you."