Death Notice (44 page)

“On the couch. Watching the ball drop with James. You?”

“In Philadelphia. There was a gala fundraiser for the foundation. I never got your RSVP.”

“Sorry about that,” Kat said. “I’m not a gala kind of gal.”

Nick was fired from the state police after an investigation found him responsible for the crash that injured Amber Lefferts. Then there was the matter of the nurse he assaulted outside his hospital room. That had sealed the deal, and the state police now wanted nothing to do with him. The only thing keeping him from criminal charges was his former boss, Gloria Ambrose. She told anyone who would listen that firing Nick was punishment enough.

Free of his state police ties, Nick had founded the Sarah Donnelly Foundation, which was devoted to investigating unsolved crimes. He used all the publicity gained from the Perry Hollow murders—not to mention the money that came with it—to tout the foundation.

Glancing at the TV, Kat saw the foundation’s name and phone number running across the bottom of the screen. She
turned the sound back up, hearing Nick say, “Using private resources, the foundation vows to look into unsolved cases that authorities have given up on.”

Hearing his own voice over the phone, Nick said, “Ah, my spiel. How does it sound?”

“Intense.”

“Good. That’s what I was aiming for.”

“Have you had any takers yet?”

“Not yet,” Nick said. “But I have an opening for an investigator, if you ever get tired of Hicksville.”

It wasn’t the first time he had asked her to work for the foundation. It wasn’t even the third. Every time they spoke, the topic invariably came up. And each time, she gave the same response.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

And she did. She thought about it quite a bit, always deciding that Perry Hollow was where she needed to be. It was her home. It was James’s home. It was all they had, and all they needed.

“Tell me when you change your mind,” Nick said. “I know you will someday.”

When the call ended, Kat carried her coffee back to the kitchen. Scooby had finished his breakfast. So had James. While they resumed their game of tag on the floor, Kat sorted through the stack of mail that had piled up during the holidays.

She perused the usual sea of Christmas greetings, bills, and credit card offers until one postcard caught her eye. On the front was a picture of La Scala, Milan’s famous opera house. On the back was a six-word message.

“More scars,” it read. “But I’ll be okay.”

Henry Goll didn’t leave a return address or wish her and James a happy new year. He didn’t thank her for saving his
life. He didn’t even sign the postcard. But Kat knew it wasn’t an insult on his part. It was just his way, and she understood completely.

Besides, the card was more precious without the addition of sentiment. It was a perfect summation of what life was all about. Everyone had scars. Henry obviously did. Nick also had them. Kat did, too, in the form of two circles on her chest where the Kevlar vest had stopped Martin Swan’s bullets.

Even if she didn’t have physical scars, the mental ones would have been enough. The events of the past year would stay with her for a long time.

But she had her son. She had her health. She had her town. And, scars and all, she knew they would all be okay.

It’s unfair that only my name appears on the cover of this book when, in reality, so many people helped make it happen. Chief among them are my agent, Michelle Brower, who took a chance and said yes when it probably would have been easier to say no, and my editor, Kelley Ragland, whose advice and suggestions helped polish this chunk of coal until it was a diamond.

My family inspired me in ways they can’t imagine. So I need to thank my mother, Linda Ritter, for the books, my sister, Stephanie Ritter, for the music, and my father, Raymond Ritter, for the taxidermy.

For their opinions, information, and general support, I’m indebted to Edward Aycock, Mike Beltranena, Adrian Blain, Sarah Dutton, Leeza Hernandez, Sam Livio, Susan Livio, Barbara Poelle, Brooke Sample, Mike Scott, Felecia Wellington, and all my newspaper friends scattered throughout New Jersey.

Finally, the person who deserves the most credit—and the biggest thanks—is Michael Livio, who read every draft, listened to every idea, whim, and complaint, and, most important, never, ever stopped believing in me. I could thank you for eternity and it still wouldn’t be enough.