surrounding area. I’ll know. I think. It can’t be more than a hundred square mile area. It’s not in Rapid City. And it’s not across the river.” She frowned over the maps.
Hallie left her and went back to the kitchen. If Beth couldn’t actually find the door, then she, Hallie, didn’t have much to worry about.
Brett had already started another pot of coffee when Hallie returned. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask Hallie whose car was out in the yard or where they were. Questions like that were nosy, and in a place where everyone knew everyone’s business just as a matter of course, it was bad form to ask directly.
“So, does your dad like Arizona?” Hallie asked. Like a neutral topic would make everything else easier to talk about.
“I think he has a girlfriend down there,” Brett said.
Brett’s mother had been from Minneapolis, had met her father at college. She’d married him and come to South Dakota, stayed ten years on the ranch, then left and moved back to the city. Brett had visited her at Christmas and spring breaks when she was in school. Hallie had no idea how often Brett saw her now. For several years, her father had had an on-again, off-again relationship with Molly Eckles, who cleaned houses and baked pies to order over in Old Prairie City. Back when Hallie and Brett were in high school, Molly had lived out at the ranch half the year and in town the rest. She and Brett’s father had never married, and sometimes Hallie hadn’t even been sure they’d liked each other. Two years ago, Molly had packed up and moved to North Carolina.
“Is he coming back?” Hallie asked.
“I don’t even ask,” Brett said. There was a pause. Hallie stretched her legs in front of her and crossed them, one over the other at the ankle. “Prue Stalking Horse,” Brett said abruptly. “Jesus.”
“I know,” Hallie said. What else was there to say?
Brett took a cautious sip of coffee and said, “I’m on call a couple of nights a week right now. I usually stay at the fire station in West PC, though, honestly, unless the call is actually from someone in West PC, it’s going to take upwards of a half hour or more to get there anyway. But I guess that’s not the point,” she added, like she was arguing with herself. “It was…” She tapped her index finger against the side of the mug. “They don’t call us out if someone’s already dead, you know. Sometimes they die before we get there. And a lot of times you can’t tell from the call. I’ve seen car accidents where the car rolled over three or four times before it stopped. I’ve seen someone who had their arm ripped off by a power takeoff.
“So it’s not like I’m a voyeur or anything. And it’s not like this is the first time someone I know has died. But this—” She swallowed. “This was different.”
Hallie nodded. It was the way Prue had been killed, with a bullet from a high-powered rifle. In Afghanistan, Hallie’s squad and two others had been pinned down nearly the whole of one day by snipers on rooftops. Andy Rodriguez, whose squad was teamed with hers on almost every task they’d been assigned for two months, and a second soldier, who arrived less than three days earlier and whom she hadn’t known at all, were been shot and killed that day. Hallie didn’t know if that was what Brett meant. She might have only meant that it was violent. But it was more than that, Hallie knew, that kind of death. It was sudden, it was nearly silent, and it was completely faceless. It could happen again, any second. It could happen to you. And there was nothing you could do.
“I was sitting there in the fire station, and it’s only about a five-minute walk.” Brett drained her coffee, then sat with the mug in her hands. “I guess I thought maybe there was something I could do. Like someone might need something, though God knows what. So, I walked over.
“No one paid any attention to me. There were lights everywhere, of course, and
Hallie left her and went back to the kitchen. If Beth couldn’t actually find the door, then she, Hallie, didn’t have much to worry about.
Brett had already started another pot of coffee when Hallie returned. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask Hallie whose car was out in the yard or where they were. Questions like that were nosy, and in a place where everyone knew everyone’s business just as a matter of course, it was bad form to ask directly.
“So, does your dad like Arizona?” Hallie asked. Like a neutral topic would make everything else easier to talk about.
“I think he has a girlfriend down there,” Brett said.
Brett’s mother had been from Minneapolis, had met her father at college. She’d married him and come to South Dakota, stayed ten years on the ranch, then left and moved back to the city. Brett had visited her at Christmas and spring breaks when she was in school. Hallie had no idea how often Brett saw her now. For several years, her father had had an on-again, off-again relationship with Molly Eckles, who cleaned houses and baked pies to order over in Old Prairie City. Back when Hallie and Brett were in high school, Molly had lived out at the ranch half the year and in town the rest. She and Brett’s father had never married, and sometimes Hallie hadn’t even been sure they’d liked each other. Two years ago, Molly had packed up and moved to North Carolina.
“Is he coming back?” Hallie asked.
“I don’t even ask,” Brett said. There was a pause. Hallie stretched her legs in front of her and crossed them, one over the other at the ankle. “Prue Stalking Horse,” Brett said abruptly. “Jesus.”
“I know,” Hallie said. What else was there to say?
Brett took a cautious sip of coffee and said, “I’m on call a couple of nights a week right now. I usually stay at the fire station in West PC, though, honestly, unless the call is actually from someone in West PC, it’s going to take upwards of a half hour or more to get there anyway. But I guess that’s not the point,” she added, like she was arguing with herself. “It was…” She tapped her index finger against the side of the mug. “They don’t call us out if someone’s already dead, you know. Sometimes they die before we get there. And a lot of times you can’t tell from the call. I’ve seen car accidents where the car rolled over three or four times before it stopped. I’ve seen someone who had their arm ripped off by a power takeoff.
“So it’s not like I’m a voyeur or anything. And it’s not like this is the first time someone I know has died. But this—” She swallowed. “This was different.”
Hallie nodded. It was the way Prue had been killed, with a bullet from a high-powered rifle. In Afghanistan, Hallie’s squad and two others had been pinned down nearly the whole of one day by snipers on rooftops. Andy Rodriguez, whose squad was teamed with hers on almost every task they’d been assigned for two months, and a second soldier, who arrived less than three days earlier and whom she hadn’t known at all, were been shot and killed that day. Hallie didn’t know if that was what Brett meant. She might have only meant that it was violent. But it was more than that, Hallie knew, that kind of death. It was sudden, it was nearly silent, and it was completely faceless. It could happen again, any second. It could happen to you. And there was nothing you could do.
“I was sitting there in the fire station, and it’s only about a five-minute walk.” Brett drained her coffee, then sat with the mug in her hands. “I guess I thought maybe there was something I could do. Like someone might need something, though God knows what. So, I walked over.
“No one paid any attention to me. There were lights everywhere, of course, and
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