ECKER ARRIVED BREATHLESS outside the building. He rushed over to the gate and input the code in the security box. It was not a very secure code. It was Molly’s birthday.

The gate clicked open and he walked through. The storage units all had exterior doors, and he hustled over to the one at the very end. He pulled the key from his pocket, but then saw that the lock was gone from his unit.

They had done that intentionally. They had wanted him to know.

He lifted the roll-up door, his gun in hand just in case. But the place was empty. Empty of living things.

In here were the possessions he had taken from his old home, because where he had moved to after that didn’t have the room. But he couldn’t get rid of them. In here were also his tangible memories of a life spent with the two people he was closest to in the world: Cassie and Molly.

They were all neatly boxed and labeled and placed on sturdy metal shelving. This place was an expense he couldn’t really afford, but he had never missed one payment, going cold and hungry, to afford keeping this place, these memories, intact. This mirrored his mind—full of things but neatly organized, with everything capable of retrieval with minimal effort.

There was one box in here that he needed to look at. Only one.

It was in the rear, to the left, second shelf, fourth box from the right.

He reached that spot and stopped. The box was there but the top was open. He lifted it off the shelf and set it down on the concrete floor. This box contained the remaining items from his career in law enforcement. And part of that was his old police uniform that he had kept when moving up to detective. He had done so because there were times at the department when even plainclothes were expected to don their uniform. When he had left the department, technically he should have turned the uniform in, but it wasn’t like it could have been recycled. There was no one near his size in the Burlington Police Department.

The uniform was not in the box. Someone had used it to fool Nora Lafferty into letting down her guard for a few precious—and ultimately lethal—seconds in that alley.

They know where I live. They know I have this storage unit.

They had desecrated it.

He clicked back in his mind to the last time he had come here.

Twenty-seven days ago, 1:35 in the afternoon. Had they observed him then? Or was it before that last time?

Then he hurried to the gate, where there was a security camera.

He didn’t think it would provide a likely lead and he turned out to be right.

The camera lens had been spray-painted black. Obviously no one had been monitoring this camera if they hadn’t noticed it could no longer record anything for at least nearly a month.

He called Bogart.

Fifteen minutes later several SUVs pulled up to the gate. Decker let them in and then led the team back to the storage locker.

He explained as he went along. When they arrived at the locker, Bogart’s team went into action, searching for prints or other traces and any leave-behinds.

Bogart and Decker stood side by side and watched.

“Why didn’t you turn your uniform back in when you left the force?” the FBI agent asked.

Decker knew exactly where this conversation was going, but there was nothing he could do about it. And, in some ways, Bogart was right.

“I should have,” conceded Decker. “But I didn’t.”

Bogart nodded slowly.

Decker wasn’t sure if the guy was going to lose it again, but he figured probably not, not with his team all around.

“Well,” said Bogart, “it would have taken a real police uniform to fool Lafferty anyway. These guys probably understood that.”

This made Decker feel even guiltier, which was obviously the other man’s intent. A staggering body blow without one physical punch thrown.

“Do you have the uniform?” asked Decker.

“Evidence bag in the truck.”

“Can I see it?”

They pulled the bag.

Bogart said, “The uniform and cap have already been examined for traces. There was nothing usable.”

But Decker wasn’t checking for that. He was probing the pants near the cuff. About six inches from the bottom of the pants he found what he was looking for.

He pointed it out to Bogart.

“Holes?” said the FBI agent.

“From pins. Hemming pins.”

“Hemming pins?”

“I’m six-five with exceptionally long legs,” explained Decker. “The guy who wore this had to take the pant legs up about half a foot. Otherwise Lafferty would have noticed the uniform was not his. I was slimmer back then, but I’m sure the guy had to cinch the waist tight and maybe pin it in the back. The shirt the same.”

He examined the shirt and found two pinholes in the fabric near the center of the back panel. “Here and here. And the guy could have rolled the cuffs over and buttoned them to account for the difference in arm length. And a strip of padding in the cap makes a large cap fit a medium head.”

“So a much smaller man?”

“About five-eleven. And thin.”

“Lancaster told me what you found at the school. Platform boots for height and some sort of contraption to make the shooter look big in the upper body.”

“Like football shoulder pads and padding for the thighs. Made a five-eleven and lean man look much bigger.”

“We found nothing on the email trail. IP went nowhere,” Bogart said.

“Not surprised.”

Decker looked down at the name on the uniform’s chest.

Decker.

The man in blue. The man he used to be.

Then he saw something else. It was faint, but he also knew it was fresh.

“Look at the badge,” he said.

Bogart did so. “Is that an…?”

“It’s an X. Someone has marked an X on the badge.”

“What might that represent? To signify Lafferty’s murder?”

“I don’t know.”

He handed the uniform back to Bogart. The FBI agent took it and then gazed at the activity going on inside the storage unit.

“How come you kept all this stuff?”

Decker looked up and said slowly, far more to himself than Bogart, “It’s all I had left.”

Bogart glanced at him, sympathy flitting across his features.

Decker must have noticed this, because he said, “No reason to feel that way. You make choices. And you live with them.”

“You didn’t choose to have your family murdered, Decker.”

“I think the man who did it believed the choice was all mine.”

“That’s truly sick.”

“Yes, he is.”