“Sure is,” September answered.
All the detectives had been asked for a one-on-one in the lieutenant’s office in order of the date they were hired. September was the last. She hoped her interview with Pauline Kirby didn’t work against her, but it hadn’t for Gretchen, who’d been right beside her. With the dental records proving Lance Patten was indeed the other victim in the Singletons’ basement, and Andrea Wren’s recount of what Carter told her when she was captured, the Aurora Lane case was about wrapped up as well. September and Gretchen were currently working to unravel a number of unsolved homicides that may have been Carter’s doing as well. Gretchen was driving to eastern Oregon on a possible bird murder before Belinda Meadowlark’s. Carter had begun his last game even before Gregory Wren’s death, already planning a sick joyride of innocent victims, with Andrea Wren as the ultimate “little bird.”
“Detective Rafferty?”
Lieutenant D’Annibal stuck his head out of his glass office, the walls of which were curtained. Most times the detectives could see into it because the lieutenant liked transparency in his working relations with his squad. But this week had been different. Even though he’d praised them all for solving the slew of cold cases wrought by Wren, the department’s continuing financial crisis was taking a good amount of his time.
September glanced down at her engagement ring. As soon as Wren was captured, she’d gone home to Jake and said, “Let’s get married tomorrow.”
“Sure,” he’d answered.
“I’m kidding, you know.” She’d had a panicked moment that he’d taken her seriously. “But I’m ready.”
He’d kissed her. “How about next spring?”
“April?”
“You don’t want a June wedding?” he asked.
“Tomorrow’s too soon, but I don’t want to wait that long.”
“April it is.” And he’d kissed her and she’d felt complete. To hell with the Singletons’ hateful marriage. She’d been influenced by how terrible their union must have been, and the state of her own dysfunctional family always made her wonder how long-lasting any relationship could be, but there was no way of knowing unless she tried.
“Take a seat,” D’Annibal invited. As September did so, she noticed he remained standing. In fact, he walked to the exterior window and looked out. “You’re a good detective. A terrier. You don’t get sidetracked or categorize one case as better than another. You do fieldwork without complaint, and you rarely miss work.”
September went cold inside. “But . . . ?”
“But you’re the newest detective on staff and we have to cut one.”
“And it’s going to be me,” she realized.
“Hopefully, just temporarily. I’m sorry.” He looked at her, and she could tell he really meant what he said.
In a fog, September walked into the squad room. Wes and George looked at her expectantly and their faces fell at what they read in hers.
“I guess this is good-bye,” she said, swallowing hard against the hard knot in her throat.