Beatrice never told people much about his work. She knew he served at Fort Bragg, that he traveled more than she liked, and that there were stretches when he could tell her neither where he was nor when he would be home. When she complained about those silences, he reminded her that the Army was not particularly interested in a mother's opinions about its schedule. She reminded him that the Army had not changed his diapers, and the disagreement always ended with him laughing.
On the Tuesday that everything changed, she spent the afternoon sorting hymn sheets in the church fellowship hall. The air conditioner rattled above the folding tables, and two women from the choir debated whether the Sunday solo needed another rehearsal. Beatrice took the side of the soloist, who had been singing that song since before either critic was born. She did not imagine that this ordinary disagreement, with paper scattered around her and lemonade sweating onto a tablecloth, would later become the last completely ordinary memory she had of that summer.
Bible study finished a little after nine. The pastor reminded everyone to drive carefully because rain earlier in the afternoon had left water standing at the intersections. Beatrice accepted a container of leftover peach cobbler from her friend Ada Fields and carried it to the parking lot with the kind of care people reserve for something precious. She placed the container on the passenger seat of her 1998 Toyota Corolla, secured it with a folded cardigan, and checked her mirrors before pulling away.
The Corolla had belonged to William. Its blue paint had faded across the hood, the radio stayed on one station unless she tapped the dial, and the glove compartment latch had been stubborn for as long as she could remember. More than once, Jackson had offered to replace the car, but she disliked the idea of a perfectly good machine becoming waste because somebody wanted her to own something newer. She kept the tires properly inflated, changed the oil on schedule, and drove with the same deliberate caution that had earned her a spotless driving record for decades.
At the corner of Fifth and Elm, red and blue lights appeared in her rearview mirror. She checked her speed, glanced at the traffic signal ahead, and felt the ordinary anxiety that comes with realizing a police officer intends to stop you. She signaled, pulled into an empty space beside a closed laundromat, put the transmission in park, and turned down the radio. Rainwater shone beneath the streetlights, turning the uneven pavement into dark glass.
Beatrice did not know that Thomas Stanton had already been angry for hours. Earlier in the shift, he and Reed had answered a domestic disturbance in which an intoxicated man shouted insults and spat toward Stanton before other officers restrained him. Stanton had spent the following hour complaining about people who refused to respect the badge. Reed had heard those complaints before, and he had learned that his partner grew quieter rather than louder when his temper was moving toward something dangerous.