Myra
The police cruiser sat at the curb, its blue and red lights pulsing rhythmically against the front window of the bakery. In the early morning gray, the flashes made the bowls of pink frosting on the counter look purple and bruised.
Officer DiMilo—Kyle’s cousin—had taken the statement, his eyes darting uncomfortably toward the flyer on his clipboard before looking back at me. He hadn't asked many questions. He’d seen Sadie running toward the woods; he was old enough to know the Higgins history, and he’d lived here long enough to know the difference between a crime and a targeted execution. He’d just nodded, tucked the glossy photo away, and told me they’d "be in touch."
I sat at a bistro table, my feet finally tucked into wool socks, decently dressed in a linen pantsuit, a mug of c
