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I’d try to help him—if he’d let me. I was pretty sure my parents would, too. Again, if he’d let them. Elliot Crane was a proud man—I just hoped he wasn’t too proud to let us help him.

Taking a deep breath, I made a mental note to add Taavi as my beneficiary. I had life insurance—every cop does. I’d kept it up even after I left the force, and if the whole Culhua debacle was any indication of how my life was going to continue going, I definitely needed it. Right now, it would go to my parents. But if something happened to me…

I swallowed, then forced myself to refocus on whatever the fuck the funeral director was saying.

“…make the arrangements. Will you be expecting many people at the gravesite?”

Elliot shook his head. “I—don’t know.”

Gregory Crane was known by the Mamaceqtaw community, although it was Naomi who had really belonged here. There was Ho Chunk land in Shawano County, but Elliot’s dad’s family was from farther south. I’d half-expected Gregory to move back to Madison when she’d died, but he hadn’t. He’d stayed in the house, tended his garden, kept working with the Nation the way Naomi had. He may not have been born Mamaceqtaw, but they’d accepted him as one of them nonetheless.

The funeral director simply nodded. “We’ll be sure to prepare for a flexible crowd,” he said, his voice soft and smooth. Practiced. Like Ward’s—he’d seen a lot of grief and knew how to talk to people in pain. “I believe that is all we have to discuss for now—please do let us know if there is anything else you need before Saturday at seven.”

Elliot nodded, his expression blank and overwhelmed.

I took his elbow. “Thank you,” I said to the funeral director, who nodded his head, dark hair shining and dark eyes sympathetic.

I led Elliot back to his truck, holding out my hand for his keys, which he dropped into my palm before getting numbly into the passenger seat.

I didn’t ask if he was okay, but I rested my hand on his shoulder after I climbed into the driver’s side. Elliot bent forward, putting his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with grief. I had no idea what to say, so I just sat there beside him, rubbing one hand on his back, trying to figure out what else—if anything—I could do.

I fucking hate being helpless. I became a cop so that I didn’t have to ever be helpless—and so that I could help people who were. And I went into homicide so that I would have power over the one fucking thing that nobody had power over—death. I couldn’t bring back the victims, but I could find answers. Justice.

That was quite literally the whole point of my fucking life, and in the last year my stupid ass had gone and quit the force, effectively neutering myself when it came to my ability to solve murders. And now my best friend’s dad was dead, the fucking cops were telling me it was a suicide, and the dead man himself was telling me that he’d been murdered.

The one thing I used to be good at was getting justice for the dead.

Operative words being ‘used to.’

Fuckingfuckme.

6

I openedmy eyes and stared up at the ceiling of the Crane guest room, a slight ache in my lower back from the convertible futon that served as the guest bed. I couldn’t hear Elliot moving around, so I pushed myself up to see about making coffee and possibly breakfast. I knew there were eggs in the fridge, and there was probably cheese—we were in Wisconsin, after all—and maybe some sausage or bacon for El.

I crawled off the futon, pulled on yesterday’s jeans and sweatshirt, then ran my fingers through my hair before tying it back. I didn’t smell bad enough that re-wearing yesterday’s clothes would matter, and I’d live without showering for a day.

I padded my way to the kitchen barefoot, my toes a little chilly against the floor. While I would wear yesterday’s shirt and pants, I wasn’t okay with dirty socks. I’d borrow a pair of Elliot’s once he got up.

I rooted through the cupboards until I found the coffee grinder and used the beans that Elliot had left next to the coffee maker. Once I got the coffee started, I dug through the fridge, pulling out eggs and a few types of cheese. I pulled a bag of potatoes and a couple yellow onions out from under the sink where Naomi had always kept them—Gregory had done the same.

There was no bacon or sausage—not much of anything else, actually. Cheesy scrambled eggs and home fries with onions it would have to be. I dug out the necessary pans and started chopping.

Partway through cooking, my phone buzzed, and I unlocked the screen to find a slightly blurry picture of my cat, Pet, meowing up at Jackson Turner-Manning, who was holding a food dish. I felt a weak quarter-smile twitch across my lips, and I texted Doc back.

Thanks. I needed that this morning.

She thinks I’ve kidnapped or killed you, the big orc sent back.But she likes Jackson.Take care of yourself. That last sentence told me he knew me too well. I didn’t bother replying, since I didn’t want to either open up the can of worms that would come from being honest or lie to my friend. I just sighed and went back to cooking.

Elliot shuffled into the kitchen still in his sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt when I was on my second cup of coffee, liberally dosed with sugar because there wasn’t any milk, cream, or creamer in the house. It made me think of Taavi, and then I felt guilty for leaving him alone overnight at my parents’ and then for thinking about myself when I should be thinking about Elliot.

“Hey,” I managed to make my mouth say.

Elliot grunted back at me.

I poured him a mug of coffee, black, the way he liked it.

“Thanks,” he grumbled.