William Kent Krueger - Mercy Falls (Cork OConnor)

First, a hearty thanks to all my cohorts in Crme de la Crime who, for a dozen years, have offered me the best in comradeship and critique.

I am so very thankful for Danielle Egan-Millers decision to return to the business of being an agent, which she does so well.

For their editorial guidance and strong voices on my behalf, I owe a deep debt of gratitude to my editors, Emily Bestler and Sarah Branham. Thanks also to Anne Harris and Holly Bemiss of Atria, who have worked so hard with me to get the word out.

There are people who live the reality the rest of us draw on for our fiction. We are fortunate that they tend to be generous with their expertise and experience. Thanks to: former Pine County sheriff Steve Haavisto; Sergeant Jane Laurence of the St. Paul Police Department; Ramsey County Assistant Attorney Tami McConkey; and Connie Carlson and all her gang (cops and otherwise) in Prior Lake, Minnesota.

Finally, a big hug to Jim Theros and my friends at the St. Clair Broiler, staff and regulars, who make the place feel so much like home.

S HE WOKE NAKED on the bed, in a room she didnt recognize, her mind as clear of memory as the sky outside her window was of clouds. A huge pillow that smelled faintly of lavender cradled her head. She was too warm and drew back the covers so that she lay exposed on the white sheet like a delicacy on a china plate.

She tried to sit up, far too quickly, and the room spun. A minute later, she tried again, this time rising gradually until she could see the whole of the great bedroom. The bed itself was a four-poster with a canopy. The armoire a few feet distant was the color of maple syrup and carved with ornate scrolling. On the walls, in elegant, gilt-edged frames, hung oil paintings of Mediterranean scenes, mostly with boats and angry, blue-black seas. The magnificent red of the Persian rug matched the thick drapes drawn back to let in the morning light. None of this was familiar to her. But there was one detail that struck a welcome chord: an explosion of daisies in a yellow vase on the vanity. Daisies, she remembered, had always been her favorite flowers.

A clean, white terry cloth robe had been neatly laid out at the foot of the bed, but she ignored it. She walked to the daisies and touched one of the blossoms. Something about the fragility of the petals touched her in return and made her sad in a way that felt like grieving.

For whom? she wondered, trying to nudge aside the veil that, at the moment, hung between her perception and all her understanding. Then a thought occurred to her. The birds. Maybe that was it. She was grieving for all the dead birds.

Her eyes lifted to the vanity mirror. In the reflection there, she saw the bruises on her body. One on her left breast above her nipple, another on the inside of her right thigh, oval-shaped, both of them, looking very much like the blue ghosts of tooth marks.

As she reached down and gingerly touched the tender skin, she heard firecrackers go off outside her window, two of them. Only two? she thought. What kind of celebration was that?