Zig took another look at the young soldier, curled on the sidewalk, clenching his teeth in pain. This, Zig knew, was the moment he should walk away. This has nothing to do with you. For all he knew, Roddy was in on it, too, using Zig to flush her out.
“You look like I’m causing you pain, Mr. Zigarowski. You’re worried I want to hurt her.”
“Roddy, I just met you.”
Roddy’s face shifted. “I’m not a perfect person. I’m not proud of everything I’ve done in my life. But y’know why I’m a good cop? Because I don’t care if people like me,” he said, suddenly serious. “It’s a bigger asset than you think. It lets me ask hard questions and get real answers. But if you think I’d hurt my sister—”
“I never said you’d hurt her. She just— When it comes to Nola, I’m not sure you understand what you’re getting into. She’s not gonna want your help, my help, anyone’s help.”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t need it.”
Zig thought about that and once again, he could see twelve-year-old Nola at the Girl Scout campout, down on the ground, clutching her bloody ear after a can of orange soda exploded in the fire. “Get her help . . . get her to the hospital!” Zig’s daughter was screaming. Yet what Zig remembered most was that when he reached down to scoop up Nola, she recoiled, scratching at him like a cornered cat. Half a second later, she caught herself, realizing Zig was just trying to help. No one else saw it, but Zig did. Even at twelve, Nola’s instinct was to fight back.
“—garowski? Mr. Zigarowski? You okay?”
Zig looked up at Roddy. No, he wasn’t okay. As he thought about it now, he hadn’t been okay since the moment he walked into that funeral and saw Nola across the gym. For two years now, he’d been able to keep that part of his brain, his heart, in check—or at least tucked away—and then, at just the sight of her, it was as if someone had jammed a shovel into his chest and dug everything out—every old feeling, every wound, and every fear—about Nola, about his time at Dover, about his own failures, and of course about his daughter.
Waggs was right about that. It always went back to Maggie.
Before Zig left Dover, he’d spent over two decades working on the bodies of fallen soldiers. For Zig, being around the horrors of death meant that Maggie’s loss was somehow . . . less. In the darkness of Dover, he could escape the blackest caves of his own life. Of course, it was an illusion. As any mourner knows, when you bury someone you loved deep to your core, all it takes is a familiar smell, an old song, or even rusty high school lockers to bring back the pain.
“Mr. Zigarowski, I’ve been tracking Nola for two years. Even if you can point me to her friends—”
“She doesn’t have friends.” The words came so fast, it took Zig a moment to realize it was the most honest thing he’d said. Nola had no friends. She had no family. She had no one. Except, weirdly, Zig.
“I know you care about my sister,” Roddy said, his long fingers again fidgeting with the tip of his tie. “This is your chance to finally help her. She could use that help right now.”
Pure manipulation, Zig thought, looking back at the photo of the young soldier, in the fetal position, gripping his knee in agony. Waggs was right about that, too. The last time Zig had let Nola into his life, she didn’t care who she hurt. She tore everything to shreds, shooting her own foster father in the head and wrecking his corrupt military unit, while Zig nearly died in the process.
Nola Brown is a gun. She’s a weapon, someone had once told Zig, describing her time in the military. You point her at something, and you’ll get what you want—but just know it may come back in pieces.
Zig looked up from the tablet, toward his house. For two years now, he’d been putting his own pieces back together. After Maggie’s death and the divorce, he’d rebuilt his life, rebuilt his work at Dover. In fact, when he finally left Dover behind, he thought he’d turned a page, leaving the worst days behind him. The last thing he needed right now was to turn it all back into a jigsaw.