Chapter 11: The Memorial

The Fallen Officers Memorial dinner was held in the big hall of the police union, under a wall of brass plates.

Joanna's name was the ninth one down.

We came in through the kitchen entrance at seven, Hank in his only suit and me in a borrowed jacket.

Leanne walked in behind us in a black dress, with the old phone zipped in her handbag.

In the car she had spoken once.

"Your first rule was nothing else," she'd said, looking at the windshield. "You broke it, and then you sent me a bill."

I had not had an answer.

I still didn't.

The hall held three hundred people at round tables.

Officers in dress blues, widows in black, children in their best shoes.

At the head table sat my mother, her blue scarf pinned with a small gold badge.

Beside her sat Dorian in a dark suit, his hand resting on a glass of water.

A banner over the stage read: Remember the Fallen.

Hank steered me to a back table beside an old man with a chest full of medals.

"Eat something," he muttered.

I couldn't.

At eight the police chief stood, thanked everyone, and read the names.

When he reached my wife's name, a woman near the front began to cry.

"Detective Joanna Brightman," the chief said. "Killed on duty, five years ago this month."

A chime sounded.

And my brother walked up to the microphone.

"Thank you, Chief."

Dorian cleared his throat.

"Many of you know my family's story. My brother's wife, Joanna, gave her life to this city. My brother has never recovered."

He paused for the room to feel it.

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