KATY’S HAIR WAS BLOND CHAOS, HER EYES WET AND RED. MASCARA smeared her lower lids and cheeks.

I rushed forward and drew my daughter to me.

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

Katy stood mute, shoulders hunched, fingers curled into fists.

Urging her to the study and onto the couch, I reengaged my embrace and began stroking her back. She remained rigid, neither resisting nor responding to my touch.

Seconds passed. A minute. Finally, chest heaving, her body collapsed into mine. Tears soon dampened my pajama top.

My stomach knotted as memories kaleidoscoped in my brain. Childhood tragedies that had elicited similar tears. The death of her kitten, Arthur. The relocation to Iowa of her middle school best friend. The news that her father, Pete, and I were separating.

But Katy was twenty-four now. What could have happened to upset her so profoundly? Illness? A clash at work? A crisis involving Lija? Pete?

As with those long-ago heartbreaks, my response was lightning, instinctual.

Fix it!

But I knew. There was nothing I could do.

Feeling helpless, I caressed my daughter’s hair and made calming sounds.

Gran’s clock ticked a steady metronome. I remembered her gnarled old hand on my small head, her voice soothing me through my own childhood misfortunes.

Outside, a dog barked. Others joined in. A horn honked.

At one point, Birdie appeared in the doorway. Sensing high emotion, or perhaps hungry or bored, he moved on.

Slowly, inevitably, Katy’s sobs subsided and her breathing regained a normal rhythm. Pushing off from my chest, she sat up.

Normally perfect, my daughter’s face set a new standard for makeup gone wild. Backhanding her nose, she dragged clumps of long blond hair from her face.

I plucked tissues from a box and handed them to her. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then tossed the wad to the floor.

“Coop’s dead.” Barely a whisper.

“Coop’s coming home.” Stupid, but it’s what I said. I’d heard Katy’s words, but my mind had locked down.

“Yeah.” Fighting fresh tears. “In a box.”

I offered more tissues, clasped Katy’s hands. “What happened?”

“You haven’t seen the news?”

“I was in Lumberton all day.”

“Insurgents fired on their convoy. Coop was killed along with an Afghan driver and two women from England.”

“Oh, my God. When?”

“Yesterday.” She drew a tremulous breath. “I heard the story on CNN, never thought anything of it. They didn’t give names, not of the dead people nor the organization they worked for. Then today, they identified the victims. I...”

Her lower lip trembled. She bit down hard.

“Oh, Katy,” I said.

Sonofabitch, I thought.

But, yes, that’s how it would work. Identities would be released only after notification of next of kin.

“Have you phoned Coop’s family?”

“Yeah, right.” She gave a derisive snort. “I got some uncle or cousin or something. Basically, he told me to kiss off.”

“What did he say?”

“The guy hadn’t a clue who I was, couldn’t have cared less. Said the memorial service would be private. Thanks for calling. Go screw yourself.”

“Where were they attacked?”

“Some road outside Kabul. Everyone in the convoy worked for the International Rescue Committee. They were taking Coop and one of the Brits to the airport.”

To fly home. She couldn’t say it.

“Two were injured in the second vehicle. All four in the lead car died on the spot.” Katy swallowed. “Of multiple bullet wounds.”

“Oh, sweetie. I am so, so sorry.”

“They were aid workers!” It was almost a shriek. “They dug wells and taught people how to boil water.”

I squeezed Katy’s hands. They trembled.

“The Taliban are claiming responsibility. They say Coop and his colleagues were spies. Spies! Can you believe it?”

Loathing battled sorrow inside me. And mounting fury. It was the Taliban’s usual justification for murder. The victims were always spies or collaborators.

“The assholes described the International Rescue Committee as a hated ally of the foreign invader forces.”

“I wish I knew what to say to you, sweetheart.”

“The people in Coop’s convoy were unarmed, Mom. Their vehicle was plastered with IRC stickers.”

“I am so, so sorry.” Exhausted by my trip to Lumberton, and wary of my own emotions should I unleash them, the response, though lame, was the best I could muster.

“Coop was no spy. He went to Afghanistan because he wanted to help people. It’s totally wrong that he should die.”

“War takes many blameless victims,” I said.

“Coop volunteered.” Fresh tears now flooded Katy’s cheeks. “He didn’t even have to be there.”

“I know.”

“Why him?”

I had no answer.

“Is Lija at home?” I asked gently, when several seconds had passed.

“She’s in the mountains.” Katy swiped a wadded tissue under each eye. “Banner Elk, I think.”

“Does she know?”

“I left a message on her mobile.”

“Stay with me tonight?”

Katy’s shoulder shrug zinged straight to my heart. Since babyhood she’d used the gesture when deeply sad.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said.

For sixty ticks of Gran’s clock we both sat lost in our separate thoughts.

When Katy spoke again her voice was jagged with anger.

“The fucking Taliban stinks.” A bunched tissue ricocheted off the desk and landed on the rug.

The bitterness in my daughter’s voice sent a chill up my spine. Encircling her shoulders, I drew her to me and rested my head against hers.

Together, we cried softly. She for her lost friend. I for my child whose pain I could not erase.

We opened and made up the sofa bed. While Katy showered, I took supermarket cookie dough from the freezer, placed it on a tray, and shoved it into the oven.

When Katy reappeared, the condo was rich with the sweet smell of baking. With exaggerated Martha Stewart grace, I offered milk and warm chocolate chips.

Reaching for a cookie, my daughter cocked a skeptical, and now spotless, brow. I admitted to using prepared frozen dough, but demanded credit for making the purchase. Katy almost smiled.

I was placing our glasses in the sink when the landline rang.

My eyes darted to the wall clock. Twelve fifteen a.m.

Annoyed, I snatched up the handset.

“First prize! An all-expense-paid trip to Hawaii!” Danny Tandler imitated a game show host.

“Do you know what time it is here?”

Wiggling good-bye fingers, Katy exited the kitchen.

“Travel time!”

“What?”

“Our lucky winner receives a coach-class seat by the loo and a low-budget room a zillion miles from the ocean.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You charmed the shorts off Plato Lowery.”

“He’s a very nice gentleman.”

“The very nice gentleman wants you and only you. And his congressman is turning the screws to make sure he gets it.”

Based on our shared photo album moment, I was afraid something like this might unfold.

“O’Hare called again,” I guessed.

“Yep. I don’t know if Lowery phoned the good congressman or vice versa. O’Hare phoned Notter. Notter phoned Merkel. Ain’t modern communication grand?”

“I can’t come to Hawaii right now.”

“Notter thinks otherwise.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“What if we billet you on a really nice beach?”

“Danny.”

“Why not?”

I told him about Coop.

“Jesus, I saw that story on the news. Katy’s friend was the American?”

“Yes.”

“Poor kid. Were they, you know, close?”

I didn’t know. “Close enough.”

“Give Katy a big hug for me. Wait. Better yet, bring her with you. A little Hawaiian sun could be just what she needs.”

“Oh, Danny.”

“Lowery is adamant that you accompany his son’s body to Honolulu, and that you oversee the entire reanalysis.”

“Have Notter talk him down.”

“Not happening.”

“Not my problem.”

“When’s the last time you took a vacation?”

“Christmas.”

“Look, Tempe. We both know the guy you dug up today is not John Lowery.”

“He went by Spider.”

“Why?”

“Long story.”

“This thing’s going to skewer old Plato. Do it for him. And for Notter and Merkel. You may need a favor from us sometime.”

I pictured tormented eyes beneath a Korean vet’s cap.

A plastic-wrapped corpse.

A mold-crusted skeleton.

I had no urgent cases in North Carolina or Quebec. Maybe Danny was right. Maybe a trip to Hawaii would be therapeutic for Katy, and Danny’s point about my perhaps needing them in the future wasn’t said entirely in jest. But would Katy go?

“When will action kick off at the CIL?” I asked.

“The remains are being transported on Friday. Lowery insists you travel with them.”

“Adamantly.”

“Adamantly.”

“I’ll ask Katy.”

“Good girl.”

“That’s not a promise, Danny. Katy needs me right now. It’s her call.”

“I imagine she’s pretty torn up.”

“Very.”

“Will she attend the kid’s funeral?”

“The service will be open to close family only.”

Silence hummed from the South Pacific to the southeastern seaboard. Danny broke it.

“I’ll send flight information as soon as I have it.”