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Darius knew this was messed up and wrong, but he loved her and could never quite bring himself to walk away. During their last screaming match, she had pulled a knife on him. He'd managed to get it away from her, but in the course of the struggle, she'd sliced open her hand and was still bleeding when she called 911. This time, though, when he went to jail, Gypsy did press charges. He ended up doing six months in the King County Jail for assault. When he got out, he learned that she had sworn out a protection order on him. He wasn't allowed inside the house even long enough to collect his stuff. Left with nothing but the clothes on his back and nowhere to live, he'd gone crawling back to Granny.

Once on the outside he'd soon learned that Gypsy had taken up with someone else during his absence. Two months later, Gypsy and her new boyfriend had been found shot to death in an alleyway in the Denny Regrade. Darius was her ex, so naturally the cops came around asking questions. His job as a bouncer—the one Granny had found for him—had saved his bacon, though, because at the time of Gypsy's death he'd been at work at a place with all kinds of surveillance cameras, and those had given Darius an airtight alibi. That didn't mean the cops didn't question him about it or check his hands for gunshot residue, but eventually there was nothing to link him to the double homicide, and he was cleared.

Darius knew it was only by the grace of God and Granny's job that he'd dodged being charged and possibly even convicted of the two murders. That was one of the reasons, maybe even the main one, that this time when he accompanied Granny to services at Mount Zion, he did pay attention. He found himself listening intently to what the reverend had to say. He let himself get caught up in both the Word and the music. Finally, one Sunday when people were invited to come forward to be saved, he got up and went, finding himself a whole new lease on life in the process. Which was why this year, when the call went out for Mount Zion's crew of volunteers for serving Thanksgiving Day dinner at the food bank, Darius had signed up.

It was well after dark when, while patrolling the line, Darius caught sight of an older woman leaning heavily on the end of her overloaded shopping cart. A few sprigs of white hair stuck out from under her hoodie. Swaying unsteadily on her feet, she looked as though she was about to keel over.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked. "You don't have to wait in line. If you're not feeling well, I'll be glad to escort you inside."

"No, no," she said quickly. "I'm too tired to eat anything. If you'd just walk me back to my van, I'll be fine."

"Where is it?" he asked.

"Over there a block or two," she said, nodding toward the south. "Are you sure? Do you think you can make it that far?"

"I believe so," she said, "but would you mind helping with the cart? I have some money. I can pay you."

"Paying me won't be necessary," he assured her. "I'm glad to help."

Darius went back to the head of the line and told one of the other volunteers that he was escorting someone back to her van. That was the last time anyone reported speaking to him. The next morning his lifeless body was found two blocks away lying next to an alleyway dumpster.

During the brief investigation that followed, footage from one of the warehouse's security cameras showed two people threading their way through the parking lot—a hulking Black male accompanied by a much shorter female. The woman, who appeared to be Caucasian and somewhat overweight, was leaning on a grocery cart so full of goods that it was almost as tall as she was. However, the grainy quality of the video made it impossible to make out any facial features. Law enforcement was never able to locate or identify the apparently homeless woman, and no sign of her shopping cart was ever found, either.

An autopsy performed by the King County Medical Examiner's Office determined that Darius had died of a fatal dose of fentanyl. His death was ruled to be accidental, and the case was closed. No further investigation was deemed necessary.

CHAPTER ONE

Valentine's Day 2020 dawned clear and cold in Bellingham, Washington. For most people in the area that was a welcome change from several weeks of mixed rain and snow—definitely not suitable for walking. But with the twenty-four-hour news cycle consumed with the looming Covid pandemic, outside was exactly where I wanted to be. So I called Hank Mitchell, my next-door neighbor, and asked if he and his black-and-tan Chihuahua, Mr. Bean, aka Beanie, would like to join my Irish wolfhound, Sarah, and me for a walk along our street, Bayside Road. I'm sure passersby find us an interesting foursome—two old guys accompanied by a stately Irish wolfhound with a bouncy, noisy Chihuahua yapping at her ankles.