His smile faded into something quieter.
Tomorrow.
Marcus looked toward the traffic moving beyond the parking lot.
"A little."
Helen folded her arms.
"You've spent 28 years preparing for tomorrow."
"28 years teaches you enough to know you can still get tomorrow wrong."
"That sounds like something your father would have said."
Marcus looked back at her.
The mention of James Reed still had a way of finding a place beneath his ribs that time had never completely sealed.
James had died at 71.
Long enough to see his son rise through the ranks.
Not long enough to see tomorrow.
Marcus nodded.
"He probably would have added another 20 minutes to it."
Helen laughed.
"That man could turn one sentence into Sunday service."
Marcus smiled.
He could almost hear his father's voice.
James Reed had never worn a badge.
He had worked with his hands for most of his adult life, coming home with grease beneath his fingernails and exhaustion in his shoulders.
What he gave Marcus wasn't influence or money.
It was a rule.
Never confuse being treated small with being small.
Marcus had needed that rule early.
He remembered being 24, still new enough to police work that every shift felt like an examination.
He remembered supervisors who questioned his judgment before reading his reports.
He remembered walking into rooms where people assumed he was there to take notes for somebody else.
Years later, when he and Linda first tried moving closer to one of his assignments, a landlord had suddenly announced that an available apartment was no longer available after meeting Marcus in person.
Linda had been furious.
Marcus had stood beside her in the parking lot afterward while she demanded to know how he could stay so calm.
He hadn't been calm.
He had simply learned that anger and dignity were not the same thing.
There had been worse days since.
There had also been better ones.
Tomorrow would be one of those.
The Harrison City Council had selected Marcus as its next chief of police after a months-long search.
His formal public introduction was scheduled for Sunday afternoon, followed by his first official day leading the department.
But this morning, there was no dress uniform.
No podium.
No cameras.
Only jeans, work boots, a faded gray T-shirt, and an old Ford pickup waiting behind Morning Star.
Helen touched his forearm.
"James would have been proud."
Marcus swallowed once.
"I know."
She nodded toward the building.
"Now go before somebody finds another refrigerator for you to move."
Marcus laughed.
"Yes, ma'am."
Inside, he said goodbye to the remaining volunteers, carried one last carton into storage, then walked out to his truck.
The Ford was 17 years old.
Dark blue once, though years of Maryland weather had softened the paint.
A scratch ran along the passenger door, and one rear wheel well showed a patch of rust Marcus kept promising Linda he would repair.
He could afford another truck.
He didn't want one.
He had rebuilt part of this one using tools that had belonged to James.
Some things had value nobody else could see.
Marcus opened the passenger door.
On the seat sat a small leather presentation case.
He picked it up.
For a moment, his thumb rested against the smooth edge.
Then his phone rang.
"Linda," Marcus answered. "You checking whether I escaped?"
"I'm checking whether Morning Star kidnapped you again."
Her voice made him smile instantly.
Linda Reed was 50, practical enough to organize an entire move on paper and warm enough to forgive Marcus for ignoring half the schedule.
"I was leaving."
"You said that 40 minutes ago."
"Helen needed help."
"Of course she did."
"You would have helped her, too."
"That is not the point."
"It weakens your argument."
Linda laughed.
Marcus closed his eyes for half a second and listened.
26 years together, and that sound could still make a hard morning easier.
"You have the house keys?" she asked.
"Front pocket."
"Closing papers?"