Bosch had the pills lined up on the table ready to go. He was pouring water from the bottle into the glass when the doorbell rang. He sat at the table, thinking he would let it go. His daughter had a key and never knocked, and he wasn’t expecting anyone. It had to be a solicitor or a neighbor, and he didn’t know any of his neighbors anymore. The neighborhood seemed to change over every few years, and after more than three decades of it, he had stopped meeting and greeting newcomers. He actually enjoyed being the cranky old ex-cop in the neighborhood whom people were afraid to approach.
But then the second ring was accompanied by a voice calling his name. It was a voice he recognized.
“Harry, I know you’re in there. Your car’s out front.”
He opened the drawer under the table. It contained plastic utensils, napkins, and chopsticks from takeout bags. With his hand he swept the pills into the drawer and closed it. He then got up and went to the door.
Renée Ballard stood on the front step. Bosch had not seen her in almost a year. She looked thinner than he remembered. He could see where her blazer had bunched over her sidearm on her hip.
“Harry,” she said.
“You cut your hair,” he said.
“A while ago, yeah.”
“What are you doing up here, Renée?”
She frowned as though she had expected a warmer reception. But Bosch didn’t know why she would have, after the way things had ended last year…
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