Ronan was standing near the front doors, a foam coffee cup in his hand, talking easily with a young patrol officer.

He was immaculate.

Not a hair wrong, not a mark on him, not a button out of place — a man without a scratch, wearing an expression of grave, weary concern, the very picture of a decent husband dragged out of bed by a family tragedy.

Somewhere behind me a siren started up, and an ambulance swung around the corner, its red lights sweeping across the wet asphalt.

I got out of my car.

I crossed the lot with my boots hitting the pavement in the even, unhurried rhythm they teach you, the one that says the person walking is not going to be rushed by anything.