The First Cut Read Online Free

demeanor of a cop. In a way Vining was glad he didn’t know who she was. Maybe her story wasn’t as notorious around the department as she thought.
    She was about to pull her flat badge from her pocket when Rosalie, who had worked in the records department forever, spotted her from behind the windows, burst through the side door, and jogged across the fired tile floor. She enveloped Vining in a bear hug.
    “Nan, you’re back! Oh my gosh. It’s so good to see you. They told me you were in last week; I was so sorry I missed you. How are you?” Rosalie held her at arm’s length, her eyes glittering with tears.
    “I’m good.”
    “You look terrific.”
    “Thank you. I feel good.”
    Vining had worked hard physically and mentally to prepare for this day. She wanted to obliterate the idea—the shadow of an idea—in anyone’s mind that she was not capable of returning to her job. She’d struggled to convince her superiors that she was up to working at her old desk in Homicide. She’d lost. They’d offered her Residential Burglary. She’d be dealing with crimes against property, not persons. Nothing that bled. Detective Sergeant Kendra Early would no longer be her boss. Vining was philosophical. Among other things, she’d learned patience in the year she’d been gone. She’d get her old job back in time. After having nearly lost her future, she was calm with the knowledge that time was on her side.
    She loved being a cop. She’d fallen into the career, but now saw it as destiny rather than happenstance. It had taken her tragedy to reveal to her the reason for her fervor, as if it had always been there but obscured. A shape behind a screen. There were people out there who needed to be put in prison. There was one man in particular. The man who had killed her. She and Emily had named him. T. B. Mann. The Bad Man.
    “Come in this way.” Rosalie pulled her inside through another door. “Say hi to Joanie and Ramon.”
    Others came to greet her. She felt eyes on the long scar on her neck and the smaller one on the back of her right hand. The scars had faded to pink. After much deliberation, Vining decided she wasn’t going to cover them. They defined who she was now. But the attention made her uncomfortable in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
    “It was so horrible. We prayed for you every day, Nan. Every day. All of us.”
    “Thank you.” She didn’t believe in prayers, but neither did she feel they did any harm. It was nice that people had taken time out of their day to think of her. Many throughout Pasadena, across the country, and even around the world had done so. The department had received scads of cards and notes from well-wishers. Kind, heartfelt sentiments. One stood out. One was not nice. Camouflaged inside a cheery Hallmark card with a cartoon doctor and patient on the front, was this note: “You should have died, bitch.”
    She dismissed it as probably sent by someone still ticked off about the man she had shot and killed five years ago. The shooting was determined to have been in policy. A good shooting. Still, she’d received lots of hate mail. It eventually tapered off. Vining figured her appearance in the news this past year had fanned the last sparks of resentment about that incident. It was disturbing to think T. B. Mann might have sent the nasty greeting card, knowing he had fully intended for her to die.
    “Nan, I can’t believe he’s still out there. That he got away with it.”
    “He hasn’t gotten away with it. Not for long. Not for long.” She repeated it, as if T. B. Mann could hear her.
    “Look, thanks, everyone, for your kind calls and letters. They really cheered me up and kept me going, but I’ve got to get to work.” She couldn’t help but grin. Today was the day. She was back.
    Vining took the elevator with two uniformed officers who were late for roll call. They nodded at her but didn’t speak. The elevator opened on the second floor and the uniforms got off to head