The meeting breaks up an hour later. Pastor Williams watches them file out—this unlikely coalition.
"You think they have a chance?" his wife asks.
"David had a sling and a stone. They've got the truth. Sometimes that's enough."
Outside, Reaper walks Kesha and Zara to Tommy's truck. The streets are dark, dangerous, but for the first time in weeks, Kesha doesn't feel afraid.
"Tuesday," she says.
"We end this Tuesday."
Tuesday arrives cold and clear. The kind of Chicago morning where your breath ghosts in the air and the wind cuts through your jacket like a blade.
Chicago police headquarters is dressed for celebration: red carpet leading to the entrance, banners announcing the Medal of Valor ceremony, news vans lining the street, satellite dishes pointed skyward, security checkpoints, metal detectors, uniforms everywhere.
Inside the auditorium, 300 people fill the seats: police officers in dress blues, city council members, the mayor in the front row, reporters with cameras and notebooks. This is the kind of event that makes careers, replayed on evening news with patriotic music and slow-motion flags.
Lieutenant Owen Castellano stands backstage in his dress uniform. Every brass button is polished; every crease is perfect. His wife straightened his tie this morning, kissed his cheek, told him she was proud. His daughter texted a heart emoji. He's 45 years old, about to receive the highest honor the department can give.
He should feel triumphant. Instead, unease hums low in his chest. The Williams girl is still out there. The Angels are still protecting her. The Preacher is still alive. Variables he hasn't eliminated. But today is his day. Tomorrow he'll finish what he started.
The ceremony begins at 2:00 p.m. sharp. The police chief takes the podium, begins the introduction: Castellano's record is impressive, even without the lies—sixteen years on the force, forty-two arrests, three officer-involved shootings, all ruled justified. Leader of the special task force that dismantled drug operations and a trafficking ring.
The crowd applauds. Cameras flash.
"And now, please welcome Lieutenant Owen Castellano."
He walks onstage, shakes the chief's hand, stands at the podium. The medal is heavy and cold against his chest.
"Thank you," he begins. "This honor belongs not to me, but to every officer who puts on the uniform each day, who walks into danger so others can walk in safety. We are the thin blue line between chaos and order. We are—"