Angie handed him his keys. She didn't offer a ride, and he didn't ask for one. They stood in the fading light of a city that kept losing its children, two people who knew that "finding" them was the easy part. Living with where you found them was the burden they’d carry until the lights went out for good.
"Patrick," the voice was low, breathless. It was Angie. They hadn’t spoken since the night he chose the law over her heart. "I’m standing outside a park in Quincy. There’s a woman here. She’s been watching a little girl for three hours." Gone Baby Gone
People in Dorchester didn't look at him the same way anymore. To some, he was a hero who brought a child home. To others, he was the man who took a little girl away from a life of sun and safety and dropped her back into the grey, cigarette-smoke reality of a mother who forgot her lunchbox. His phone buzzed. It was a restricted number. Angie handed him his keys
The neon sign of the Tip Top Tap flickered in the persistent drizzle of South Boston, casting a rhythmic red glow over Patrick’s tired face. He leaned against his battered Jeep, the damp salt air of the Atlantic stinging his eyes. It had been six months since the Helene McCready case had torn the neighborhood—and his life—apart. Living with where you found them was the
For a moment, the distance between them vanished. They weren't the couple that broke up over a moral hand-grenade; they were the best trackers in the city.