AT FIRST GLANCE, IT APPEARS TO BE AN ACCIDENT . . .

A car carrying an elderly couple goes off the side of a mountain and tumbles into oblivion on a beautiful sunny day in the Coronado National Monument. A note pulled from the twisted wreckage suggests the tragedy may have been a double suicide—but an autopsy later suggests something different. A deadly fire and a fatal home invasion may or may not have some connection to the terrible crash. And miles away in the desert, a savage rain has revealed something grisly and terrifying: two trash bags filled with human remains.

It's just another day in the life of Cochise County sheriff Joanna Brady, who must somehow balance the rigors of police work with a newborn, a teenager, a writer-husband, and a difficult mother. But Joanna will not allow murder to go unpunished in her jurisdiction—even if her path to the truth is twisting and dangerous . . . and leads to shocking revelations about those entrusted with caring for the helpless.

My parents, Norman and Evie, loved to take forenoon coffee picnics.  Their usual equipment included a frayed oilcloth red and white checked table cloth, an antique thermos, and a pair of Melmac cups they had picked up at a school cafeteria garage sale.  Once my mother had poured the coffee, she would pull out the paring knife she customarily carried in her purse and divide a day-old cinnamon roll exactly in half.  In 68 years of marriage, I don't believe my parents ever ate a whole cinnamon roll.  They always shared.

As a couple, Norman and Evie were nothing if not self-sufficient and independent.  Even after they moved into an assisted living facility, they still kept the keys to their Buick, and they planned to use it to make their own Thelma and Louise style exit.  That plan was foiled when my father suffered a stroke and died, leaving my mother alone and not the least bit happy about it.  She made it blazingly clear to whoever tried to look after her that the one place she wanted to be was with her Norman.  When my sister called to say that our mother was gone, I didn't shed a single tear because she was gone--she was where she wanted to be.  I went to her funeral and didn't cry at that, either. 

But I was starting to write this book.  When people from Bisbee read about Albert and Martha, they'll nod knowingly and say, "I don't care what she calls them.  Those two people are Norman and Evie Busk."  And they'll be right.

In this book, I give Albert and Martha the blessing of the Thelma and Louise exit that was denied my folks, and yes, I did cry when I was writing those scenes.

JAJ