The Hunter


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 G. P. Putnam’s Sons
 Publishers Since 1838
 An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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 Copyright © 2023 by Jennifer Herrera
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 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Names: Herrera, Jennifer, author.
 Title: The hunter / Jennifer Herrera.
 Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2023] | Summary: “A riveting atmospheric suspense debut that explores the dark side of a small town and asks: How can we uncover the truth when we are lying to ourselves?”—Provided by publisher.
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022027581 (print) | LCCN 2022027582 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593540213 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593540220 (ebook)
 Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction). | Novels.
 Classification: LCC PS3608.E7716 H86 2023 (print) | LCC PS3608.E7716 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220613
 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022027581
 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022027582
 Cover design: Tal Goretsky
 Cover image: (leaf) KJG Photography, Kim Guisti / Moment / Getty Images
 Book design by Nancy Resnick, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 pid_prh_6.0_142226813_c0_r1
 
 
 
 For David
 
 
 
 
 But what if I should discover that the least among them all, the poorest of all the beggars, the most impudent of all the offenders, the very enemy himself—that these are within me, and that I myself stand in need of the alms of my own kindness—that I myself am the enemy who must be loved—what then?
 —C. G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections
 He who wants to be a sickle must bend himself betimes.
 —Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Grimm’s Fairy Tales
 
 
 
 1
 Thursday, November 2
 I would not have pulled the trigger.
 It was just after ten when I tuned the boxy police scanners to their stations. I set the Bearcat to cover Precincts 1, 5, and 7. The HomePatrol would hit Precincts 20 and 24. I tuned the Whistler to listen in on Precincts 19 and 23.
 I lined them up on the marble coffee table next to the picture of Simone on Eric’s shoulders at the Bronx Zoo. The photo of me in dress blues, shaking the police commissioner’s hand. My leather holster, empty now, yet clinging to the shape of its old duty, its new regrets.
 On the windowpane, I watched the same scene that played out a thousand times each day, like the jumbled pieces of a puzzle I was sure would never fit. A hand that was my hand reaching for my sidearm. My Glock aimed at my partner’s head. A thumb that was my thumb cranking back the hammer. My voice, a command: Don’t move.
 I would not have pulled the trigger.
 I knew this like I knew my own name. What I didn’t know was why I had done it, why I had blown up my life for the sake of a perp who was caught hours after I helped him get away. This was three, maybe four, minutes of my life. Yet, like an explosion, it had devastated everything.
 I turned up the volumes on the scanners until they hurt my ears. I closed my eyes. I waited for the static to drown out my noise.
 On the north block of Seventy-Ninth at Columbus, an officer called in a Level 1. Shots fired. Dispatch sent an Emergency Service Unit for an evidence search.
 At the Port Authority, a man was struck by a northbound A Train. A robbery. A traffic accident. A suspicious vehicle on Fifty-Seventh and Lex. But no homicides. I sat on the sofa that still carried Eric’s musk and wool scent. I sipped water like I had a reason to be sober. But there were no homicides.
 On other nights, when a Signal 7 had come through, I would piece together enough of the scene to interrupt my regularly scheduled spiraling. A woman killed in her apartment was usually a domestic. A man killed in the park was a mugging gone awry. Shot in a vehicle meant gang violence. Sometimes drugs. After a while, these images would blot out the memory of how I’d ruined everything. Finally, I could sleep.
 But not tonight.
 It was close to midnight when my cell buzzed. It was my little brother. He’d already tried me three times this week. Each time I felt a little guiltier for not answering. If he really needed me, I told myself, he’d text.
 As I waited for voicemail to pick up yet again, outside my window, the video-arcade lights of the Empire State Building shifted from blue to red. I used to love their predictability, the way they could surprise me. Now as they blurred against the rain, all I felt was an overwhelming sense of the city’s indifference to me, even after all I’d done to keep it safe.
 I swiped to answer the call.
 “Leigh? It’s me, Ronan.”
 “I know who it is,” I said, my voice a little hoarse. “Your name comes up on my phone.”
 “I know, but it’s polite. Hey, sorry to call so late. I’ve been trying to reach you. Did you get my messages?”
 I assured my brother that, yes, I’d gotten his voicemails, which had all said, unhelpfully, Call me back. Yes, I was fine. I was Busy Evaluating My Options. I was Reassessing and Regrouping. I was Planning Next Steps. I was the same as every other time he’d called over the past six months,