Part 2

Val sat through endless hours of grilling under the command post canopy set up at the scene of the shooting with detectives, Internal Affairs representatives, and police union stewards. She ignored the shouted questions from reporters who snuck in too close when the officers securing the area let their guard down. She recognized few faces or voices, from the police side or the press. In particular, she did not spot the unwelcome presence of Paul Peterson.

Val sat numb throughout, repeating the same phrases to nearly identical questions: yes, he was armed, and shot at her first. No, she saw no other way to subdue him. Yes, she followed him alone, without backup. Yes, she and Gil had split up for a bit. No, she hadn’t met the man before.

Gil remained absent from the command post for the initial two hours. During a brief break, he sat by her, and set a cup of coffee on a nearby folding table.

Gil shook his head in sympathy. “Trust me,” he said, waving off the plainclothes detectives standing a few feet away. “There’ll be more discussion there, and a mountain of paperwork. But don’t worry. I’ll help you as best I can.”

“More?” Her head ached, like someone had split it open with an ax. “By my count, everyone in the department has asked me the same questions at least twice. Who’s left?”

Gil frowned and counted off on his fingers. “Gibson for one, and Travis, for sure. And probably half the guys who’ve already talked to you.”

“Why?” Her head weighed a hundred pounds. She could barely support it, even with her elbows on the table.

“First, politics,” Gil said. “They have to put on a circus here to show the public how much grief you’re going through. Clayton’s come under fire in recent years for police-involved shootings, and the press is hungry for drama.”

“To see if your story stays consistent, and that it lines up with mine,” Gil said. “That’s why I they haven’t allowed me in here. They want to make sure we’re not colluding.”

“Why would I lie about this?” She sipped the bitter, lukewarm coffee and winced. Still, she needed the caffeine. “I mean, for God’s sake. I could have gotten killed.”

Gil sighed. “Not every shooting is as clean as this one,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

“When you tell me not to worry, I worry more,” she said. At least she hoped that’s what she said. She could barely hear her own voice with the incessant blaring of sirens every time a cruiser, ambulance, or first responder vehicle moved more than a foot in any direction.

“No, I’m fine.” Val finished her coffee, and her stomach boiled. Maybe she’d turned down Gil’s kindness too soon. “Unless you’re getting a bite for yourself...?”

“I’m starved,” he said, nodding. “I’ll pick us up a couple of meatball subs.” He stood to leave.

She held up her hand to stop his exit, leaned closer to him, and spoke in a whisper. “Gil,” she asked, “am I in trouble?”

Gil wagged his head sideways and exhaled a noisy breath. He spoke full voice and seemed unconcerned that the detectives might overhear. “Shootings are always a big deal, but particularly for a rookie who hasn’t finished her training period. One damn week later and we’d have at least cleared that milestone.” He lowered his voice and spoke through still lips. “Plus, there’s that Davenport complaint.”

Gil pretended to sip his coffee and murmured, “Another violent incident...doesn’t look good.” He spoke louder. “We’ll take care of the paperwork later, at the station. Someone from IA will help you with it.”

“Thanks.” She glanced at the plainclothes cops, who chatted amongst themselves. “What about the Dog thing?” she said. “Doesn’t that show I’m not violent by nature?”

“Ix-nay on the og-Day.” He glanced around and raised his voice. “Looks like the next member of the Spanish Inquisition is coming. I’ll get you that sandwich.” He stood and reached out his right hand to her.

She met his gaze and accepted the handshake. He held on an extra moment, and a boatload of tension flowed out of her. She clasped harder and pleaded with her eyes: Please stay.

He shook his head, his mouth in a line. Squeezed her hand again. Then he left her to her thoughts.

When the interviews finally ended around 10:00 p.m., a plainclothes officer from Internal Affairs drove her to the station. She’d expected another grilling from him, but he maintained his silence, and she gave silent thanks for that. She’d hoped Gil could drive her, but understood why they wouldn’t allow it.

As Gil predicted, Lieutenant Gibson and Sergeant Blake were waiting for her at the precinct, both looking like they hadn’t slept in weeks.

“How are you feeling, Dawes?” Gibson asked after they’d taken seats around the small table in his office.

“Like shit,” she said. “Begging the Lieutenant’s pardon for my language.”

Gibson smiled and waved it off. “I expected worse, given the circumstances. Are you injured?”

Val shook her head, surrendering a weak smile. “Physically I’m fine, but my heart and soul are on fire. I can’t believe this happened.”

“What did happen?” Blake said. “I mean, we know you chased and shot the perp. From all accounts it appears to be a clean killing. But walk us through this. What got this whole thing started?”

“I heard a woman—a girl—screaming for help in the Jacobs Arms,” she said. “I yelled up to ask what was wrong, and the man—”

“Takura. That’s the perp’s name,” Blake said. “You’ll want to start using it when you talk to people. It makes you appear less...impersonal.”

Val took a breath, counted to three. How was she supposed to tell her story if they kept interrupting? “No, not before...no. I didn’t.”

“Mr. Takura claimed to be her father and was punishing her for misbehaving. The girl contradicted him, saying she wasn’t his daughter. I heard her scream and say he was hurting her.”

“So, you went inside? Without calling for backup?” Blake asked, exchanging glances with Gibson. “Where was your partner?”

Val’s heart pounded in her ears, and she had trouble drawing a breath. “We—he was a few blocks away. We were splitting up the beat—”

“Aren’t you still in training?” Gibson asked in a sharp voice. He turned to Blake. “Is this standard procedure in your shop? Because if so—”

Val’s hands shook, and she folded them together in front of her to still them. “Where was I?”

Val took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “Mr. Takura ran for it before I reached the apartment—”

“You were certain you had the right apartment?” Gibson asked in an even tone. Not accusing. Just asking.

“I—well—I was at the time,” Val said. “Anyway, the girl stuck her head out the door and said he’d tried to rape her, and that he had a gun. He—”

Val sighed, fought to remember what she’d said. “Maybe not in those exact words,” she said. “But her blouse was torn, and—well, I’m a hundred percent sure about the gun, and that it was the right apartment. What does any of that matter?”

“Just answer the questions, Dawes,” Blake said. Gibson frowned at him, gave his head a subtle shake. Blake shifted in his seat, his face flushed, and softened his tone. “So you chased him?”

“Yes. He ran out of the building and into a dead-end alley. I ordered him to freeze, but he got a shot off. After that, I just...reacted, I guess.”

Gibson reached both hands across the table to Val. She hesitated, then took his hands in hers. Blake added his to the mix a moment later.

“You need to file some reports,” Gibson said. “Travis will help you. Tell the story just like you did here. Got it?”

“For now,” he said, “I’ll put you on paid leave, pending the outcome of the investigation. IA will interview you, probably a dozen more times, or so it will seem. Don’t worry—tell them the truth. Don’t try to protect anyone, including yourself, or your partner. You don’t need to, okay? Are we clear?”

Val stared at him, cowering under the intense glare of his pitch-black eyes. “Will I—or Gil—are we—”

“You’re fine, Dawes. You’re going to be fine.” Gibson squeezed her hands again. “Really.”

With Blake’s guidance, Val filled out a series of forms and reports over the next few hours, detailing the key facts of the incident, the circumstances behind her pulling and discharging her weapon, and a tortured explanation of why she and Gil had split the beat. The clock ticked toward 4:00 a.m. by the time they’d finished.

“I’ll get these filed right away,” Blake said with a loud yawn, tossing his paper coffee cup into the trash can. “You need to go downtown and chat with I.A. They’re waiting for you.”

“Now?” She hadn’t meant to shriek, and it revived her headache with a vengeance.

“Got to do it while the memories are fresh, they say. I’ll have a patrolman drive you over.”

“For you? Not so bad, I don’t think. I.A. might make noise about that citizen complaint, but I’ll back you up there. Then it’ll come down to the psych eval.”

“The whole process usually takes a few weeks.” Blake smiled again. “Enjoy your time off.”

“Sarge,” she said, “the psych part. Is it that same guy...what’s his name...?”

“Chris Cyrus?” Blake said. “Yup. He’s our man. Don’t worry. He doesn’t go on any witch hunts. Just be yourself, and you’ll get through it fine.”

Ten minutes later, Val waited outside the front door for a driver to take her to the downtown precinct. Light peeked over the buildings on the east side of town, and a damp chill enveloped her. With the warmth of the previous evening, she hadn’t worn an overcoat. After a few minutes, Gil strolled up, street-side.

He shook his head. “Sorry. Listen, I only have a minute. I’m not supposed to be talking with you, but, hell...Dawes, are you okay?”

She blew into her hands, turning numb in the cold air. “I guess. It’s such a whirlwind, I haven’t had time to think, or feel, much of anything.”

Gil glanced around and stood close to her. “Val, one thing I need to emphasize. Don’t mention that thing with Dog where we let him go. I know you think it helps show you’re not a violent maniac, but Dawes, listen. We never reported that, and we didn’t follow proper procedure. If you bring it up now, it’ll only make things worse for yourself. Okay? You understand?”

She nodded, her mood souring. She wanted to cry, but then again, she really did not want to cry. “Gil...I’m sorry. I made a mess for you tonight, didn’t I? The whole splitting the beat thing—”

He waved her off. “Don’t worry about that. We have bigger fish to fry. Just remember—the Dog thing did not happen. Okay?”

Gil shrugged. “Thanks. I’ll deal with it. Worst case, they bust me back to street cop. But I’m happiest there anyway.” He ducked his head to get eye-level with her. “You need anything—anything at all—you call me, okay?”

She nodded. A moment later, a police cruiser emerged from the garage and turned toward them. Gil hustled away, leaving Val to stew over the mess she’d made of her life and career—and probably his.

Late the next morning, Val revived her body and spirit with a feta cheese omelet and a pumpkin latte at The Claytown Cafe, a neighborhood diner she’d often passed on her walk to work. After spotting the headlines in the Clayton Courant sitting on the counter, she bought a copy and sat down to read.

Clayton-area man Alfred Takura, 35, died of gunshot wounds after an exchange of gunfire with local police in the Upper Abernethy neighborhood last night. The shooting occurred after an on-foot chase led to a confrontation in an alley off of Jacobs Street, according to Sgt. Travis Blake of Clayton Police Department. The suspect died at the scene.

Witnesses said that the suspect fired first at Officer Valorie Dawes, who returned fire, fatally wounding Mr. Takura with a single shot.

Takura has been linked to the Setting Sun street gang, an affiliate of the Tokyo-based Nakaguchi crime syndicate. Police suspect the Setting Sun is responsible for several shootings, robberies, and teen kidnappings in western Connecticut over the past decade, according to a department spokesman.

The FBI lists Nakaguchi as one of the ten most dangerous crime syndicates in the U.S., with links to drug traffic, prostitution, and child abduction networks.

“Your espresso, ma’am?” The slender, pink-haired woman who’d taken Val’s order placed a large, steaming mug in front of her. She glanced at Val and gasped, revealing a tongue piercing that matched her nose ring. “You’re her, aren’t you?”

Val froze in mid-reach for her espresso. “Her, who?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Her, who!” The pink-haired woman pointed to a TV perched over the service counter, displaying news footage from the crime scene of the night before. Takura’s face appeared on the upper left of the screen. Val’s department-issue head shot appeared below Takura’s.

Dammit! She’d hoped that going to a new place might spare her from scenes like this. She gripped her coffee mug with both hands, but they shook too much to dare trying to lift it to her mouth. “Yes, that’s me,” she sighed.

After a moment, Val nodded, still too numbed by the experience to think about it.

“That’s so freaky,” the girl said. “Well, I’m, like, totally glad he didn’t get you. That would suck a bagga-you-know-what, right?”

“My girlfriend is Japanese, and she hates those mofo fofos,” Pinkie said. “They almost grabbed her sister one time. So her sister says. Annie’s a bit of a drama llama, though. That’s the sister, not my girlfriend.” Pinkie whipped out her phone and scrolled through it, then showed it to Val. “There she is. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Val glanced at the photo, relieved that it looked nothing like the girl Takura had abused in the Jacobs Arms. “Gorgeous. Um...what’s the status of my omelet?”

“Oh, right on. It’ll be up in a sec. Hey, let me buy you breakfast, okay? I mean, dude. I don’t get to meet heroes very often.” The woman dashed off to the kitchen, oblivious to Val’s protests.

Val sighed. If she wanted to avoid the spotlight and media noise, she’d have to work a lot harder.

Chad enveloped Val in a tight embrace just inside her apartment door, squeezing hard enough to push all the air out of her lungs. “I came as soon as I heard. How are you feeling?”

“Kind of numb.” She patted his back, and they swayed from side to side. “I guess it hasn’t fully sunk in yet. I mean, I killed a man yesterday. But it’s weird. I don’t feel—well, anything.”

He gave her another long, tight squeeze. They stepped inside, and Val pointed her free hand to the couch. “Beth’s here.”

Chad smiled. “Hi, Beth. Looking good, as always.” He gave Beth a quick hug. She received him with a loose embrace, as if uncomfortable with it. Chad stepped back from her. For a few seconds, they all stood in awkward silence.

“Just one,” Chad and Beth said at the same time. They exchanged a quick glance.

Val turned her gaze away from them. “Beth? Coffee for you?” Beth shook her head. Val cleared her throat. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

“Let me get it for you,” Beth said. “You and your brother should spend a few minutes alone.” She rushed into the kitchen.

Val and Chad sat on the couch. If Chad ever realized the impact he’d had on her friend, returning home from college to take Beth to her senior prom, he never acknowledged it. Beth had talked on and on for weeks before and after the event, convinced they’d live a long, happy life together. For Chad it was a crazy lark, a way to hang out with his kid sister on a platonic double-date.

At least, Val’s remained platonic. With Beth, no dates stayed platonic for long.

Chad shrugged. “Of course she’d be here. She’s your best friend and roommate.” He wrapped a reassuring arm around her. “Besides, I’m happily married and a father now. Anyway, this is about you. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Numb,” she said. “Part of it is, the guy pointed his gun at me. For that brief instant, I was afraid of—of dying. After that, instinct and training took over.”

She shrugged. “Impossible to say. It’s ingrained now.” She described the sequence of events in detail. Beth returned with Chad’s coffee. When she handed it to him, her hand touched his and lingered for a moment. Chad winced, but said nothing, and Beth took a seat in the chair across from the couch.

“So now there will be an investigation, and in the meantime, anywhere from ten to thirty days, I’ll be on paid leave,” she said.

“Are they providing counseling?” Chad blew on his coffee before taking a sip.

“Mandatory.” Val shrugged. “At least two or three sessions, starting tomorrow. He has to sign off before I can return to work.”

“No more visitors,” Val said. “I got all the peeps I need right here already.” Chad gave her a sad smile, and his eyes followed hers to Uncle Val’s photo perched atop the table at the end of the couch.

“Flowers!” Beth held a bouquet in her arms when she returned to the seating area. “From the guys at the station.”

“Yes, please.” Val’s voice dropped to a low register, stone cold. Beth disappeared into the kitchen.

“Val, what’s the matter?” Chad patted her shoulder. “Is it just starting to sink in?”

“It’s not that.” Val shrugged his hand away. “Would they send a man flowers?”

Chad blew air out through his lips and clasped his hands together. “Oh, that.” He shook his head, took another sip. “Maybe. You’d have to ask them.”

“Val, look. Take it for what it is. A nice gesture of support from your colleagues. A symbol. A demonstration that they care.”

Chad slapped both palms on his thighs and sighed. “Dammit, Val, you are a woman in a man’s world,” he said. “You understood that going in. It’s one of the things you keep talking about, what you wanted to change, remember?”

“Yeah, well, it’s not changing. Hell, Chad. I just killed a man. What do they think, I’m sitting at home crying?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know what they’re thinking?” Chad said, almost a shout, then calmed himself. “You’re the cop. You work with these guys. You tell me.”

Beth re-entered with the bouquet-filled vase. “I understand Val’s point.” She set the flowers on the coffee table and joined them on the couch next to Val. She’d brought herself a cup of coffee after all and sipped on it while they talked. “They do little things that diminish her. Men do this all the time. Not so much you, Chad,” she added before he could interrupt. “But a lot of guys. Especially the more traditional, conservative guys. And there’s a tendency for cops to be, well, more conservative.”

“Well, that’s such a broad generalization,” Chad said. “Aren’t most of them college graduates? I mean, isn’t that changing?”

“Slowly,” Val said. “And I realize they’re trying to be nice, as best they know how. I just haven’t finished educating them how to do it better.”

Chad smiled and threw an arm across her shoulder. “That’s my girl,” Chad said. “Now, do you have any beer in this place, or is buying drinks still the man’s job?”

They talked for hours, about everything but the shooting. Val had to admit that it helped to have both of them there, particularly Chad, who always knew what to say—and when to shut the hell up. He crashed on the couch around midnight, despite Beth’s inappropriate suggestion that he sleep in her bed, never quite clarifying whether she’d still be in it.

But when Val shut her bedroom door for the night, loneliness swept over her. She considered waking her brother again, but he needed to get on the road early, back to his wife, kids, and work in Danbury. Beth would love to make it a slumber party, but she’d never quit with her questions. Val had never been good about accepting help or sharing her innermost feelings, even with her closest friend.

Valorie dragged her spoon across the bottom of the squat paper bowl that once held twin scoops of chocolate-chunk cherry ice cream, now a soupy brown mess. Her unfocused eyes gazed past the antiseptic white service counter crowded with customers ordering their favorite cones and sundaes. She leaned against Uncle Val, seated next to her on the bench along the glass wall.

“He’s going to hurt me now, isn’t he, Uncle Val?” She stared into her melting ice cream, stirred it in the cup.

“No, honey. He will never hurt you again. I can guarantee that.” Uncle Val wrapped his arm around her, squeezed.

“Are you going to arrest him?” she asked.

Uncle Val’s voice grew hard and raspy. “If he’s lucky, that’s all that’ll happen to him.”

She stared up at him. “Are—are you going to shoot him?”

Uncle Val smiled, a sad smile. “Probably not. They don’t let us do that unless they’re attacking somebody.”

She moped and stared back at her ice cream bowl. “I wish he would attack somebody else so you could shoot him.” But she couldn’t think of anyone she’d want him to attack.

“People like him are too careful.” He cradled her in his beefy arms and spoke in a deep, low voice. “Valorie, have you told anyone else about this?”

Tears streamed down her face, as they had for the past twenty minutes. Her voice had never risen above a dull monotone while relating the story of that incident. “Just Chad,” she said. “A little. Not everything. He made me tell you.” She sniffled, wiped her nose with her finger, dried it on her jeans.

“Not your Mom and Dad?”

She shook her head, again.

“Do you want to tell them, or should I?” He kept his voice gentle and squeezed her into a tighter hug.

“No!” She pulled away from his embrace and glared at him. “Why do they have to know?”

“They’re your parents, Valorie. They care about you.”

“Ha.” She faced forward again and pressed her head against his side. “Not like you do.”

“Aw, Valorie. You know they love you. A lot.” Tears leaked from his eyes, too. He bit his lower lip, suppressing a sob.

“They don’t care. They don’t even take me to soccer anymore. I get a ride from you or Beth’s mom.”

He hugged her again and rocked with her from side to side on the bench. “My girl,” he said, “people have different ways of showing love.”

“I like your way better, Uncle Val.”

They were quiet a while—the graying, overweight cop and his twelve-year-old niece—lost in their own tears and thoughts. Customers came and went, ordering ice cream at the counter, but one and all keeping their distance from the odd couple in the back corner.

“It hurts still, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“Not like it did that night.”

He wiped a fresh supply of tears away from his cheeks with a napkin. “But it feels...icky. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Does talking to me help?”

“Yeah. A little.” She hugged him tighter, too. “More than a little. A lot.”

“You can always talk to me. About this, or anything. Any time.”

“Thank you, Uncle Val. I will.”

His body shuddered as he exhaled a deep breath. It took him a moment to come up with words.

“It would be good if you could talk to a doctor,” Uncle Val said. “They can help you with the hurting.”

“But it doesn’t hurt any more. Not in that way.”

“There are doctors who can help with all kinds of hurting, including the kind that hurts deep inside when you think about things.”

She thought about that a moment. “I like talking to you better.”

He nodded. “Me, too. But I can only do so much. The doctors can help you in ways that I can’t.”

“The doctors can’t shoot him, either.”

Uncle Val laughed, a soft chuckle, and hugged her close again. “What Milt did to you was a terrible, horrible thing. It’s a crime and he should go to prison for it. But more important is what happens to you. What he did will haunt you for a long time. You feel ashamed. Dirty. Like you did something wrong. Right?”

She nodded. Uncle Val understood. He cared.

“But you didn’t do anything wrong. And those doctors—they’ll be able to help you get those feelings out of you so you can feel good again. Don’t you want that?”

She held him hard against her. Her throat hurt so much, too much to speak. Instead, she nodded her head against his chest, and disappeared inside his bear hug.

Dr. Cyrus relaxed in his chair, a thick padded leather recliner. A few feet away sat Valorie Dawes, the rookie policewoman he’d met once before. A tough customer, he recalled. Not very forthcoming. Untrusting. A little angry, though he couldn’t piece together why.

Dawes leaned forward in her upholstered chair, elbows digging into her thighs, hands clasped into a tight ball. Cyrus relaxed his own body as best he could, hoping it might relax her. He ran his hand through the black, bushy hair still covering his scalp, thanks to the finest product money could buy. He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and glanced at the neat, printed notes on the pad resting on an end table next to him, then smiled at her.

Her clenched hands bobbed in front of her. “Fine, considering.” A light sheen of sweat dampened her cheeks and forehead, and her breathing came in shallow, staccato bursts.

Cyrus nodded again. The dark circles under her eyes gave that away. At least she didn’t lie about it, like so many do. “It’s natural for people in your position to—”

Cyrus’s words stuck in his throat. Her anger leaked out of every pore, fueling her attacks on him. Her fierce sarcasm challenged his considerable patience. Still, he had a job to do. He willed himself to remain calm, and to reflect it in his voice.

Dawes shrugged. “To see if I’m too crazy and trigger-happy to return to the streets. Or, just crazy enough to want to go back. Right?”

Not even a hint of a smile creased her lips or lit her eyes. Cyrus cleared this throat. “My charge,” he said, “is to determine whether you’re exhibiting any disturbing violent tendencies, anger issues, depression, or anything else that might affect your ability to perform your duties. Officers who have experienced an encounter similar to yours often suffer ill effects—”

“Encounter?” She exhaled and shook her head again. “You kill me, doc. Ill effects? Damn straight there are. I shot a man. He’s dead. Gone. His family misses him. They’ll bury him in a day or two because of me. Shouldn‘t I suffer from ‘ill effects’?” She sat back in the chair, pressing her body against the cushions, arms anchored on the armrests.

Cyrus jotted down some notes, a million voices in his head screaming at him to take it slow with this one. Dawes seemed ready to explode, though her body remained motionless—rigid, even. Still, he had a process. He would follow it until it failed him. Thus far, it had not.

He forced another smile and waited for her to look at him. “Please explain in your own words. Why did you shoot Mr. Takura?”

She sighed and focused on a spot somewhere over his head. “It was self-defense. He shot at me. My life was in danger. I followed procedure and training and protected myself from harm.” She returned her gaze to him, her eyes narrowing.

That squared with the brief background the department had supplied him. “You had no alternative to shooting him, is that right?”

“Of course.” Her expression softened. “Doc, I have to ask you something.”

“Is everything I tell you here confidential? Doctor-patient privilege and all that?”

Uh-oh. Questions of that kind usually preceded an unfortunate revelation. Unfortunate, but almost always important. “Of course.”

Dawes pointed to his notepad. “But you will write a report to the department about me.”

He thought a moment. “I’ll inform them of your mental fitness for duty,” he said. “But no specifics of what you tell me.”

She stood and took a few steps away from him, staring at his diplomas on the wall, hands clasped behind her. “Well, less than six weeks on the job, I shot a man and killed him. Kicked another guy in the nuts for trying to rape me on a date. Is that a ‘violent tendency’?”

Cyrus frowned. “That’s all...relevant information.” He made a note to follow up on the date rape story.

Cyrus cleared his throat. “So. The man you shot threatened you with a weapon and fired at you. You then returned his fire and shot him fatally, according to your incident report. Do I have that right?”

She swallowed hard and examined the pattern in the carpet at her feet. “Yes. My life was at risk.”

At the word “incident,” she covered her mouth and held her abdomen, as if fighting nausea. “Horrible.”

Her voice remained steady, quiet. “Sure. All of that. I ask myself: isn’t there any other way I could have handled the situation? Shot him non-fatally, or used pepper spray, clubbed him maybe—any other choice but the gun? I don’t know. It all happened too fast.”

“It’s natural to second-guess yourself. That’s a good sign. It shows you have a strong, ethical conscience. I’d be more worried if you didn’t feel that way.” He smiled at her, hoping it didn’t appear fake.

“I’m relieved.” Sarcasm filled in her voice. He’d have to work on that smile.

Cyrus checked his notes again. “I want to get back to your sleep issues. How much are you getting per night?”

He frowned. “That’s not healthy. Would you like me to prescribe something?”

“My appetite’s a little down, but I could stand to lose a few pounds.” She patted her stomach, which looked flat and washboard-hard to Cyrus.

“I’m not sure how much you can help me, anyway. Other than reassuring the department I’m not a savage, bloodthirsty killer.”

Cyrus regarded her for several seconds, his pen resting on his notepad. “Do you have anyone else you can confide in? Family, friends, your partner?”

He made a note on his pad, then looked back at her. “Very well. I’d like to see you again next week. I’m recommending more time off for you, or at most, light duty. You’re not ready for the stresses of patrol yet.”

“I also recommend you undertake a mental exercise for me,” Cyrus said over her objection. “Imagine yourself meeting with the victim’s family, and what you might say to them.”

Perspiration dotted her forehead and dampened her collar. She fidgeted with her hands, shuffled her feet on the floor beneath her seat. “I don’t think I want to do this.”

Cyrus smiled. “Of course you don’t. Who would? But it will help you confront your guilt and get it behind you. Perhaps you’d imagine yourself apologizing—”

“Apologize?” Dawes stood, her skin flushed. “To a man who tried to kill me?”

“—to the family. And understand their anguish.” He spoke in his most calming voice. “That will help you ground your own pain and put a human face on it. Then you’ll be able to process your feelings of guilt much more effectively.”

“Trust me.” He forced gentleness into his voice, tried to make it sound less officious and analytical. “It will help.”

She barked out a sharp laugh. “I stopped trusting middle-aged men long ago.”

Cyrus sighed and made a note of that comment. Something to come back to. “Shall we meet on Tuesday at nine, then?” He flipped through his appointment book, pen in hand.

Cyrus stood and smiled. “Valorie, you’re a strong, smart woman. I’m sure, with time, we’ll be able to put this incident behind you.”

Dawes stiffened again, and for a moment something flickered in her eyes—a look of loathing, and of fear. Then her eyes darkened, and she nodded. “Tuesday at nine, then.”

The grilling at the hands of Internal Affairs came to a sudden halt when the lead detective announced in an abrupt phone call that she “wouldn’t be needed” for the next several days.

“So they’ll just make up their own minds about the situation?” she asked Travis Blake in his office. “My input doesn’t count?”

Blake grimaced and shook his head. “Dawes, I understand. This feels like we’re putting you through the wringer. But it’s all routine, and I’m confident they’ll clear you of any wrongdoing. You’ll probably get another commendation, even. Relax.”

He shrugged. “Take a few days off. You’ve earned it. Spend some time with your family.”

That appealed to her, if for no other reason than to escape the apartment. With her nights free, Beth hounded her to go on yet another double date with her and Josh, who spent the night with disturbing frequency—and reminded Val too much of that idiot Brent Davenport. She needed a getaway, and could think of none better than a ninety-minute drive to her brother’s place in Danbury.

Uncle Val had promised her his old Honda Civic long before she’d learned to drive, telling her she’d need it for college. Turns out she didn’t, and still didn’t when she returned, as she lived close enough to walk to work. Instead, she’d asked Chad to garage it at her father’s place for her.

Her father’s place. Not “home.” It stopped being home the moment she walked out the door to go to college. And not “Mom and Dad’s.” Mom left a few months after Val’s fourteenth birthday, a year after Mom and Dad stopped talking, and two years since either of them had remained sober for over three days in a row. Mom blamed her leaving on Dad, the drinking, and everything except what mattered: the travesty that had befallen them—her—at the hands of “Uncle” Milt. A few weeks after she left, the phone calls stopped, then the letters, and then Mom simply disappeared.

Dad had remained—in body, if not in spirit. The whole ordeal broke him, and he slid into a walking coma of alcohol, anger, and denial. If not for Chad, he‘d have drunk himself to death years ago. Long before he should have, at age sixteen, Chad became the family’s caretaker. How he’d done it, Val could not fathom.

Val couldn’t remember when it happened, but somewhere along the way, she and her father ceased communicating. Even living in the same house, they rarely spoke. What did they have to discuss? Nothing, until he stopped repeating the lies that Milt had spun about the incident. She understood now, after years of counseling, that Dad believed Milt’s version of the story because he had to. The fantasy to which he clung—along with the constant drinking—brought him comfort, and accepting the truth was too horrible of an alternative. Then Val had gone away to college, and not talking became second nature.

But now, far more than her need to maintain radio silence with her father, she needed the car.

She considered renting one and sparing herself the grief, but she couldn’t afford it, and most rental companies wouldn’t lease to someone under 25. Or borrowing one, but the only person in town who trusted her enough was Beth, and she needed hers for work.

So she took a city bus to her old westside suburban neighborhood and walked up the cul-de-sac to her childhood home. The modest two-story Cape Cod blended in among a dozen more carbon copies of it on 70-foot tree-lined lots. She paused at the driveway that led to the closed garage, which she and Chad had converted to a gym, her private escape during her teen years. She’d moved out of her bedroom—too many awful memories associated with that space—and often slept on a cot in the garage. Now, her car slept there.

Val glanced at her surroundings. Nobody had mowed the grass in months. Large blotches of gray leaked through on the siding where the old blue paint had flaked off. Clumps of moss curled the charcoal-colored asphalt shingles on the roof. At least a week’s worth of bills and catalogs clogged the mailbox.

She trudged up to the front door and pressed the doorbell. Listened for the twin four-note bars of the traditional singsong greeting to play.

She pressed again. Still no sound. Dammit. She rapped her knuckles on the glass pane of the old aluminum storm door. It rattled open with a painful squeak. She pushed it aside and knocked on the white metal-clad door. Waited.

Val sighed. She fished out her keys, found the right one, inserted it into the lock. It still worked. She pushed open the door.

She sighed in relief. Maybe he was away, and she wouldn’t have to face him after all.

She stepped inside. The place smelled of mildew and rotting fruit, and dust tickled her nostrils. The old sofa remained in front of the picture window, facing the 40-inch flat-screen TV, the only thing close to new in the place. Chairs that used to match the sofa had disappeared. Empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans lay scattered around an overflowing ashtray on the battered coffee table, along with a closed pizza box. She lifted the cover. Hawaiian pizza, cold and stale. Might have been last night’s dinner. Or last Friday’s breakfast. Hard to tell.

Val wandered into the kitchen, unsurprised by the mess she found there, or the smell, twice as pungent and eye-searing as in the living room. She scanned the kitschy plaque on the wall that sported four hooks, each labeled with one family member’s name. Chad had made it in shop class, a place for everyone to hang their keys.

She pulled on the handle to the junk drawer. Halfway open, it got stuck, rattled with a metallic clash, and bounced back shut. She tugged it open part way and worked her hand inside to push aside whatever kitchen implement blocked the damned thing from opening—

Val froze at the sound of her father’s scratchy voice, at first not wanting to turn to see him. Then she chided herself for being childish and summoned up the most enthusiastic smile possible, under the circumstances. She freed her hand from the drawer and faced him.

The man slumping his round, stooped body in the doorway looked nothing like the father she pictured in her memory. Wearing baggy pants and a wife-beater T-shirt, Michael David Dawes bore no resemblance to the tall, athletic, well-dressed businessman, brimming with the confidence she remembered from her youth. Nor even the gaunt figure of her teen years. His hair, always black and cut in a conservative over-the-ears 1950s style, now streamed out in dry, white bursts as if he’d been electrocuted. Angry red blotches dappled his tanned skin, and his dark brown eyes seemed lost inside their deep sockets.

The voice, however, she recognized. It belonged to the former vice-president of Ashford Machine and Dye, who doubled as soccer coach and scout leader, and who’d once attempted to raise her.

“But you knew I wouldn’t answer.” He coughed, not bothering to cover his mouth, and the aroma of cheap bourbon overpowered the stench of the dishes rotting in the sink. “Well, come here. Aren’t you going to give me a hug, after all these years?”

Her stomach lurched, and her muscles tightened in recoil. He couldn’t be serious. Could he?

Dad stepped toward her, arms wide. Dammit. She held her breath and kept her arms by her side, letting him wrap her up for a moment. Then she wiggled free.

“I came to get the Honda,” she said, not making eye contact. “I’m going to visit Chad in Danbury.”

“Assuming it still runs. Yeah, I figured you weren’t here to see me.” He stumbled over to another cabinet and pulled open a drawer. “I think the keys are in here.” He rummaged through, stealing a glance at her after a moment. “That drawer’s broken.”

“I, uh...Dad, it’s not like we’ve kept in close touch, right? I graduated from UConn, by the way.” The words rushed out of her, faster than she could think.

“Good for you. About time. Chad told me you got a job.” He stopped rummaging and glared at her, his eyes glowing. “On Clayton P.D.” Suddenly he seemed alert, almost sober.

Like he always did when he was angry. When he accused her of lying, or holding back information. Like every time they ever discussed what had happened with Milt.

Goose bumps spread over her skin, and she rubbed her bare arms for warmth. Stepped away from him, for safety. “Th-that’s right. I always said I would.”

Bang! The drawer crashed shut, and her father’s face lurched to within inches of hers. “Are you fucking crazy?” he seethed, spittle spewing from his clenched teeth. “It’s not enough they killed my brother? You’ve got to go join those stupid sons-of-bitches too? What are you trying to do, kill me?” He slammed his fist on the counter, sending dishes and silverware flying.

Val dodged a fork that flew by her nose, just in time, and stepped out from under his hot gaze. She kept her hands in front of her, her voice calm, and focused on him while speaking. “I didn’t do it to hurt you. It’s what I’ve always—”

“Because you think you can find all the big bad bogeymen who scared you as a little girl, and what? Lock them all up? Kill them? Is that what you want to do?” He lurched toward her again, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “Yeah, I heard the news reports about what you did. Killed a man. Are you proud of yourself now?”

“Hah! I’ve got half a mind to call them and tell them what your agenda is. Maybe that’ll convince them you have no business being a goddamned cop. Putting a gun in your hands and a badge on your chest has to be the craziest goddamned thing this city has ever done!” He gave her a final shake and pushed himself away, supporting himself with stiff arms planted on the filthy counter, his body shaking, wracked with sobs.

Val stood there, watching him cry, not knowing what else to do. Her father's anger stunned her, and his threats frightened her. Would he do such a thing? He seemed crazed enough to try. But how would the department react if he did?

Fear soon gave way as a familiar ache crept up inside her. She’d only seen Dad cry twice before. The last time was when Mom had left. He’d sobbed, like he did now, his whole body expressing sadness, the grief taking over, crushing him. The all-encompassing nature of his despair had surprised her, and the violence of it had alarmed her.

No sobbing then, though. More quiet and stoic, just shedding of a few tears. Since she’d never seen him cry before that—or any other grown man—she assumed that’s how men wept. Thought nothing of it.

“Well,” he said with startling abruptness, standing erect for the first time, “I guess I’d better find you those keys.”

“No, fuck it. Take the car. Go on, get out of here.” He fished around in the drawer again, the one that opened, and tossed her a key chain with the familiar black fob, sporting the stylized “H” in bas-relief. He stared at the floor, sniffled, wiped his nose with his finger.

She took a breath and steadied her voice. “I’m sorry that I haven’t visited. I just—”

“Valorie, don’t, okay? Just go. Please.” He waved at the air, shooing her.

Val clenched her fist, shutting her eyes for the count of three, then opened them again. “I invited you to my graduation. Left you a voice-mail. You didn’t respond, and you didn’t come.”

“I don’t even know your number,” he said, his voice harsh. “Where you live. Nothing. I know nothing about you, except that you’re trying to get yourself killed. Well, if that’s what you want, go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

She shook her head, fighting the angry words bubbling up inside. “I’ll call you when I get back in town—”

“Spare you? Jesus!” With that, her restraints dissolved, overcoming the discipline she’d fought to maintain. “You have a lot of nerve. Who’s the one who refused to believe what that asshole ‘family friend’ did to me? Who told people that the reason I had to stay home from school, and go to the hospital, is that I had the mumps—the fucking mumps!” Her breathing grew ragged, her voice shrieking.

Val raged on, barely cognizant of his interruption. “Who refused to call the cops on a goddamned child molester who raped your own fucking daughter? Who’s the goddamned liar? Huh? Is that me, Dad, or am I describing you?”

She glared into his eyes, which she suddenly realized were only inches from her own. She let go of him, not having been fully aware that she’d grabbed him by the shoulders, had shaken him in teeth-rattling fashion. Had overpowered him—her own father. Her once big, strong, confident father.

Who now collapsed, mouth agape, his back against the wall, sliding to the floor, tears once again wetting his cheeks. “Get the fuck out of here,” he said, and closed his eyes.

Val’s hands stopped shaking only after she pulled into Chad’s driveway. Her tension melted away to zero when she spotted her pig-tailed five-year-old niece bouncing into view through the picture window of the sprawling 1980s-era ranch house. Alison’s muffled shouts escaped the closed doors and windows. “Mommy! Mommy! Auntie Val is here!”

Val waved to her niece from the driveway. Ali had grown so much. Val needed to visit more often.

The door opened before Val reached the front door. Kendra, Chad’s auburn-haired wife of seven years and Val’s personal nominee for sainthood, met her with a warm hug. “Your brother’s still at the office, trying to finish up his monthly billings,” Kendra said. “Come on in, I’ve warmed up a pot of fresh apple cider.”

“My favorite!” Val followed her inside, shaking her head in admiration of Kendra. Her spotless house, beautiful children, and perfect skin alone could get her woman of the year. Plus her career as a violinist heralded increasing local acclaim, even occasional mentions in the New York papers. She raised Ali while Chad had attended law school and maintained a model-slim figure even after two pregnancies. Val doubted there was anything she couldn’t do.

Ali squeezed one leg of each woman. “Pick me up!” she squealed. Val scooped Ali into her arms.

“Ali, get down,” Kendra said. “You’re too big for Auntie Val to be carrying you.”

“Auntie Val is strong!” Ali said. “Me too, Auntie Val. Look! Watch me!” She jumped to the floor and counted off push-ups. “One, two, three...” She made it to ten before rolling exhausted onto her back. “I did twelve yesterday. Robert Keene can only do seven!”

“My little athlete.” Kendra rolled her eyes and grabbed Val’s suitcase. “Chad told her about your track medals and ever since, all she wants to do is beat the boys at everything. Ali, honey, why don’t you show Auntie Val the guest room while I check on the baby?”

Val followed the bouncing child down the hallway, laughing at the five-year-old’s boundless energy. She longed to collapse onto the guest bed and kick off her shoes, but Ali tugged at her arm as soon as Val’s suitcase hit the floor. “Auntie Val, do you want to see my room?” Ali said.

She wasn’t prepared for the scene that greeted her there. Instead of Barbies, stuffed animals and pastel pinks, Ali had packed the room with action hero figures and posters from cop movies and TV shows she could never have watched. Val’s academy graduation picture took prominence on her dresser. Right behind it, Uncle Val’s smile gazed out in uniform from a silver frame. A toy water rifle lay on the floor at the end of her bed.

“Look what Mommy and Daddy gave me to wear for Halloween!” Ali pulled a dark blue vest from her closet with a silver badge pinned to the chest. “Daddy said it’s just like the one you wear!”

“I see you’ve gotten the tour.” Kendra stood at Val’s elbow, holding Darwin, their six-month-old, in a bundle of pale blue blankets against her chest. “Here’s the little rascal that made me miss your UConn graduation.” Kendra had suffered complications while carrying him and spent much of her pregnancy bedridden. Dar entered the world at ten pounds, three ounces, and twenty-three inches long—tall, like his mother. “Almost ready to break your track records,” Chad had joked to Val at the time.

“He’s beautiful,” Val said to Kendra. “I love those clear blue eyes. And he’s gotten so big in the last two months!”

“Pkew! Pkew!” Ali pointed her water gun at the baby, pretending to fire on him. “Got ya!”

“Ali.” Kendra’s voice grew stern, but no louder. “What have I told you about pointing guns at people? Please put that away.”

“But all police ladies have guns,” Ali said. “Don’t they, Auntie Val?”

Val squatted down to Ali’s eye level. “Only after a lot, lot, lot of training and passing very hard tests,” she said. “Have you taken your water rifle safety test yet?”

Shaking her head, her lips set in a dramatic pout, Ali set the gun on her toy chest. “Will you play with me?” she asked.

“Let Auntie Val rest a bit,” Kendra said. “Why don’t you read one of your picture books?”

“I want to play cops and robbers in my new Halloween costume!” Ali tugged on Val’s leg. “Can I be the cop and you be the robber?”

“Yay!” Ali ran in tight circles around the two women, flapping her arms in excitement. “Okay, you hide outside, and I’ll come find you. Don’t run away, or I’ll have to shoot. Just like on TV!” She dashed out of the room, singing unintelligible words from what Val guessed was a cop show theme song.

To give Kendra some relief, Val sprung for pizza for dinner, to Alison’s delight. It arrived a few minutes after Chad did. Kendra and Ali fetched plates, silverware, drinks and napkins while Val and Chad caught up in the living room.

“Still numb,” Val said, taking a seat on the sofa. “Part of me can’t believe I took away a man’s life. It’s such an awful power we have, and I’m not even used to the idea of having it yet. Another part of me is still getting over the fact that he shot at me—tried to kill me. If he...I could be dead.” Her throat grew dry, and she sipped her tea for comfort.

“It worries me,” Chad said, sitting next to her. “The risks of your job, I mean.”

“You know,” Val said, “I always wanted to be a cop. I never thought about what it would be like to have—done this.” She paused and glanced at Ali, now dressed in her little police officer uniform, helping set the table.

“Well, I hope we can help you forget about it for a night,” Chad said. “I see you had no trouble getting the car out of Dad’s garage.”

“Not exactly,” she said in a low voice. “Dad didn’t fight me over the car, but he did on everything else. Even on my choice of becoming a cop, which I’ve talked about my whole life.”

“I’m sorry,” Chad said. “I guess I can take the blame for him bringing that up.”

“That wasn’t the worst of it.” She stared at her feet and lowered her voice. “We got into it over...what happened ten years ago. The stupid cover stories, the lies, all of it.”

“Holy cannoli,” he said. “The first time you two have spoken in five years—and that’s what you talk about?”

“I wouldn’t say we ‘talked’ much,” Val said. “Shouted and cried, mostly.”

“I don’t know what amazes me more—that Dad talked about it, or that you did,” Chad said. “He spent so long denying it ever happened. You told no one about it for weeks afterwards, and after it all blew up, you—”

“Sh!” Val said, spotting Ali returning to the living room with an armload of napkins and a liter bottle of Coke. “Later.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Val.” Chad shook his head. “There’s always a reason not to discuss it.”

“Discuss what?” Ali set the Coke and napkins on the coffee table and pried open the pizza box. “Daddy, can I have your extra cheese and pepperoni?”

“I already did!” Ali grabbed a piece of pizza and the toppings from a second slice. Chad rolled his eyes and set the naked slice on a napkin. Alison sat next to Val, munching her pizza sandwich and making moon eyes at her favorite aunt.

Kendra entered with Dar in one arm, and glasses, silverware, and paper plates in the other. “Started without me, I see. Val, thank you for waiting, at least.”

Val slid a cheesy slice onto a plate for Kendra, then herself. After taking a bite, she took a long sip of Coke, and pretended not to catch Alison stealing her toppings to construct a three-layer munch.

“Auntie Val, when you go back to work, will you shoot any criminals?” Alison asked.

“My kindergarten teacher brought us to the arcade, and I played this game where you draw your gun against the bad guy. I got him every time except one,” Ali said.

Val recovered from choking on her soft drink and drew a deep breath. “We try not to use our guns. It’s not like on TV.”

“I know,” Alison said. “You know what, Auntie Val? I want to be a policewoman when I grow up, just like you.”

Kendra covered her mouth, but tears gathered on the edge of her eyelids. Chad patted her arm and swallowed hard.

Val put her arm around her niece, hugging her tight. “I’m sure you’d be an excellent police officer,” Val said. “But maybe you’d be an even better lawyer, like your dad?”

“No way,” Alison said. “Most lawyers are crooks and S.O.B.’s, right Mom? Auntie Val, what’s an ‘S.O.B.’?”

“Alison!” Chad glared at her. Kendra’s face turned beet red, and the two of them exchanged open-mouthed glances. Val, to avoid laughing, pretended to choke on her pizza.

“Someone needs to change the Etflix-Nay, ogin-lay again,” Kendra sang around a bite of pizza.

“And to remember to log out when he’s done,” Chad sang back in the same tune. He sighed and snagged a new slice, this one with toppings.

“After dinner, can we watch a movie?” Ali asked, gazing up at Val. “We have Captain Underpants on DVD. I’ll go plug it in!”

Dr. Cyrus waited for his patient to get comfortable, reviewing his notes for the hundredth time. Perhaps some small talk would ease their way into the conversation and put Ms. Dawes in a more forthcoming frame of mind.

“How was your weekend?” he asked her. “Did you do anything for Halloween?”

She exhaled a noisy breath and smiled. “Sure. It was great. My niece dressed up as me and shot the neighborhood boys with Pez candy. Apparently, sugar is more fatal than we thought.”

“My granddaughter is six,” he said. “They sound like twins. Did you talk at all with your brother?”

She sighed. “You and he could be twins. Neither of you is very subtle. Yes, we talked a fair amount. But I’m sure if you ask him, he’d email you a detailed set of notes, complete with a list of unanswered questions from my teen years.”

Cyrus grinned. Dawes seemed to be in a positive, if feisty, mood. Maybe she’d volunteer more of her feelings this time. “I’d like to follow up on something you mentioned the last time we met,” he said. “You said a man attempted to rape you on a recent date?”

Dawes stiffened and her body hunched forward, her shoulders curled inward, arms crossed. Cyrus winced. Perhaps he’d waded into this topic too soon. Ah, well. What’s done is done.

“No,” he said in a reassuring tone. “You were right to do so. You never want to surprise your shrink, right?” He chuckled, hoping to relax her. He hated using words like “shrink,” but speaking in the vernacular seemed to put patients at ease.

“Well,” he said, nervous heat rising in his ears, “how recent was this attempted rape? I found no police report on the matter.”

“I didn’t report it,” she said. “As I said, I kicked him in the nuts, pushed him out the door, and the whole incident was over in ten seconds.”

“It was a matter of possibly getting raped, or defending myself. So, yes. And there was a report. The jerk had the nerve to file a complaint against me.”

Cyrus stopped writing, glancing at her over the rim of his glasses. He’d seen no complaint in her file. “How do you feel about this incident?” he asked her. Again she reacted to the word “incident.”

“I won’t be going on any blind dates again for a decade or two,” Dawes said. “To be honest, I’m angr—er, frustrated that he had the nerve to file a complaint against me, and I had to defend myself against him. The system is pretty fu—er, screwed up, if you ask me.”

He sighed in agreement. A woman should be able to defend herself, police officer or not. He wrote “resolved” next to that item on his list of questions. “Now, I understand you had another recent violent encounter on the job. A similar situation, of sorts. A man abusing a child and her mother—”

“Yes.” Cyrus nodded. At first he sought a delicate way to ask this. But given her blunt nature, he opted for the direct approach. “Do you think you might harbor any anger or resentment against Mr. Harkins, anything that might carry into your job on a day-to-day basis?”

Dawes shrugged. “You mean, am I pissed off at myself for letting Harkins get away, and am I taking it out on the Kenny Takuras of the world? No, Dr. Cyrus. I encounter criminals and potential criminals every day of the week on my job. I wouldn’t last long if I let every one of them get to me.”

He nodded and gestured agreement with a sweep of his open palm. He’d heard a dozen cops make the same claim, nearly verbatim. There must be a class on that in the academy. “I’m, ah, glad to hear you’ve given some thought to this,” he said.

Dawes made a wry face, like he’d reminded her of some unpleasant inside joke. Cyrus let it pass. He had to pick his battles. “How are you doing with your health? Eating, sleeping, exercising?”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember my dreams.” Her voice grew distant, as if fading into a long-forgotten memory.

During their first session, she‘d claimed to have reached peace with the punishment meted out to her uncle’s killer. She’d denied becoming a cop to avenge his death. Perhaps a little too quickly. Perhaps she protested the idea too much.

But he’d approved her entry into the force less than two months before, knowing about the issue then. If he flagged the issue now, this might all blow up on him.

Dawes was probably fine, anyway. Other than a little frustration with the whole psychological evaluation process, she seemed fine. As balanced and in control of her anger as any other cop that had gone through such an event. Perhaps more so.

But he was missing something, still. It bothered him that he couldn’t identify it.

Cyrus realized with embarrassment they’d been silent for some time. He pretended to study his notes another moment, then glanced up at her. “What else can you tell me right now?” he asked. God, what a dumb question. She knew it, too, and it showed on her face. No poker player, this one.

He sighed. Not one of his best interviews. “I’ll be writing up my recommendation to the department within the next couple of days,” he said.

“I won’t reach a decision until I review your entire case file,” he said. “But the options I’m considering are either to reinstate you, or to recommend further counseling.”

She sighed. “Right. Well then, I guess I’ll expect to see you next week.” She stood and marched out of his office.

Val counted off the last three reps of her bicep curls with audible grunts, then dropped the twenty-pound dumbbell on the floor with a thud. She sat up and scanned the police gym, almost empty at mid-morning. Almost. A sweaty figure approached her, a barrel-shaped man with legs like an elephant’s and fists like sides of ham.

“What can I do for you, Sergeant Blake?” Val forced her breaths back into a regular, slower rhythm.

Blake scanned the rack of dumbbells and selected a pair of 50-pounders. “Just wondering how you’re doing,” Blake said. He flexed each arm, testing the weight, and sat on an empty lifting bench. Red, loose-fitting shorts flapped around his thighs, and a gray “Property of CPD” T-shirt absorbed a ring of sweat around his midsection and armpits. His strong, musky scent preceded him by six feet.

“Doing okay.” She replaced her own weights, selecting a longer, heavier bar for a set of bench presses. “Thanks for asking.”

“Have you talked to the shrink?” He started a set of reps with his right arm, with slow, steady arcs, up and down.

Val nodded. “Twice. I prefer to get the mandatory stuff out of the way.” She placed the barbell on the bench rack and stretched her arms and shoulders.

Blake scowled. “Don’t just treat it as a mandatory thing to get your badge back. Sometimes these things can haunt you.”

Her ears perked up. Lieutenant Gibson trusted Travis more than any of his other sergeants. If Blake thought she presented a risk, so would Gibson. She softened her tone. “I’m okay.”

He grunted and finished his first set, started with his left arm. “Have you caught up with your paperwork?”

“Completely.” She lifted her arms to the barbell and glanced over at him. He stared back at her, even as he continued his workout. “Is there a particular reason for your interest in me today, Sarge?”

Blake nodded, a slight smile creasing his face. “Lieutenant Gibson wants a recommendation from me regarding your reinstatement. Gil, as your partner, is too close to you to be objective. I need to make sure you’re ready to come back before I put you out on the street.” He completed his set and placed the dumbbells on the floor.

“I’m ready whenever you are.” Two weeks had passed since the shooting. But Cyrus hadn’t asked for a new appointment, which she’d taken as more bureaucratic foot-dragging.

Blake stepped over and rested his hands underneath her barbell. She took the weight in her arms, brought it down to her chest. Up, slowly. Then down.

“Dawes, in some departments, when a cop says ‘I’m ready’ after a shooting, that’s good enough,” Blake said. “Not in Clayton.”

“We have a higher standard?” She continued her steady movements, felt the strain in her arms and chest. Her breathing grew labored. Nine reps, ten. End of the first set.

“We do.” Blake helped guide the barbell back to the rack. “You may have noticed, your perp was a person of color.”

She took deep breaths, rested her arms on her abdomen. “Yes, Takura was Japanese-American, to be precise.”

“And,” he said, “whites make up less than forty percent of Clayton’s population, but continue to dominate city government—including, Gibson notwithstanding, the top management of CPD.” He nodded to her again, indicating the barbell.

She began her second set of reps, but at a slower pace, her heart pounding. From the exercise, she hoped. “Remember, I’m from here. I live ten blocks from where the shooting took place. My graduating class was less than half white. Almost a mirror image of the city population as a whole. So?”

He grunted. “Ever since Ferguson and Minneapolis, we’ve become much more sensitive to community perceptions about police use of force. That’s why all the ‘grilling’, as you put it, after your shooting.”

“So, everybody gets the same treatment?” she said with a wry grin. “I’m not special?” Five reps. Six.

Blake choked out a laugh. “Look, in vice, you plug a guy, the paperwork’s just a formality. Here, in the precincts, the neighbors have to trust that you’re not going to gun people down for stealing a donut.”

“I don’t either,” Blake said. “But they need to be sure. More sure than me, even.”

Blake shook his head. “You know how that comes across. ‘She’s one of us; she’s fine.’ Put yourself in the shoes of the neighbors, The Disciples, anyone out there. Would you buy it?”

“More important,” Blake said, again guiding her bar onto the rack, “are you ready? Will you be able to draw your weapon to defend yourself, your partner, or a citizen? Will you know when not to? Or, are you too spooked still to make a quick, rational choice?”

Val glared at him. “I didn’t intend to draw my gun this time, but I did what I had to do,” she said. “To survive.”

Blake returned to his own bench and resumed his right arm curls. “Good answer.” He counted off six reps, then switched arms. She waited, hoping he’d return to spot for her again. Instead, he finished the set and wiped his watermelon-sized face with a towel, soaking it instantly. He stared off into the distance, steadying his breathing. “We had a Richard Harkins sighting yesterday,” he said.

Her mouth gaped open, and she sat up on the bench. “No shit? Was it The Disciples?” She panicked for a moment, wondering if she had the five hundred bucks she’d promised Pope.

He shook his head. “Nope. One of the neighbors. What was the young girl’s name that he abused? Anita?”

Blake nodded. “Her aunt. She doesn’t think he saw her, but seeing him scared the shit out of her.”

Val’s heart pounded. “Guy’s got balls. He doesn’t expect we’ll catch up to him?”

Blake laughed. “I guess not. But he’s wrong about that.” He reached into his fanny pack on the floor and opened his massive fist in front of her. A shiny object filled his palm.

“Your gun’s in my office. Stop by when you’re done.” He stood and sauntered off to the water fountain.

Val grinned and bench-pressed another set. This time she didn’t need anyone to spot her.

Gil greeted Val outside the locker room five minutes before their shift started, his big paw extended in a warm handshake. She welcomed his friendly smile and noticed his five-o’clock shadow seemed more subdued than usual. Like he’d actually paid attention to how his ruggedly handsome face would look with a clean shave.

“Welcome back, partner,” he said. “Are you ready to resume your training?”

She gave his hand a vigorous shake and grinned. “Like nobody’s business! Let’s hit the streets.” She headed toward the garage exit, but Gil beat her to the door and grabbed her arm. Instinctively, she shook it free. Maybe a little harder than necessary.

His voice took on a wary tone. “Let’s take a walk before we head out,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

“First, you’re going to get another frigging medal,” he said. “Pretty soon you won’t have room on your chest for a badge.”

“I’ll hide it in my underwear drawer, with the other one.” She glanced down at her chest, self-conscious. She wondered if Gil ever looked there. Probably not, since the damn Kevlar hid what little she had. Then she chided herself for thinking that way about him, again. Her partner. Boss. A man almost fifteen years older, that she’d just pushed away, for God’s sake.

“Whatever. You earned it.” He popped a hard candy into his mouth and crunched it in his teeth. “Second,” he said, most decidedly not looking at her chest, “things are going to be different.”

“I kind of figured we’d have to patrol together again for a while,” she said. “I hope you didn’t get in trouble for that.”

Gil shrugged. “I’ll live. But it’s not only that.” He turned down a side street, and after she followed, he stopped and stepped in close enough that she could smell peppermint on his breath. She took a nervous half-step back. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Listen,” he said in a low voice, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “On a good day, most people either love us or hate us. There isn’t much that we can do to change their minds. It’s based mostly on what sort of experiences they’ve had with cops in the past.”

“Don’t make light of this,” he said. “There’s been a ton of media attention to the Takura thing, most of it positive. Some people are even calling you a hero.” He fixed her with a fierce gaze. “Don’t listen to them.”

Numbness swept over her. “I don’t understand. You just said you thought I earned a medal. Now—”

“You swept some scumbag off the street, and a lot of people wish you’d do the same to the rest,” he said. “They don’t have much use for courts, trials, or people’s rights. We can’t buy into that. Understand? Don’t let this go to your head. It’ll ruin you.”

“None of us ever expect we will. But it’s hard to resist. Tell me, how have you been feeling these past few weeks since the shooting?”

“Good.” Gil lifted her chin with one finger, then placed gentle hands on her shoulders. She fought the urge to knock them off, and, this time, succeeded. He waited until her eyes met his to speak again. “That’s the feeling I want you to hold on to. You know why?”

Val shook her head, fighting nervous tears, willing them to stay in her eye sockets. Do. Not. Show. Weakness.

“Because,” he said in a soft voice, “that’s your humanity talking to you. That’s what keeps us on the right side of the thin line between good and evil out here. That’s what separates the good cops from the bad. And, Val, you’re a good cop. A damned good cop already, and you’re going to be a great cop.”

Her vision blurred, but by some miracle, the tears stayed off her cheeks. “Thanks, Gil.” After a long moment of hesitation, she patted his hands with her own. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Now, the other half of them,” he said, waving one hand in the general direction of the world, “will say you’ve already crossed the line. Any time a cop pulls out a gun, we’re abusing our power, no matter what the circumstances. Even in self-defense. By saving your own skin, you‘ve only given them more proof of how terrible we are. Don’t listen to them either.”

She shook her head and sniffled. Her nose had gotten wet. So much for holding back the tears. Dammit.

Gil smiled. “Tune into that little voice inside you, the same one that’s guided you all along.” His smile turned into a grin. “And, of course, listen to me. Always listen to me.”

She shuddered out a laugh, tension draining from her. “As long as you believe in me, Gil,” she said, “I will. That, I promise.”

He squeezed her shoulders again, and this time it didn’t feel weird. In fact, in that moment, all felt right in the world.

Gil said he needed to check in with someone before hitting the streets, so they returned to the precinct building. While she waited, Travis Blake flagged her down outside of his office. He waved her inside and handed her a large yellow mailer envelope, addressed to her. Per department practice, the package had been opened.

She glimpsed inside. The mailer contained a black box, about eight inches long. The kind jewelry came in from chain stores. She slid the box out onto the table. “Is it safe to open?”

Blake shrugged. “It’s not going to explode, or anything. At least, that’s what Security concluded.”

Val opened the box and lifted out the contents. A small pendant swayed from a thin gold chain.

“You can’t keep it, of course,” he said. “But we thought you ought to see it.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would someone send me cheap jewelry? Wasn’t there a note, or anything?”

Val she caught the card in the air, flipped it over and read it. “What the...? ‘Officer Dawes. May this ever remind you of the “good” you’re doing. — An Admirer.’ They put ‘good’ in quotes.” She shook her head and sighed. “Not very subtle, are they?”

She held the necklace closer and examined it: a simple, thin gold chain with a tiny pendant.

She slammed the chain back in the box and threw the entire container into Blake’s garbage can. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke? Because it’s pretty damned sick, if it is!”

He wagged his head in disgust and retrieved the package from the trash can. “Hey, that’s city property now. Any idea of who might have sent it?”

Val’s mind raced. Half the world would hate her, Gil had warned. A disproportionate number of them, she added to herself, wore blue uniforms like hers. “No,” she said, seething, “but whoever it is better hope I never find out.”

Walking the beat calmed Val, as did Gil’s soothing baritone voice and his steady demeanor. “It’s just some asshole’s idea of a prank,” he said. “Forget it. You have way bigger fish to fry out here.” He returned a stray basketball to a group of neighborhood kids on a street-side court, and they waved back in thanks. Other neighbors came out on their front stoops to watch them stroll by, some waving, others staring in stony silence.

“I’m hungry,” Val said when she spotted Taufiq’s Quick Mart on the next corner. “Let’s make a stop.”

Gil pushed the door open and held it for her. She scooted inside and smiled when she saw her friend at the cash register.

“Welcome back, Officer Valorie!” Taufiq opened his arms wide and rushed around the counter and embraced her in a long, tight hug. “So good of you to come in. I have missed you!”

Val‘s body trembled a bit in the embrace, and she signaled her partner for a rescue. Gil smirked and pretended to take an interest in a rack of Little Debbie cakes.

“Uh, thanks, Taufiq.” The unexpected hug had not only unnerved her, but pushed most of the air out of her lungs. She wiggled free after a few uncomfortable moments and nudged Taufiq back toward his station behind the counter. “I just need a quick bite and wanted to see how you’re doing. Are the neighborhood kids giving you any trouble?”

“The teenagers,” Taufiq said with a sad grin, “prefer the tricks to the treats this Halloween.”

“I’ll talk to them.” She stepped aside as Gil returned with their coffees and set two snack cakes on the counter. Val reached into her pocket.

“Oh, no. Your money is no good here,” Taufiq said. “You come by any time.”

“I can’t accept that,” Val said, with another “Please help me!” look at Gil.

Gil smiled and held his arms out wide. “As much as we’d love to, as underpaid and under-appreciated public servants, we can’t,” he said. “Department policy says nothing more than a cup of regular coffee.”

“Besides,” Val said, “you have a business to run. You’re not going to make any money if you give all your profits to the cops.”

“Not to all cops,” Taufiq said. “Just you, Officer Valorie, and Sergeant K. It is a thank-you for making our neighborhood safer.”

“We all work together on that.” She dropped cash on the counter and sipped her coffee. “But thank you for the kind words. By the way, this coffee is excellent.”

Neighbors greeted her with a mix of reactions along their walking route that night—some with scowls, but most with smiles and waves. Universally, though, business owners showed support. Shop owners offered thanks, congratulations, even gifts that she politely declined. “You look cold,” a sporting goods shop owner said, offering her a New England Patriots skull cap. She almost accepted that—after all, it was freezing out, typical of early November. A clothing store offered her a parka. Others offered DVD’s, food, a lifetime membership to a yoga studio—all turned down, with sincere thanks.

“See? Like I said. They love you!” Gil said when they took another coffee break in McDonald’s around 8:00 p.m.

“That’s not what you said!” She laughed when she realized he was teasing. “I only wish we could have spoken to Antoinetta’s Aunt Camila. I really wanted to get a lead on Harkins.”

“Let the suits handle the detective work.” Gil stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee. “Focus on your job: policing the beat and engaging with the neighbors. Which you’re doing very well, I might add.”

“Are they being genuine, or putting up a front?” she asked. “I expected more negative reactions, after your warning earlier.”

“Their reactions are far more positive than I expected.” He sipped his coffee. “Most of them do seem to love you.”

“Because I plugged a guy?” Val sat next to him at the counter overlooking the street through wall-to-ceiling glass. “That doesn’t seem right. At least, it’s not very consistent with community policing.”

Gil shook his head. “Not only that. You’re doing what nobody else has done around here in years: paying attention to them. They feel empowered and listened to.”

“It does feel good,” she admitted, and grew excited. “We need to tap into this somehow, get them more involved. If we could do that, we could clean up this area, make it livable again.” She sipped on her coffee. It scalded the roof of her mouth.

“Now don’t get all touchy-feely on me here.” Gil scowled. “They’re not excited about democratic participation and liberty, Val. They’re happy that you wiped one of the dirt-bags off the street who’s been making their lives miserable. That’s why they think you’re listening. But they don’t want to become cops. They just want you to keep on doing it.”

She swirled her coffee, blowing on it again. “Maybe, after what we saw tonight, we have an opportunity to change things.”

Gil clapped his hand on hers, clutching it in a rough embrace. “You do that,” he said. “And when you do, I’ll back you, a hundred percent. And who knows? Maybe it’ll help us track down guys like Harkins. Anyway, I gotta hit the men’s. I’ll be right back.” He pulled back his hand, gulped his still-scalding coffee, and ambled off to the restroom.

Val stared at her hand, still tingling where his fingers had touched hers. Normally she’d brush away contact of that sort. This time, her instinctive reaction to the friendly gesture remained dormant, for some reason. The touch felt almost...good.

Seated at a small table in The Claytown Cafe the next morning, she jotted ideas on a pocket-sized notepad, focusing on her community policing idea. If she could engage the neighbors to be more proactive and make them think it was their own idea—

“Bang! Bang! Hey, there, Annie Oakley. Looks like I got the drop on you this time.”

Val jumped at the sound of Paul Peterson’s grating voice. The ball of her pen jabbed a hole into the sheet of paper in front of her, clear through to the chipped Formica. She gripped it and took a deep breath.

“Don’t you have some other place you need to be?” she said without looking up. “Say, Afghanistan?”

“Aw, c’mon there, Officer Dawes.” Peterson sat his lanky frame across from her. “Where’s your sense of humor? Anyway, I meant it as a compliment.”

“A compliment?” That made her look up. She shook her head in wonder. “You’ve got a funny way of making a girl feel good, Mr. Peterson.”

“Leave my sex life out of this,” he said with a smart-assed grin. He’d grown a wispy mustache in recent weeks, and it made his pointed, thin face resemble a rat’s. “And please, call me Paul.”

“You know, Dawes, you truly are impressive,” Peterson said. “You’ve been on the job what, six weeks? Already the bodies are falling.”

“Get the hell out of here, Peterson.” Val searched the room for someone who could remove him, found no one. Not even the pink-haired waitress.

“You’re on quite a pace,” Peterson said. “And not a scratch on you. Like in that movie Tombstone. Maybe we ought to call you Val Kilmer instead of Val Dawes?”

“You’d be happier if he had shot me instead?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“No, no.” Peterson leaned back in his chair and held his hands out in front of him. “Believe me, Dawes. Nobody wants to read a blog about the scum you lock up every day. But a free-shooting rookie cop attracts a whole slew of readers. My numbers are way up.”

“In all seriousness, Dawes, I am impressed. You’re a fabulous shot. Just like Ben said you were.”

Val closed her eyes, drawing in and exhaling a slow, noisy breath. She’d forgotten about Ben, who had hit on her a few times in the Academy. She drew upon the one factoid she remembered him mentioning during an otherwise stultifying night of group socializing with her fellow cadets: Paul’s hated nickname.

Peterson stiffened at the diminutive, then chuckled and shook his head. “See? So serious. All business. But I tell you what, I’m glad we’re on the same team, Valley Girl.”

Val froze, and the world froze with her. That horrible nickname from her past, the one she’d hoped to have left behind forever, echoed in her ears. The man’s tenor voice transformed with each echo, deepening, slurring, taking on the nails-on-the-chalkboard rasp that her tormentor had long ago used, fooling her parents into thinking of Milt as a kind old uncle instead of the child rapist that he was—

With an angry roar rising from somewhere within, her finger shot up to within an inch of the man’s eyes. “Don’t call me that!”

His face blanched, and Milt’s visage morphed back into the smirking Paul Peterson. He pushed back, hands raised, the legs of his chair scraping on the linoleum floor. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Sorry. Dawes. Jeez, I’m just glad that finger wasn’t loaded.”

“Argh!” Val stood and grabbed for his throat, but couldn’t reach. “You rotten shit! Get out of here!” Her breathing came hard, her face hot.

Peterson jumped away from the table. He stared at her a moment and forced a hollow laugh. “Fine,” he said. “I have other things to do. I don’t need to hang around trying to see where you’ve hidden your sense of humor.” He stood, took a few steps, then turned. “But, Dawes?” A sardonic smile creased his face, making him appear even more repulsive.

“Yeah?” She calmed a bit with his retreat. This was not Milt. Just a slimy blogger with an ax to grind. Her breathing slowed.

He hedged, cleared his throat. “I’ve, ah, kept my silence on this latest incident of yours out of respect for the victim’s family—”

“But I’m not done with you. You’ll be seeing your name in the headlines of my publication again very soon.”

“Your publication is a heaping, online pile of click-bait, and I told you, I’ve unsubscribed!”

“Heh. You’ll be back. Your type, you glory-seeking heroes, you can’t resist seeing your names in print.”

Anger flattened Peterson’s condescending smile for a moment. Then, as if a light blinked on, his face brightened, and the snarling smile returned. “What’s that, Dawes?” he said in a loud voice so that everyone in the place could hear. “You want me to buy you breakfast? Why, doesn’t that violate your department’s policy on gifts and bribes? Especially to a member of the press?”

A cruel smile crossed Peterson’s face. “Now, what sort of gift might save a rookie policewoman’s life?” he asked. “Or, more important, her career? Say, a gun, planted on an innocent victim of a police shooting?” The cruel smile hardened. “Read my blog, Dawes.” He turned and strolled out of the restaurant.

“How many times have I told you to ignore that Peterson creep?” Gil said with a shake of his head as they walked down Albany Street the next evening. “He’s just trying to stir the pot and get under your skin. Don’t let him.”

“My head agrees with you,” Val said, waving at a group of kids gathering at the basketball court. They ignored her and continued choosing teams. “But my heart disagrees with my head on this one.”

“Listen to your head, then,” Gil said with a grin. “Trust that amazing intelligence of yours.”

They walked along in silence for a block or two. Gil threw her a few skeptical glances, then sighed. “You’re still thinking about it.”

Val sighed. “One thing he said sticks with me,” she said. “That whole thing about planting guns. I’ve heard about that, but how common a practice is it?”

Gil frowned and scanned the area. “Let‘s not discuss that out on the street,” he said in a low voice.

“Not here,” Gil said. “Listen, police don’t shoot people that often in Clayton. Before yours, the last one was nine months ago. The most we’ve had in a single year is four, and that was the year your uncle—.” He stopped, covering his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”

Val’s head felt light, and she steadied herself by leaning against the chain-link fence abutting the sidewalk. She fought to catch her breath, and the only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Val glanced at him, nodded her head. “It’s okay,” she said. “I need to get over my uncle’s death...one of these days.” She sucked in deep gulps of air and fanned herself. Despite the chilly November night, her head and neck felt as hot as a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

“We all do,” Gil said. “His death was a great loss to everyone in the department. Not that our grief compares to what you and your family went through.” He set his hand on her shoulder. “And I didn’t mean to say that what you did—”

“It’s okay, dammit.” She pushed his hand off and twisted away from him. “I’ll be fine.”

They resumed their beat-walking, stopping to chat with shopkeepers and neighbors from time to time. Val showed them a picture of Harkins, but nobody had seen any sign of him.

A short while after darkness fell, they reached the theater parking lot at the corner of Albany and MLK, Jr. Boulevard, the place Val thought of as The Disciples’ headquarters. They didn’t get far before a few Disciples, each sporting one or more gold loops in each ear, formed a human blockade. Cardinal Thomas, who wore three rings, stood cross-armed in the center of the group.

“Yet doesn’t sound so good,” Gil said. “So, you’re saying we should stay awhile to make sure things stay quiet?”

Thomas shrugged and spit at Val’s feet. “You can. As long as she don’t.”

Val exchanged puzzled looks with Gil and took a step toward Thomas. “You got a problem with me?”

“Yeah, well, as officers of the law, we can go wherever we damn well please,” Gil said. “Including her. Including right in the middle of this parking lot, which, I remind you, is private property, not owned by any of you.”

The men on either side of Cardinal Thomas grumbled in low voices. Val could make out the occasional word: “our damn space,” “ain’t doing nothing,” and all too clearly, “fucking white-girl cops.” Then: “See what Pope has to say.”

Thomas held up one hand, and the grumbling stopped. “We don’t need to find out what Pope has to say,” Thomas said. “I know what Pope thinks about this.”

“Do you now?” Pope pushed through the line of men, with Dog trailing behind him. “I don’t recall ever needing anyone to do my talking for me.”

Thomas seemed to shrink in the shadow of Pope, his face downcast. “I’m just doing what you told me to do,” he said. “I ain’t—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Pope waved the group back, stepped forward, and leaned in toward Val. “You the one that shot that Asian dude.” A statement, not a question.

Val shuddered, hoping it didn’t show. Putting on a brave face, she said, “I am. He was breaking the law and evading justice. Not to mention, he shot at me.” Her voice grew heated, something she’d tried to avoid.

Pope stared at her a long moment. “So you say,” he said at last. “So cops always say. ‘He had a gun.’ Bunch of bullshit.”

Pope sneered at them. “Bunch of cop-loving pussies. They just trying to get on your good side. Ain’t none of them seen nothing.”

“I don’t need to,” Pope said. “I know cops and how much they love they guns. What else I gotta know?”

An idea popped into Val’s head, something she remembered Gil telling her about Pope, about his little sister. “Maybe you might want to know what he was doing,” she said, “that caused me to chase after him.”

Pope cocked his head. “What the fuck that got to do with anything?” But doubt had crept into his voice. Gil smiled at her, gave her a subtle thumbs-up.

“He was abusing a little girl,” she said. “Or trying to. I happened by and heard the ruckus. When I went up to stop him, he ran.”

Pope gave her a long look, rubbing his chin. “For real?” He shook his head. “You making that up.”

“No, she ain’t,” someone said behind Pope. Dog slipped around the larger man and stood in front of him. “This is the lady cop that let me go that night. She’s straight up, Pope. She says something, I believe her.”

“Do you, now?” Pope grabbed Dog by the shirt and pulled him close to his own face, glaring into the young boy’s eyes. “Why you fucking sticking up for a goddamned cop? Is this part of your deal, why she let you go? You sucking her ass now?”

Trembling, Dog shook his head. “N-no, Pope. I ain’t made no deal. I’m just saying. She coulda rung me up. Most cops would’ve. She didn’t. She different, that’s all I’m saying.”

Pope glared at Dog another long moment, then pushed him to the ground. “Fine. So maybe the guy deserved it. This time.” He stepped toward Val, poking his finger at her. “But here’s what I know. Once a cop pulls the trigger, they start liking it. And then things get a whole lot worse for people like me.”

Val took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm. She rubbed her hands together, as much to keep them away from her weapons as for warmth. “I will tell you, flat-out, that I didn’t enjoy shooting that man. I’m not that kind of cop, and I never will be.”

Pope sneered again. “Bullshit. You just like your uncle. Damn dude killed what, five, six people? Shee-it. It’s in your genes, girl.”

Heat rose in Val’s face, her heart pounding. “First off, I am not my uncle. There are days I wish I was half the person he was, but I’m not. And second, he shot those people in self-defense. And third, one of them killed HIM!”

Her body shook, her face inches from Pope’s. The big man’s eyes grew wide, and he backed away, holding his hands out in front of him. The other Disciples backed up with Pope, widening their circle. Tense silence filled the air.

Finally, Gil spoke. “This meeting’s gone on long enough.” He tipped his cap at Pope and pulled Val back a step. “Good chat, boys,” he said to the group. “See you tomorrow and we’ll pick this up where we left off.” He pulled Val back to the sidewalk.

Val stared at the group, retreating to the center of the lot where their usual trash-can fire burned. She followed Gil down the block, then grabbed his arm. “I screwed up back there, didn’t I?” she said.

Gil smiled and shook his head. “Not at all. You stood your ground and made them think. A good middle-ground choice. Had you gone to either extreme—backed down or lost your temper—that would have been a mistake.”

She shook her body loose, letting the tension flow out of her. “I guess that’s part of that ‘other half’ you were talking about,” she said.

Gil laughed. “Let’s just say, we shouldn’t expect them at any Neighborhood Watch meetings.”

Val saw the humor and wanted to laugh with him, but she couldn’t. She had far too much work to do, and a lot more to learn about becoming the type of cop that would make her uncle proud.

After their break, Gil and Val prioritized how they’d cover the rest of their beat that night. “You probably don’t want to go anywhere near the Jacobs Arms,” he said, “but it’s on the way to Antoinetta’s. I was hoping we could catch up with her aunt before bedtime, see if she’s heard anything else about Harkins.”

Val shuddered at the mention of the building where she’d first encountered Takura, but shook it off. “Agreed,” she said. “I haven’t seen Antoinetta in weeks. I’d love to check in on her, too.”

Fewer neighbors waved friendly greetings as they walked the sketchier side of their beat. Young Asian men made themselves scarce whenever they spied the two officers coming. A nightclub bouncer bobbed his head, expressionless, and an old Hispanic man sniffed in disapproval while they waited for a walk signal to change. Otherwise they could have been invisible.

They turned onto Greenfield Street and spotted a small group of Latino boys smoking cigarettes under a street lamp, chattering in Spanish. Gil picked up the pace and headed straight for them. Val caught up after a few steps. “Do you know these guys?” she asked in a low voice.

“Not yet,” Gil said. He smiled at the boys. “Hola, amigos. ¿Sabes dónde vive Camila Martinez?”

The boys glanced at each other, then laughed, coughing blue smoke and wheezing. “Speak English, man,” the tallest of them said. “So it don’t hurt so much.”

Val smirked, but Gil scowled. “In English, then. Do you know where she lives?”

“Maybe,” said the tall one, a dark-haired, thin boy with the faint beginnings of unkempt facial hair. All of them wore dark leather or faux-leather jackets, not nearly warm enough for the chill of the evening. The tall kid stomped out his cigarette and peered out through long black bangs. “You arresting someone for something?”

“Yeah, right,” one of the boys said. The others muttered agreement. “Buncha bullshit,” another one said.

Val stepped in front of Gil. “Do you guys remember the night a few weeks back, when we chased the white dude out of Antoinetta’s house? Do you know Antoinetta?”

“Well,” she said, “we’re the cops who chased him out. Have you seen him?”

“Carlos?” A woman’s voice emerged from the front porch of a small ranch house behind the two officers. With her porch light out, Val couldn’t see her face. “Are you in trouble again?”

“Yes?” She ambled down the steps, pulling a button-down sweater tight around her shoulders. She smiled when she got closer to them. “Ah, Señor Officer K,” she said in a thick Mexican accent. “And Señorita Dawes! I have been hoping to speak with you. Please, come inside, where it is warm.” Without waiting, she shuffled back to her porch and held open the door.

Gil gave the boys one last disapproving glare, then he and Val joined Camila at her kitchen table, where she poured them mugs of hot tea.

“As I told your detectives, Señor Harkins came by here a week or so ago, looking for my sister,” Camila said in response to Gil’s questioning. “He threatened to hurt me if I did not tell him where she was, but I shooed him off my porch with this.” She held up a stout deck broom with long, stiff bristles, its handle sharpened like a spear tip. “Antoinetta, she say, he got my point. Ha ha! Funny girl.” She chuckled and sipped her tea.

“My sister does not believe this, but he has another girl in Hartford,” Camila said. “An Anglo with fake red hair and fake you-know-what’s.” She cupped her hands a foot from her chest. “Pechos. You know? Boobies.” She cackled and shook her head. “My good-for-nothing ex-husband has seen her dance at the Silver Fox strip club.”

“What’s her name?” Gil asked. Val buried a laugh behind a cough and covered her mouth. A person could interpret that question the wrong way.

“If he comes back, he will feel my point again,” Camila said, grabbing the broom handle.

“It might be better if you call us,” Gil said, sliding a business card across the table. “Or 9-1-1.”

She glanced at the card. “You will not be here as fast as my broom,” she said.

“Señora Martinez, we very much want to find Mr. Harkins,” Val said. “He’s a fugitive from justice. Not only did he harm Antoinetta, but he shot one of our officers. He—”

“Ah, of course. I did not believe that you would care so much about him, just for hurting my sister and sobrina.” Camila tsk’d and sipped her tea. “But he hurt one of you, so yes, you must find him.”

“Ms. Martinez,” Gil said, his voice rising, “I don’t care what you—”

“In fact, Camila,” Val said, almost shouting to drown out Gil, “I care very much about what he did to Antoinetta. Perhaps because I know what she has been through.”

“Mr. Harkins attacked me, but that‘s not what I mean,” Val said. “Another man did...uh, a similar thing to me, when I was about her age...” Her voice trailed off. Suddenly it became very difficult to talk about it—as usual. The words that had flowed out in the passion of the moment fell to their usual silent death once she realized what she was saying.

Gil stared at her now, open-mouthed. Val’s face flushed, heat flooding her cheeks and forehead. She hadn’t intended to share this with him. Not this way, anyway. What had gotten into her?

Camila set down her tea and sat up straight in her chair. She looked at Val, then Gil, then back to Val. She nodded. “I will help you,” she said to Val. “You. Okay? Because you know.” She cast a glance over Gil’s head, her chin held high, and sniffed at him. Then back to Val. “You give me your phone number,” she said. “I only want to call you.”

Outside a minute later, Gil turned toward her. “Val. I had no idea. I’m so sorry to hear that you—”

“Forget about that, okay?” Val stomped past him. “It got us what we wanted. Let’s get going. We have a lot more ground to cover tonight.”

She walked on, not waiting for him to follow. He wanted to talk to her about it, of course. But that was the last thing she wanted to share with him.

Valorie lay on her bed, her back to Uncle Milt while he zipped up and fumbled with his belt. Pain and shame and fear competed for attention inside her, each taking turns winning the battle. His noisy breaths, the rattling belt clasp, and the suffocating aroma of tobacco, whiskey, and sweat informed her that this had not yet ended. Hot tears stung her cheeks. She dared not let him see that. For some reason, it made her feel even more ashamed. More...weak. Pathetic. Open to another attack. That danger lurked as long as he stayed, and she couldn’t force him out. He was too big, too powerful.

Surely, he would leave soon.

A heavy weight pressed down on the bed. Her insides turned into heavy mush. God, he couldn’t possibly want to hurt her again, could he? So soon?

His hand rested on her shoulder. Valorie jerked away, pressed herself against the wall.

“Now, don’t be like that,” Uncle Milt said. “We’re friends, right, Valley Girl?”

The contents of Valorie's stomach bubbled up into her throat. She swallowed the hot, acidic goo, somehow, but it burned her throat. She coughed, and gagged on the awful taste. “Please go,” she said, and a sob escaped her. That only made her angrier, and she wanted to curse, but she didn’t like to curse. She had the urge to punch something. Milt, to be specific. Probably not a safe move. Her frustration doubled, and another sob escaped.

“Please, don’t cry,” Milt said.

Suddenly she couldn’t control the crying. It poured out of her, hot, painful, shameful, unstoppable. She buried her face in her pillow—

“I said DON’T CRY!”

The shock of his loud voice, of his anger, took away her breath, halted the tears, stopped her heart from beating. Her body stiffened, frozen in her awkward pose. No sound escaped her. No movement. No tears.

“That’s better,” Uncle Milt said, his voice gentle again. “You’re a big girl, now, Valley Girl. You don’t need to cry. Right?”

Valorie nodded, still not facing him.

His weight lifted off the bed. When Milt spoke again, he seemed farther away. “Now,” he said, “neither of us tells anyone what we did here tonight. No one ever needs to know. Right, Valorie?”

She buried her face deeper into her pillow, tears again soaking through the pillowcase. Go away, Milt. Just. Go.

“Friends like us, we can keep secrets, right?” he said. He rested his arm on her back. She shook it off, rolled away from him, sobbing.

“Come on, Valley Girl. I need to hear you say it,” he said. “I’ll never tell anyone. Say it.”

Valorie pressed the pillow against each side of her head. Please, God. Make him go away.

“Say it!” he said, his voice a nasty hiss, so harsh it made her jump. Milt's hand pressed down on the back of her neck, gripping her with too much force. She shook her head.

“Out. Loud!” He pushed at her head. It hurt.

She tried to take a breath, but inhaled only pillow. She wheezed, an awful sound. He loosened his grip, and she gasped air into her lungs.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Valorie said with a moan, choking on the words.

“Good girl,” he said. “I know you won’t. Because you don’t want to get in trouble, do you? You know what people think about girls who do what you did.”

What she did? She hadn’t done anything! But if she objected, he would grab her neck again. She shook her head, then nodded, and the tears flowed like an open spigot from her eyes.

“We don’t want people to think that about you, do we, Valorie?”

She shook her head again, her eyes closed tight.

“I didn’t think so.” His weight lifted off the bed, and he pulled the covers over her. From the corner of her eye she saw him stumble toward her bedroom door. He stood by the doorway and gazed back at her.

“Good night, Valley Girl,” he said.

Valorie moaned and turned away.

“Say goodnight!” he said in a commanding tone. Then, more softly: “Please.”

“Good...g’nite...Unc... Milt.”

Her door closed, and the long dark night of remembering began.

Val and Gil barely spoke for the rest of the shift beyond the perfunctory and logistical necessities of navigating a shared beat. Gil remarked once or twice on their conversation with Camila, but she steered all responses—brief as they were—back to work topics with ruthless efficiency. She realized she was acting like an ass, but she was in no mood for light banter or personal revelations, and work was a safe middle ground.

Toward 3:00 a.m., with minutes to go on their shift, Gil parked the cruiser behind a shady all-night bar with no windows, few customers, and too many neon signs advertising video poker. Two of the lot’s four floodlights had burned out, including the one that would have illuminated their parking spot.

Alarms rang in Val’s mind. She’d been stuck alone too many times in situations like this with handsy men. Her breath grew short, her face warm. She fumbled with the door handle, but it was locked. Shit shit shit—

“Oh, sorry,” Gil said, clicking the door locks open. “Yeah, let’s get out of this stinking car.” He pushed his door open and got out.

She waited a moment, collected her thoughts, and let her breathing return to normal before joining him at the rear of the cruiser. He stretched out his hand toward her shoulder, and she jumped back.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he said. “I keep forgetting you’re not comfortable with casual touch.”

Val let out a noisy breath. “It’s not about you. It’s...a thing with me.” She looked away. She never could bring herself to explain this.

Gil waited for her to look back at him and kept his voice soft. “I get it. And I’m a hugger by nature. Men, women, everyone. I’ll keep it in check.”

He shrugged. “One of the neighbors said he used to hang out here. I suggest we poke around a little. By the time they serve us anything, we’ll be off shift. And I need a beer.” He pulled open the heavy metal door and waved her inside.

She stopped a few steps past the door, letting her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, shed mostly by neon signs advertising cheap beer and terrible whiskey. A wooden bar absorbed most of the back wall, and men of various ages occupied three of the spinner stools fixed to the floor, with a half-dozen or more seats between them. U-shaped booths padded with ripped red-vinyl seat covers lined the walls on either side. Spent peanut shells crunched beneath the feet of a couple of old gents heading toward the men’s room. The whole bar reeked of grease, stale tobacco smoke, and spilled beer.

Gil leaned over the bar and conversed with the bartender in a low voice. After a few moments, the bartender shook his head and pointed to one of the vacant booths. They slid in moments later.

“Nobody’s seen him lately, but he was a regular until a few weeks ago,” Gil said. “My guess is he’s in Hartford now, like Camila suggested.”

The bartender brought two sleeves of yellow, fizzy beer and a bowl of peanuts in the shell. Gil held up his beer in a toast. “To catching Harkins,” he said.

Val wasn’t sure if their shift had officially ended yet, but she had to drink to that. She clinked his glass, sipped, and grimaced. Cold, bitter, and otherwise tasteless, like all beer in her experience. She shoved it aside.

“I loved what you did out there tonight,” he said. “The work you did with Pope, Dog, and Camila—it’s nothing short of amazing. You have a knack for this.” Under the table, his foot bumped hers. She moved hers away from him. “I never could have gotten that info out of Camila,” he went on. “Only by you sharing your own personal experience—”

Gil smiled. “I could tell by the way you blew me off afterwards,” he said. “Which is fine. It’s your own business, not mine.”

She paused, took a breath. “Thanks,” she said. An awkward moment passed. She should tell him the rest, but...

“You bring a whole new approach to things,” he said. “It’s creative, energetic, and exciting to be around.” He smiled at her, a wistful smile. “Old-timers like me,” he said, “we get too jaded and lose sight of what it means to be a cop.”

Val sipped her beer again. It didn’t taste as awful this time. “You’re no old-timer,” she said. “You have, what is it? Eight years on the force?”

“Eight in Clayton. I was in New Haven for eight years before that,” Gil said. “What a hellhole.”

“Hellholes need good police protection as much as Clayton. Maybe even more so.” She stretched her legs out and this time she bumped his foot. He didn’t react, and she curled her feet back under her seat. “Not that anyone has to be stuck their whole career in a hell hole to be a good cop,” she continued, her words rushed. “But those are the people that resonate with me—the ones who feel stuck, or powerless.” She slowed her speech, and words came out sounding slurred. What a lightweight. Slow down, girl. Shut up.

“There’s that idealistic enthusiasm of yours again.” Gil smiled and patted her hand, then frowned and pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. Her hand tingled. Damn, what was he doing to her?

Her stomach growled, and she chuckled in relief for the distraction. She tipped her glass at him and sipped again. “Shall we get something greasy to wash down with this witches’ brew? Some Cajun fries?”

He grinned. “Girl after my own heart.” Her face warmed. Was she sending signals she didn’t intend?

Gil seemed not to notice and turned to wave at the barkeep. “Cajuns?” he said, just loud enough, and the bartender nodded. He turned back toward her. “Those fries are salty, greasy heaven.”

“Friendly enough that we’re safe to spend the last five minutes of our shift here.”

Val set her half-empty glass on the wooden table, right over where someone had carved their initials into it. The beer was going down much too fast. She needed to slow down, keep her wits about her.

Silence lingered. Neon flashes reflected in Gil’s dark eyes, dancing with humor. She noticed the strength of his square jaw, the coarseness of individual whiskers in his five o’clock shadow. He ran his hand through his thick, wavy black hair, now a few inches longer than the military cut he’d sported when they met seven weeks before.

She realized with a start that she was admiring him. His looks, for God’s sake.

“I needed a change,” Gil said, glancing away. He drank most of the rest of his beer and set the glass on the table, scooted deeper into the “U” of the seat, and lowered his voice. “After five years on the force, I met the woman of my dreams, I thought. We dated a few years, got engaged, and moved in together. But she discovered, luckily before we tied the knot, that she couldn’t live the life of worry that comes with marrying a cop, and broke it off. I needed a change of scenery, and Clayton was hiring.”

Finding it difficult to hear him, Val edged deeper into the “U” as well. They now sat at a 45-degree angle. She cleared her throat, searching for something appropriate to say. “So, you never married?”

“No,” he said with an easy smile. “The experience with Jessica made me realize that only another cop would understand the life we lead. And you may have noticed, there aren’t many of women on the force my age. One, to be exact, and Shannon O’Reilly’s married.”

“What constitutes ‘your age’?” The words left her mouth before she could stop them, and she reddened.

“Plus or minus five years, so, roughly, a woman in her thirties. Don’t worry, you’re safe,” he said, laughing. “By, what, seven or eight years?”

“Seven, in a few weeks,” she said, with a nervous laugh not matching his in energy. “My birthday is in December.”

“Birthdays are for kids. No offense.” He spun his beer glass on the table between his hands and laughed again.

She joined him this time for real. She hadn’t celebrated a birthday in years. Not since—

Val's laughter died as if someone had hit a “mute” button on her face. The last time she celebrated a birthday, her twelfth, Uncle Val had given her a brand-new gi to wear to her jiu jitsu classes. On her thirteenth...she shook away the awful memory.

The fries arrived, as did Gil’s second beer. Gil dove in with enthusiasm, while she picked at the fries, too nervous to eat much. He saved her the final handful, after which they leaned back in their seats. Val noticed that they’d moved close together on the seat, both at the short end of the “U,” facing the same direction. Close enough that a casual observer might mistake them for a romantic couple. Which neither of them wanted. She should move away.

She almost did, too. But what message would that send? That she thought he’d moved too close, that he was some sort of creep? They weren’t touching or anything, although they sat close enough that they could.

“Gil,” she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you before. With my story, I mean.”

“No apology needed,” he said. “I haven’t earned your trust yet. I’m okay with that.”

“No, that’s not right,” she said. “You have earned it. You’ve been nothing short of amazing as a partner—and as a friend. And I want you to understand.”

He bowed his head in a slow nod. “When you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”

She sipped her beer. “I’m...almost ready.” She surrendered a sad smile and turned toward him. He turned, too, and their bent knees touched on the seat. She jerked it away, then hung her head, blowing air out between her lips. “And, yeah...I’m such a goddamned liar.”

Gil laughed. “4;00 a.m. isn’t the time to start a long life story anyway. You can tell me about it on the drive to Hartford.”

“On our next day off, we’re going to the Silver Fox to find Richard Harkins, or at least his dancer girlfriend,” he said. “Unless you don’t want to go.”

“Of course I want to go! But didn’t you say we should leave that to the detectives?”

He shrugged. “I think it’s time we do a little poking around on our own. Unofficially, of course. I have a buddy on the Hartford P.D. who owes me one. I thought we‘d hit him up first, find out what he knows, then lurk around the nightclub and track down the dancer Camila mentioned, see where that leads us.”

“You’re amazing!” Val raised her nearly empty glass and toasted him. “I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait to go to Hartford.”

Val dragged her sorry ass out of bed well past 1:00 p.m. the next day. She found Beth busying herself in the kitchen, preparing a platter of Buffalo wings and nachos big enough for an army. Which meant, of course, she’d stashed Josh in the bedroom again.

“Watching football. It’s Saturday,” she said. “UConn plays UMass today. Want to watch with us?”

Val shook her head and opened an overhead cupboard, then wondered why. Her brain would not wake up. She should never drink after 3:00 a.m.

“We’re out of coffee,” Beth said. “I can send my boy out to get some.”

“He’d do that?” Val raked through the fridge to find something easier on the stomach than Cajun fries for breakfast.

Minutes later, a 30-ish rake with the dark shadow of a beard and an easy smile emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a UConn sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Joshua’s tousled mop of light brown hair seemed even more unruly than usual. He held his phone out to Val. “Hey, do you know this guy?”

Val squinted at the palm-sized screen and read the first few lines of the article before recognizing the truth-slashing style of Paul Peterson. “Yeah, sort of,” she said. “He’s a muck-raker. I ignore him.”

“Okay,” Josh said with an easy grin. “You say so.” He pulled on a jacket. “So, coffee, eggs, and aspirin? Anything else? Beer?”

Josh pointed at his phone and shoved it into his pocket. “I guess you can’t believe everything you read, then.” He whistled tuneless noise and ambled out the door, landing a wet smooch on Beth’s smiling face on the way.

Beth laughed and her eyes focused on a far-distant place. “It’s not what I see in him,” she said, “although his eyes are dreamy. It’s what I feel in me...if you catch my drift.” She giggled and flicked on the TV.

Val leaned back on the sofa and tried to rest, but Josh’s words bounced around in her head. She sighed and tapped her own phone’s browser, finding Peterson’s blog. She groaned.

Clayton residents once could rest assured that the unsavory practices often featured on late-night cop shows would never infect our safe little town. But what we have learned suggests that such assurances are no longer warranted.

Our sources (who wish to remain anonymous) indicate that the worst imaginable police tactics are as common in Clayton as they are in New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago—even the TV versions of those cities.

Not only do our men—and women!—in blue terrorize and shoot innocent citizens. But, our sources say, police regularly plant evidence such as drugs, guns, and stolen goods on suspects to create false justifications for their illegal acts.

Almost as bad, rumors persist that police routinely accept bribes—free food and drinks, valuable gifts such as jewelry and tickets to local events, and cash—to look the other way when local “businesses” (crime syndicates) are involved.

I wish I could say that this net of corruption snares only the jaded old-timers on the force. But the truth is much uglier. Even rookie police men—and women!—are apparently on the take.

Val’s hands shook so hard, she dropped the phone before she could finish reading the article. How could this moron get away with posting such trash? Libel laws must apply, somehow. She considered phoning the department, but the lawyers wouldn’t do anything about it until Monday, at the earliest. She still had a pair of nine-hour shifts ahead of her before Monday morning rolled around.

Val re-read the article’s outrageous claims and got ripping mad again. She’d never met a single cop in her short career who’d even consider planting guns or evidence on suspects, much less taking bribes. She doubted that even Alex Papadopoulos would cross that line.

And Peterson calling out “rookie women”—of which Clayton had exactly one—amounted to a personal attack. Without a shred of evidence. That lying, scheming ass!

She calmed after a few minutes, listening to Beth cheer the home team for something awesome they did. The calming helped clarify her thinking, and she checked the article again. Sure enough, it alluded to gifts of “jewelry.” She recalled the necklace with the gun pendant. Would this be one of those “gifts?” If so, she wondered how Peterson found out about it. He’d mentioned it in the coffee shop that day...the day he’d called her “Valley Girl,” just to get under her skin. How had he discovered that as well?

The following Tuesday, Val followed Gil inside the Dutch Door, a 50s-style throwback diner on the street level of a three-story, mixed-use brick building in southeast Hartford. A brisk wind pushed the door shut behind them, but not before blowing in a few stray grocery sacks, empty potato chip wrappers, and brown oak leaves. The sounds of clanking dishes, steaming pots, and shouting kitchen workers filled the overheated air, lit by dim, low-slung light fixtures overhanging each table from twelve-foot ceilings.

“I love this place,” Gil said. He took a deep whiff of the humid air, saturated with the aromas of coffee, stale grease, and frying bacon, and patted his stomach. “Food for kings.”

Val stared at him, wide-eyed. “I can feel my arteries hardening just standing here. Have they even heard of salad?”

Gil led her to a booth in the back. “Let’s get a head start on coffee while we wait for them.” He waved down their waiter, a burly man whose five-o’clock shadow belied his obnoxious cologne, something Val described to herself as eau de cigarette. He delivered an insulated carafe of weak coffee and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Tell me about this guy, Jalen Marshall,” Val said. “You used to work with him?”

Gil nodded, stirring four teaspoons of sugar into his mug. “Jalen and I went to the Academy together. He’s the one that recruited me to Clayton, but he moved here when Hartford made a big push for diversity in their detective ranks. A good cop. As in, really good. Gibson nearly had a heart attack when he left. So did Pops.”

“Why Pops?” Val followed Gil’s lead, dumping what the Surgeon General would describe as three days’ worth of sugar into her coffee, and an equal measure of cream. With all that, the stuff almost became drinkable.

Gil scanned the room and lowered his voice. “Pops was Jalen’s first partner at Clayton. Just between us, that’s a big reason he left. Jalen is a cop’s cop, and he couldn’t trust Pops to have his back.” He leaned back. “But you never heard that from me, right?”

“My lips are sealed—oh, shit!” She ducked low in the booth, hiding behind Gil’s large frame from the lanky man in his early twenties who’d just entered the front door. With his short brown hair and that awful smirk he always wore, Ben Peterson resembled his journalist cousin Paul far too much for comfort. Only his attire—a blue-gray police uniform with a silver badge and a bright yellow shoulder patch—set him apart from his muck-raking relation. “What the hell’s he doing here?”

“Who?” Gil turned, then stood and waved at the tall, husky African American officer entering the diner behind Ben. He gestured again, and the man said something to Ben, then pointed at Gil. They approached the table together.

“What’s your problem?” Gil asked, but the two men arrived before Val could answer.

Jalen removed his hat, revealing short, curly black hair parted around his shiny, ebony dome. “Gil, you old dog,” he said with a grin, and the two men embraced, pounding each other’s backs. “It’s been too long.” He turned and gestured to Ben. “This is my new partner I’m training. Ben Peterson, meet Gil Kryzinski. And you are...?” He smiled at Val.

“I can help you out with that,” Ben said, sliding into the booth next to Val. “Dawes and I went to Academy together.” He gave Val a quick tap on the shoulder. Like he would for a man. Sort of. She slid away from him in the booth.

“So did we!” Jalen laughed. “What are the odds of that? Jeez, this is old home week!”

Ben cleared his throat. “Cousins. But let me tell you, Paul and I have very different views on things. Very different.”

Val’s mind raced. Ben and Paulie may not agree on much, but clearly they talked on occasion, as Paul had mentioned Ben at their first run-in. And if he worked with Jalen Marshall, who used to work with Pops...the small-town connections bled with possibilities.

“What’s Paul’s frigging problem?” Gil asked him. “What’d we ever do to deserve his wrath?”

Ben winced. “Paul got busted in college once for possession. He got off with a slap on the wrist, but ever since, he’s been on the warpath.” He looked away, tight-lipped. “Not our family’s proudest moment.”

“How about you?” Jalen sat next to Gil and directed his question at Val. “Any relation to the late great Detective Valentin Dawes?”

“He trained me at Clayton,” Marshall said. “A good man. One of the best.” Marshall helped himself to coffee from the pot. He drank it straight, to Val’s amazement. “So you two are looking for a maggot who rapes kids? What else do you know about him?”

“Apparently he’s hooked up with a dancer at the Silver Fox,” Gil said. “Red hair, big boobs. Know her?”

Marshall scoffed. “Never been there, but that place is a well-known dipshit den. Fights, drugs, you name it. What about the guy? Is he a pimp, a beater, or a Methican American?” he asked.

Val looked for clues in Gil’s face to decipher Jalen’s lingo, but her partner was too engaged with his old pal to notice. She glanced at Ben, who waved one hand, as if to say, I have no idea, either.

“Probably all of the above,” Gil said. “He gets around. We had rumors of him floating down south for a while, but he was spotted in Clayton a week ago.” Gil half-smiled and sipped his coffee. “The name we have for him is Harkins, but he may go by a different name in every city. One for each girlfriend.”

“White male, about forty, dirty blonde or light brown hair. Six feet tall, two-fifty,” she said, reciting from memory. “A few complaints on file, but no arrests.”

Jalen and Ben exchanged glances. “That describes half of Hartford,” Jalen said. “Ben, what do you know?”

Ben cleared his throat and sipped his coffee. “I, uh, might have seen him...on a stakeout,” he said.

“You put your rookies on strip club stakeouts here?” Gil asked, amused. “We usually reserve that for old, useless farts who can’t get dates.”

“Let’s keep our eyes on the prize here,” Jalen said. “Catching a bad guy, right, Ben?”

“We have our hands full here in Hartford. What makes this creep so special?” Ben said, defiant.

Marshall glared at him. “When you have a nine-year-old girl of your own, and a wife who’s been hurt by dickheads like Harkins too many times, you come back and tell me you’re okay with abusers running free in your community,” he said, his voice rising with anger. He set his mouth in a line and blew air out through his nose. Quiet tension reigned.

“I’m not saying we should let him go,” Ben said, defeat in his voice. “I’m just saying...hell, I don’t know what I’m saying.” He scowled at Val and slouched down in his seat, arms crossed.

“Peterson will show you where we stake them out,” Marshall said. “I’ll run him through the system, see what the computer coughs up. Don’t worry, Gil. We’ll nail this guy. And I hope I get to be the one who drags his sorry ass into jail.”

Val had always envisioned stakeouts as tense, nerve-rattling activities, the glorious work of detectives high on the police food chain. Her debut experience at the Silver Fox did not disappoint.

Ben Peterson kept Jalen’s promise and showed them a discreet location in the back of the club’s parking lot where Gil and Val could keep an eye on the comings and goings of the front door. The location also allowed them to monitor the employee entrance in the dimly lit rear of the club. A third exit, marked for emergencies only, lay between the two. Gil scouted the interior and reported that clear warnings marked the emergency exit, with alarms to alert them if Harkins tried escaping through it. “I wouldn’t want to piss those bouncers off,” Gil said when he returned to the car with sandwiches for himself and Val. “Judging from their size and sheer number of tattoos, they’ve spent more time in prison than out, and neither one knows how to smile.”

“Yes, she just showed up for work.” Gil unwrapped his own dinner. “I gave the bouncers a heads-up we’re looking for Harkins, and they claimed not to know him. But they know her. Candy Sweet is her stage name.”

“Gee, I wonder how her mother came up with that,” Val said. “You think they’ll cooperate?”

She took another bite of her sandwich and savored the spicy salami, pastrami, and banana peppers layered on top of cheese, shredded lettuce, and sliced tomatoes. The bread, fresh and warm, dripped with a heavy dose of pungent vinegar. “Thank you for dinner,” she said, chewing. “This grinder’s delicious.”

“You can thank Jalen for that,” Gil said. “His recommendation. He and Peterson are due back any minute with intel. That might be them now.”

A brown Crown Victoria with far too many antennae parked a few spots away from them. Moments later, Jalen Marshall approached, now dressed in jeans and a leather jacket over a dark gray sweater, with an ascot cap atop his head. Gil lowered the driver’s side window and waved.

“I’m feeling lucky tonight,” Jalen said, leaning over to peer inside Gil’s Ford Explorer. “Word is, our boy’s a regular on weeknights, and Ben says he hasn’t been by the last few nights. He’s due.”

Jalen harrumphed. “The hell out of the way, that’s where. Staking out the dancer’s house in East Hartford. Hopefully he won’t fuck that up.”

Jalen shook his head. “Not for him. If Harkins shows up at the girl’s house, we’ll surround the place with cruisers, and we could be there in under twenty minutes.” He handed Gil a sheaf of pages stapled together, thick with black type. “Read up. This is everything we’ve got on her, him, and this club. That ought to help you pass the time.” He smirked at Val. “Having fun yet?”

“Just how I wanted to spend my day off.” She held up half of her sandwich. “Have you eaten?”

“I’ve got leftovers in the car. Let’s check in an hour from now.” Something buzzed, and Jalen pulled a phone out of his jacket pocket. “Hey, Ben. Sup?...Okay, good to know...What? No, you asshole. Mind your damned business.” He shook his head and put the phone away. “Stupid kid. These recruits, Gil, they get worse every year. Present company excepted, of course. I wish you’d have applied in Hartford, Dawes. Gil tells me you’re a rock star.”

Val ducked her head and blushed. “Thanks.” She bit into her sandwich. She wondered how prevalent attitudes like Marshall’s were toward new recruits, or whether Peterson had turned out as bad as she’d expected at the academy.

“What’d the kid have to say?” Gil asked. His sandwich remained uneaten in the open wrapper on his lap.

“The neighbors said Harkins hasn’t been around since early this morning,” Jalen said. “He drives a blue Impala, ten or fifteen years old, with Louisiana plates and a dent in the passenger side door. Should be easy to spot.”

Gil held his sandwich at the ready, but still hadn’t bitten into it. “Sounds like useful info. Why’d you call the kid an asshole?”

Jalen squinted at Val, then gazed off into the distance. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do,” Val said, her suspicions climbing. “Did he say something about me?”

Jalen glanced at her again, a guilty expression on his face. “You two have bad blood, eh?”

“You could say that.” She considered taking another bite, but her appetite had disappeared. “He hasn’t gotten over being told ‘no,’ I guess. So what’d he say?”

Jalen sighed. “He made a smart-assed, inappropriate remark about you two being parked here in a dark spot, if you catch my drift.” He shook his head. “Some people can’t accept that women and men can do good police work together without jumping each other’s bones. Hell. I can’t wait to get my old partner back and dump this guy off on some other poor schmuck.” He wandered off to his car, muttering to himself.

“Sorry about that,” Gil said. “Jalen’s a straight shooter. If you ask him a question, he’ll give you an honest answer.”

“I like that.” Val wondered about Ben’s comment, though. Was he seeing something romantic in the way they interacted, or was he acting on his own prejudices? She decided on the latter—it fit her view of the entire family of Petersons, not to mention her own preferred, platonic take on her relationship with her partner.

With that, her appetite returned, and she bit into her sandwich again. “Come on, man, eat,” she said to Gil. “This stuff’s delicious.”

Gil grinned and tore into his grinder with gusto, finishing half before she swallowed two more bites. They spent the next hour reading the data sheets Jalen Marshall had provided. Unlike Harkins, Candy had a long rap sheet, with several arrests for prostitution, petty theft, and drug possession.

“I don’t get why they’re together,” Val said in wonder. “He’s almost twice her age.”

“He probably feeds her habit, and provides protection from the pimps,” Gil said. “Meanwhile, she gives him sex and a place to crash. He probably has ten more just like her, and vice versa.”

“She’s been in the hospital twice this year, according to this,” Val said. “Claims that customers beat her up a half-dozen times. Twice in the past month.” She set the pages on her lap, and blood drained from her face. “Since Harkins disappeared from Clayton.”

Gil nodded and grimaced. “Fits the pattern. So much for the rumor he went down south.”

Val shuddered at the thought of being with a man like Harkins. She felt sorry for Candy and the awful life she had to live. She scanned the page and chuckled. “I understand why she calls herself Candy. With a birth name like Eleonora Tagliaferro, it must take her an hour to fill out a change of address form.”

Several minutes later, a blue Impala with a dent in the passenger side pulled into the lot. “That’s him!” Val said in a whisper. “Let’s go!”

Gil’s phone buzzed. “Wait a sec,” he said. “Jalen said Peterson will be here any second. Stupid kid forgot to call until a minute ago. He’s calling for more backup now.”

Val’s heart pounded, blood racing in her ears. She couldn’t believe it. Capturing Harkins would be the highlight of her short police career so far. While too many more like him remained, at least one child-abusing, woman-beating scumbag would be off the streets.

The Impala parked in a spot halfway across the lot, and a large, middle-aged white male got out of the car.

He reached across her and opened his glove box. A small pistol reflected the dim light of the lot. Gil checked it and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “You brought a weapon, too, I hope?”

“N-no,” she said. “I didn’t know we’d be doing a stake-out.” Her eyes widened. “That didn’t look like a service revolver.”

He shook his head. “Nope. It’s a Ruger Mark. Shoots .22s. But it’ll do. You should get yourself one, if you don’t have something already. They come in handy for moments like this.”

“Why not your department-issue?” Her heart raced even faster. She didn’t like this. At all.

“In case you’ve forgotten, we’re not on official business.” He gazed out at the man who’d exited the Impala. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t protect ourselves. Here, I brought a spare.” He popped the glove box open again, pulled out a smaller, black weapon, and handed it to her. “My emergency backup. Ammo’s in the box. I’d better get going. You go stake out his car in case he tries to make a run for it.”

He got out of the car and signaled Marshall, then ambled toward the front door. Another unmarked Crown Vic with four antennae pulled in and parked on the edge of the lot. Peterson climbed out and hustled over to his partner’s vehicle.

Val took deep, calming breaths while loading the snub-nosed pistol, a Walther .22, with ten rounds, its maximum. Her fingers shook. She hadn’t fired a weapon since the Takura incident, except on the range, and never anything this small. Street thugs favored this type of weapon for its small size, low cost, and rapid trigger. Not very accurate, but at close range, with a ten-shot capacity, most gang-bangers found it adequate. Plus, it had threads in the barrel, to accommodate a silencer. A so-called “Saturday Night Special.”

She felt ill at ease, and not only because of the street nature of the weapon in her hand. The idea of having to draw on another suspect so soon after Takura alarmed her. And she was off duty. What were the rules? How much trouble could they get into for this? Could they get suspended, or even fired? Or worse?

Gil seemed to have no second thoughts. But that didn’t mean he knew what he was doing.

Val closed her eyes a moment, found her center. Pictured Harkins in her mind. Officer Brian Samuels, bleeding on the living room floor of Antoinetta’s house. Antoinetta, crying, bruised, and bleeding, having just been raped by Harkins.

She got out of the Explorer and walked toward the Impala. Her legs trembled beneath her. Please be him please be him please—

Sure enough, the Impala’s plates matched the ones in Jalen’s report. She took a position between the Impala and the strip club’s front door where she could keep an eye on both through the windows of a large SUV.

The bouncers earned their fifty bucks. They delayed the man at the door long enough for Gil to get close, and their conversation grew animated and loud. “I come here all the time!” the man shouted at the bouncers, who continued to block the doorway and shake their heads at him.

“Forget it, pal,” one bouncer said. “You ain’t getting in here tonight.”

“Screw you guys!” The man tried to push past them, but the bouncers blocked his path, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the door.

“This is bullshit!” The man made one last attempt to push past, then collapsed to the ground, groaning and clutching his groin. “I’ll sue you bastards for assault and battery!” he yelled around painful grunts. “I’ll call the fucking cops on you!”

“No need.” Gil walked over and grabbed the man, pulling him to his feet. “We’re already here.”

Without hesitation, Harkins shoved Gil into the two bouncers. He moved with surprising agility for his size and injured state, running away from the door, into the parking lot toward his car.

The calm she felt in that moment surprised her. She slid the safety of the pistol forward, stepped into the open lane of the parking lot, and walked toward Harkins. He continued running toward her, glancing back at the doorway. Gil untangled himself from the bouncers and got to his feet. Harkins turned back toward Val and skidded to a stop, halfway between Gil and her.

“Freeze!” she said, feeling lame because he’d already stopped. She aimed her weapon with both hands at Harkins. “You’re under arrest—”

Harkins dove to his left, hitting the ground with a grunt. She scooted toward him, following him with the nose of her gun, trigger finger at the ready. Her arms trembled, but she held her aim steady.

Movement behind Harkins caught her eye. Ben Peterson raced down the drive lane toward them. Harkins got up on all fours and scooted across the lane, toward a pair of pickup trucks—directly across Val’s line of sight, in front of Peterson. Val cursed and relaxed the ready pressure on the trigger. She didn’t dare fire when a miss might hit a fellow man in blue. Even a jerk like Ben Peterson.

Harkins ducked between the trucks, still crawling on all fours. Val ran into the line of cars, several spots away, parallel to Harkins’ path. Footsteps crunched on the pavement behind her. She hoped that was Jalen, but dared not look away from Harkins’ trajectory among the cars. Scuffling footsteps coming from the tangle of cars in front of her offered some idea of his location.

She crossed through the rows of cars to the Impala. She searched where she’d last heard movement. Nothing.

“Somewhere between us, in the lot,” Val shouted back. “Where’s our backup?”

“Coming,” Jalen said from behind her, without conviction. “Secure the vehicle. I’ll search underneath, row by row. Gil, you take the other side. Peterson, hang back in case he runs. We’ll nail his ass!”

All went quiet, save for Jalen and Gil’s footsteps padding between the cars, and their occasional grunts when they stood or crouched. A few would-be bar patrons stopped to watch by the bar’s front door. Apparently, Hartford police put on a better show than Candy Sweet.

Minutes ticked by. Val’s palms grew sweaty and her arms tired from holding her pistol at the ready. Her breath clouded in front of her face every time she exhaled, and the chilly air pinched at her nose and cheeks.

“Where the fuck is this guy?” Jalen said several minutes later. “Dawes, are you sure you saw him?”

“Positive,” she said. “He couldn’t have gotten far.” As soon as she said it, though, she realized it wasn’t true. The lot stretched for a hundred feet in every direction. Poorly lit, it had no fence blocking escape on three sides, adjoining busy city streets. Harkins could be anywhere.

Two cruisers appeared, each containing two veteran cops in uniform. One parked behind Harkins’ Impala, blocking it in, and freeing up Val to help with the search. But even with eight officers scouring the lot for the better part of an hour, Harkins could not be found.

“How the hell did he get away from us?” Jalen said when they gathered by the Impala. “We had him dead to rights.”

“Well then, there’s your answer,” Peterson said with a sneer. “A rookie mistake.”

“You’re one to talk!” Jalen turned to Val. “You couldn’t get a shot off?”

“Ben and I were behind her line of fire,” Gil said, glaring at Peterson. “As were the security guys. Any stray shot, we’d have had casualties. Dawes did the right thing in not shooting.”

“Put a plug in it, Ben,” Jalen said with a growl. “If you’d have given us a heads-up like you were supposed to, we would have had backup here in time, as planned. As it is, she probably saved your ass from getting shot.”

Ben scowled at Val, his arms crossed. “Are we done here? Because I’m four hours deep into overtime, and unlike the rest of you, I haven’t had dinner.”

Jalen jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get the hell out of here, rookie.” Peterson burned rubber leaving the lot moments later.

While Jalen supervised a tow truck called in to haul away the Impala, Val and Gil walked back to Gil’s Explorer. “I’m sorry, Gil. I let you down,” she said.

He waved it off. “You did the right thing. Don’t worry, we’ll catch him. He has no car and we know where he lives. He won’t get far.”

Val exhaled, her shoulders quaking with the release of tension. “What do we do now?”

Gil shrugged. “We go back to Clayton and let the Hartford P.D. do their jobs. Don’t worry. They’ll find him.”

She climbed in Gil’s Explorer, thinking of Ben Peterson’s blundering moves and finger-pointing. Somehow, she didn’t share Gil’s confidence.

The moment Harkins saw the gun, he hit the ground, landing on his fingers and toes the way his wrestling coach taught him twenty-five years before. He scrambled into the haphazard rows of cars surrounding the Silver Fox and rolled underneath an oversized pickup truck jacked up way the hell too high. He continued rolling, finding darker shelter under a black SUV. Shouts and loud footsteps filled the air nearby, but faded moments later, as if his pursuers had lost track of him for a moment and run in the wrong direction.

But they’d return. He needed to move. He had one chance—a long shot, but one worth taking.

Scooting to the far side of the SUV, his left shoe fell off. Rather than waste time lacing it back on, he kicked off the other one and shoved both into crevices in the SUV’s underbelly. That would muffle his footsteps while the Keystone Kops figured out which end of their assholes to wipe. He peeked out and spotted a dented silver Jeep. Raven’s. One of his favorite dancers and occasional rolls in the hay. If he could make it that far without the cops spotting him...

Harkins crab-crawled among the cars toward the Jeep, occasionally rolling underneath for extra cover. Those stupid cops kept yelling to one another, creating enough noise to drown out his muted footsteps, and most seemed to move farther away instead of closer. Idiots.

He recognized the woman as the one he’d overpowered at Rosa and Antoinetta’s. Dawes. The press had gushed about her after she shot that gangster in Clayton. What in the hell was she doing in Hartford? No matter. Once again she‘d missed her chance at him. Dawes was weak and indecisive. Harkins was neither.

Lying under a Subaru Forester, he checked out Raven’s Jeep. Good—she hadn’t gotten around to repairing the rip in the rag top. As always, she’d backed into the spot, as Harkins had taught her. He’d snuck out of her apartment one night while she slept and learned the ins and outs of the vehicle—in particular, where she hid her drugs and weapons. This chick made more on the side than she ever did dancing at the Silver Fox.

He heard scuffling footsteps to his right. The young skinny cop came into view, pointing a flashlight under the carriage of each vehicle in the line of cars leading up to the Forester. Harkins rolled, positioning himself behind the rear passenger side wheel. A beam of light cast long shadows on either side of the car, then swept past. He crawled around and suspended his body between the front of the Forester and the vehicle parked nose-to-nose with it, his ass pushed up against the other car’s grille. If the cop looked closely, he’d be caught. But with luck, the darkness would provide sufficient cover.

The kid’s footsteps crunched closer. Harkins controlled his breathing and kept his body still, his fingers aching from gripping the irregular shapes of the car’s front end, his back and ass stinging from the sharp edges of the other vehicle’s grille. Come on, kid. Hustle.

The footsteps got louder for several seconds, then stopped. The light flickered underneath the Forester, then through the windows of the adjacent vehicle. It stayed fixed on one spot, the beam flowing inches over his shoulder, for an eternity.

Radio static startled Harkins, and his hand slipped off the grille. Unable to support his weight one-handed, his body sagged toward the ground. His hand darted downward, landing flat-palmed on the rough pavement. A sharp pebble dug into the pad of his palm, and Harkins nearly yelped in pain. But fear of death smothered his scream.

“Peterson here,” the kid said. The radio chirped static again. “Roger that,” the kid said in response to the static. The flashlight flickered out, and the kid‘s footsteps grew softer again.

Harkins waited an extra ten seconds after the footsteps faded away to silence, then eased himself to the ground. He crawled around the Forester to peek out behind the rear wheel. No sign of the kid. Without waiting, he dashed across the lane to the back of Raven’s Jeep. He forced his body through the rip in the rag top, landing on an immense pile of laundry. He lifted the handle to the trunk compartment, scooped out the guns and drugs, and hid them under the laundry. He squeezed inside, shutting the lid behind him.

He lay there an hour or two. The air grew stuffy and hot, and his muscles ached from having to curl into a donut shape to fit in the compartment. At least three times, voices and footsteps sounded awfully close, and Harkins wished he’d kept one of Raven’s guns handy. But, so far as he could tell, no one opened the vehicle.

He waited longer. The beeping and commotion of a tow truck filled the night air for a while. He assumed the worst, that they’d towed his Impala. Assholes. They'd pay for that.

The tow truck left, and another silent hour went by. He dozed off, waking some time later when he realized the car was moving.

Gil reassured Val a dozen times on the drive home that she’d performed “beyond expectations” on the Silver Fox stakeout, but doubts nagged at her the entire trip. He never changed his tune, though, even as he pulled up in front of her apartment to drop her off.

“Shit happens,” he said. “The vast majority of perps walk scot-free. Most crimes don’t even get reported. It’s a miracle that we ever catch any perps.”

“But we were so close.” Val's chest grew heavy, and every breath seemed a chore.

She surrendered a morose smile of her own. “You’re so full of shit, your eyes are brown.”

Gil's smile sank to form a thin, horizontal line. “For everything except you,” he said. “You, I think, will take a lifetime to understand. But, hey, I’m up for it.” He paused a moment. “Gives me something to think about at night, instead of lousy street thugs.”

Val’s response caught in her throat. She swallowed, but the lump in her windpipe wouldn’t subside. “Damn, you say sweet things, right when I least expect it.” She sighed and stared at her fingernails, which needed serious work. According to Beth, anyway.

He said nothing back, instead sharing an enigmatic smile before gazing out the driver’s side window. “This is your place, right?”

“Yeah. I should go.” But she didn’t. Her fingernails fascinated her all of a sudden. Next time she’d use something other than clear polish. Not pink, but maybe a dark red. Or something radical. Police blue, or—

Gil turned off the engine and drummed on the steering wheel. “I’ll walk you up.”

“No!” The word shot out before she could think, and Val covered her mouth. “Sorry. I mean, I’m fine. You don’t have to.”

One shoulder rose and fell. “I’ll at least wait here, make sure you get inside.”

“It’s plenty safe.” Still she sat in the seat, fussing with her fingernails, picking off the perfectly good polish. Dammit.

A car passed on the right, rolled to the end of the block, and turned. Leafless branches swayed in a sudden swift breeze. Gil’s dashboard clock ticked to 11:49.

Val’s head spun at how suddenly the words spilled out of her, unrehearsed, unplanned, unpaced. A rush of syllables, revealing an inner truth she’d hated to admit to anyone her entire life. In so many words, she’d told exactly three people before: Beth, Uncle Val, and her first shrink. Not her parents. Not her brother. Not her first and only boyfriend in college, a boy who gave up after twelve weeks of dating with not even a hint of getting to second base. Not even the doctor who examined her, a middle-aged woman who diagnosed the situation in less than five minutes and threatened to tell Mom and Dad if Val didn‘t.

He locked eyes with her, lips sealed but downturned, like his unblinking eyes. Waiting.

“It was a friend of the family, a guy who used to bring toys and gifts to Chad and me...but mostly me,” Val said, her eyes welling with tears. “And one night, my parents trusted him alone with me, and he...took advantage.”

Gil squeezed the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles whitening. “I’m sorry, Val.”

She shuddered out a noisy breath. “He never went to jail. I waited so long to tell anyone that there wasn’t any physical evidence. By then I thought nobody would believe me, and convinced myself it was my fault anyway, and...”

Val wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “I felt so dirty, so guilty all the time. For the longest time I couldn’t stand to be around boys of any kind—not my brother, my father, anyone. Except Uncle Val. He...I don’t know...protected me, I guess. Believed me. Never judged me, just loved me for who I was. Then he died, and...” No more words would come. Only tears, and choked-back sobs, and a sharp ache in the center of her chest.

She opened her eyes, not sure when she’d closed them, and noticed Gil’s open hand, reaching out to her. Still offering solace, no matter her response. Even if she never responded, Gil’s helping hand would remain open to her.

Val took a deep, steadying breath and gathered his hand up in both of hers. Gripped it tight, felt its resolute strength, its warmth. She met his eyes, and blinked back tears, and discovered wet streaks lining his face.

“You’re still hurting,” Gil said. “And, Officer Valorie Dawes, my friend and partner, who I’ve known for all of eight or nine weeks, I care about you. And I’ll cry any damned time I want to.” He finished with a wry smile and wiped tears off of his stubbled cheeks.

She laughed, a nervous release. “Okay. You hereby have the right to cry. This one time.”

Gil smiled, then his face grew serious. “One thing I need to ask you,” he said. “Promise me something.”

Val's heart raced. Oh, no. Now she’d done it. She’d known that telling him risked him wanting her to share even more, and he’d proven that in two minutes after—

“Promise me,” he said, “that you’ll never, ever tell me the name of the guy who did this to you.”

She gawked at him, open-mouthed, and her tears stopped out of sheer shock. “Safe to say, that’s not what I expected you to ask me.”

Gil gripped her hands, still wrapped around his, and gave them a gentle shake. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “I’m a cop’s cop. The moment I find out who hurt my partner...he’s a dead man. And I’m not ready to quit police work over a silly little murder charge.”

She laughed, so hard that it hurt her stomach. “Silly little...oh, man. Okay, you’ve got my word.”

“And one more thing.” Gil‘s eyes met hers, burning with intensity, and his voice shook when he spoke. “This was not. Your. Fault. Not one iota. Okay?”

“Okay.” Val sniffled and wiped her face. They sat there a long while, long after the digits flipped over to 12:00 on the dash, looking at each other, hands locked. She took a deep breath. “Promise me something back.”

She leveled a steady stare at him. “When we get Harkins—when—let me take that collar, okay?”

Valorie slumped in the back seat of the family station wagon on a raw, rainy Saturday morning, the day of her final 12-and-under soccer playoff. A win meant her team, The Wildcats, would raise the championship trophy at Pizza Hut later that afternoon. And with her thirteenth birthday coming up in two days, this would be her last game as a 12-year-old.

She didn’t care.

The car progressed at a steady 30 miles-per-hour pace down the suburban boulevard next to the Clayton Youth Sports Complex. She stared at the streaks of water left by the constant drizzle on the windows, hoping the league would cancel the match due to rain. But no. When the fields came into view, girls and boys of various sizes, dressed in brightly colored uniforms, kicked wet balls to each other and rubbed their bare arms for warmth.

“Almost there,” Dad said. “Look, we’re not late after all. That’s your team at the end, right?”

Valorie nodded. Kind of a jerk thing to do from the back seat, but Dad’s eyes focused on her in the rear-view mirror, so he got her answer.

“Are you excited?” Dad asked in that annoying fake-eager voice he used in times like this. Like when she appeared for ten seconds as a cactus in that stupid third-grade play, or when he announced upcoming visits from relatives she’d never met.

“Whatever,” Valorie said.

Dad glanced at her again in the mirror, the good humor disappearing from his eyes. “I thought you liked soccer.”

She made a sour face. “It’s pouring outside, and it’s cold.”

Dad laughed, that big, stupid laugh that meant he didn’t really think it was funny. “You play in the rain all the time.”

Yeah, she moped, but the rain made her clothes stick to her skin and showed her underwear. All the other girls’ fathers would stare at her. Ick.

“Besides,” Dad went on, “Your uncle is coming today. He’s very excited. Don’t you want to show him how good you’ve gotten? Maybe you’ll score another goal.”

She scoffed. “I doubt it. I got lucky last time.”

Dad shook his head, stared at her in the mirror, then looked away so he could make the turn. He stopped at the far end of the parking lot. “You run on ahead while I park. I don’t want you to be late.”

She stared out the window at nothing.

“Valorie? Go on, now. What are you waiting for?”

She swallowed, or tried to. A lump of something got stuck in her throat. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, sniffled. “I don’t want to play today.”

“Valorie.” Dad put the car in Park, but left the motor running, and turned to face her, as best he could with the seat belt still buckled. “Come on. You’ve missed two games in a row. It’s your last chance to play this season. It’d be good for you. Please?”

“I don’t feel well.” She held her stomach, which hurt all of a sudden. Tears warmed her eyes, and she blinked super-fast to keep them from falling.

“Again?” Dad frowned, disbelief written all over his face. “It’s because you’re not eating. Here, I packed you an extra chewy granola bar. Chocolate chip, your favorite. Eat it up and you’ll feel better.” He handed her a brown paper bag, which probably contained three pieces of fruit and all kinds of other healthy stuff.

Valorie moped and took the bag. “I’m not hungry.”

He frowned. “What’s the matter with you lately? You’re so quiet, you’re not eating right, you don’t even brush your hair some days. Has something happened at school, or between you and Beth?”

She shook her head, stared into her lap.

“Look,” he said, “you don’t have to play, but unless you tell me what’s wrong—”

“I gotta go.” Valorie pushed open the door and ran across the field, clutching her soccer ball and a bag of snacks against her sides. Thank God for the rain cooling the hot tears splashing down her cheeks. Nobody would know that she was crying.

Coach Katie Skinner, a thirty-something blonde-haired woman with boundless energy, smiled at her when she joined her teammates in the sideline huddle. “Just in time!” she said. “But you’ll need to warm up before you play. Beth, will you practice with Valorie? Amy, you’ll start at sweeper. Okay, girls, get out there, and have fun!”

Beth hugged Valorie, nearly breaking her neck. The girl didn’t know her own strength sometimes. “I’m glad you made it,” Beth said. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“Yeah, me too.” Valorie trotted a few yards away and passed a ball to Beth. The two girls kicked it back and forth several times, extending the distance each time. When they were 20 feet apart, Beth boomed a kick past her, into a crowd of adults watching the game. It bounced off a man’s legs, and he picked the ball up.

“Thanks,” she said, reaching for it, glancing up at the man’s face—

Valorie froze.

Uncle Milt stood staring at her, gripping the ball in his hands, wearing that awful, sleazy smile. “Hello, Valley Girl,” he said. He held the ball closer to his chest. “Is this yours?”

Dizziness swept over her, and her stomach buckled. Breathing became impossible. Nausea bubbled up inside her, and she crumpled to her hands and knees on the wet grass. What was he doing here? When Dad said “her uncle,” she’d thought he meant Uncle Val. Not this weirdo. Oh my God oh my God oh my—

“Valorie?” Beth came up behind her, the earth shaking with every stomp of her running feet. “Are you okay?”

“I’m...I don’t know...” Valorie choked on whatever fought its way up her throat. She gasped air through her mouth.

“She’s fine,” Milt said. “She just needs a little air.”

A heavy hand rested on her back. Too big to be Beth’s. She looked up, and the bulk of Milt’s huge body blocked her view, on one knee in front of her.

He was near her. Touching her!

She dropped to her knees and vomited, hot acidic liquid shooting out of her mouth onto the grass. No solids, as she hadn’t eaten squat in days. It burned her insides and tasted horrible. But Milt’s hand stayed on her back, and she erupted again.

“Is she okay?” someone asked—a grown-up. “I think she’s sick,” said another.

“Give her some room!” Another man’s voice broke through the buzz. A voice kind of like Dad’s, but not. “Are you sick, Valorie?”

Uncle Val!

Uncle Val pushed Milt aside and sat next to her. Right on his butt, in the wet grass. “Breathe,” he said, “nice and easy.”

“I’m okay,” she said. “I just—I’ll be fine.” She did as he instructed, though—sucked in a long, easy breath, then exhaled. Then again.

“Good girl.” Uncle Val kissed her forehead, then stood and growled at Uncle Milt. “What the hell are you doing here?” He pushed the big man with a flat palm in his chest, knocking him back a step. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. Get the hell away from her, you piece of shit, before I kick your balls into next week.”

“What’d I do?” Milt protested in a weak voice. “I was just standing here, minding my business, and—”

“If you aren’t out of here in three seconds, I swear I will rip your goddamned head off and shit in the hole!” Uncle Val shouted.

Milt opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a syllable, Uncle Val grabbed Milt’s jacket in his massive fists and lifted him to his tip-toes. With a mighty shrug, he tossed Milt onto his back on the ground. Before Milt could recover, Uncle Val karate-chopped Milt’s throat, then knelt on his shoulder and chin, pinning him to the turf.

Excited voices exclaimed vague phrases of surprise and wonder. “Is he hurt?” someone asked. “What a punch!” said someone else. “That guy’s a cop, isn’t he?” said a third.

“Your three seconds are up,” Uncle Val said in a low voice to a struggling Milt. “This girl told me what you did to her, and I will investigate. If I find a single solitary shred of evidence backing up her story, I will lock you up for the rest of your goddamned life, which I hope is as short as your worthless dick. Do you understand me?”

Milt squirmed on the ground, and a slew of grunts and unintelligible syllables emerged from his mouth. Valorie stumbled to her feet, and rested in the arms of Beth, who pulled her away from the quarreling men.

“Val? What’s going on?” Dad raced up from the parking lot. “Who’s that on the—Milt? Jesus, Val. What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting rid of some scum.” Uncle Val ground his knee harder into Milt’s face. “Now get out of here. Do you hear me?”

Milt managed a tiny nod, and Uncle Val removed his foot from Milt’s face. Milt rolled to his hands and knees, breathing hard. Dad‘s gaze swiveled back and forth between the two men. “Would someone please explain—”

“He slipped,” Uncle Val said. “Didn’t you, Milt?”

Milt nodded, staring at the turf, and shook himself to his feet. Without looking back, he pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers and walked through the rain to the parking area. Moments later, a dark red Buick rumbled out of the lot.

Ms. Skinner appeared, gazing in wonder at the assembled crowd. “What happened?” she asked. “Valorie and Beth, are you all right?”

“We’re fine,” Beth said. “Right, Valorie?”

Valorie nodded, shivering in Beth’s arms.

“Are you two girls ready to play?”

Valorie shook her head and sank deeper into Beth’s embrace.

Dad glared at Uncle Val and Valorie, with equal measures of bewilderment. “I’m very confused,” he said.

“Are you okay, Valorie?” Uncle Val said.

Valorie shook her head again and left Beth’s arms to be swallowed up in Uncle Val’s bear-like hug.

“Katie,” Uncle Val said, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid Valorie’s soccer season is over. Mike,” he said, turning to Dad, “you and I need to talk.”

Val stumbled into the kitchen late the next morning, her eyes barely open, in dire need of caffeine. To her surprise, a full pot waited for her on the counter with a puzzling note from Beth: “Save some for Val.”

“Hey there, sunshine,” Josh said from behind her, walking in the front door with a carton of creamer and a dozen eggs. Despite the cold December morning, he wore only a hooded sweatshirt, gym shorts, and running shoes without socks. “I’m in charge of breakfast today. Cheese omelet okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” She poured them both coffee and sipped hers in the living room while Josh cooked.

“So, why’d you go to Hartford last night?” he asked over the clanging of dishes and pans.

“It’s in the what?” She accepted the offered gadget and sat down to read. With a groan, she recognized the website: Clayton Copwatch.

Clayton police, despite being unable solve our own town’s growing crime problem, have decided to branch out into neighboring jurisdictions. Their tactics, and low success rates, seem to be rubbing off.

Two of Clayton’s finest were involved in a bungled stakeout at—get this—Hartford‘s Silver Fox strip club last night. The result? A top fugitive, a man who attempted to murder a Clayton police officer several weeks ago, escaped into the wind.

Hartford police had maintained an ongoing stakeout of the suspect‘s residence for several days. Yet they pulled sentries from that perfectly sensible location, where they could have arrested the suspect with relative ease, and attempted to surround him in a dimly lit, unsecured, two-acre parking lot.

Surprise, surprise. In spite of having extra staff on hand (imported from our own dear city), the fugitive escaped—again.

Did I say “surprise?” I meant to say, DUH.

And did I say “in spite of?” I meant to say, because of.

The Clayton officers involved include a certain female rookie cop who owes her employment solely to her family connections. The same rookie was responsible for the fatal shooting of an unarmed Asian man last month in Upper Abernethy. She and her partner have also been linked to bribes and corruption in multiple internal investigations. Investigations that, sources say, were quashed by powers-that-be so as not to embarrass the department.

“What a load of bullshit!” Val threw the phone down before remembering it wasn’t hers. It bounced off the throw rug, against the thick wooden leg of the coffee table, and clattered back onto the floor. The device‘s various components flew in all directions.

“Hey!” Josh carried three plates of eggs into the room, his mouth agape. “Damn, girl. That phone cost me eight hundred bucks!”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, red-faced. She picked up the pieces and reassembled the phone, then pressed the power button.

“It sometimes takes a minute,” Josh said, doubt in his voice. “Beth, breakfast is ready!”

Val pressed the power button again, held it. Several moments later, she sighed and collapsed onto the couch. “I’ll replace it,” she said. So much for Christmas shopping this year.

“I kinda needed that today,” he said. “I have a job interview. Over the phone. At two.”

The following Friday night, Gil and Val walked the beat at an extra fast pace, partly in the hope of closing in on Harkins, and partly to stay warm. No amount of coffee could stave off the deep bone chill of the frigid night, however. Her fingers went numb within an hour, even wearing gloves.

They’d just decided to take the chill off in a local cafe when a shout sounded from up the street. A young African-American teen waved and ran toward them.

“Copsky,” Dog said when he drew near, out of breath. “Pope wanted me to tell you. That white dude you’re looking for? He’s back.”

“Harkins?” Gil leaned over and held Dog by the shoulders. “Where? When did you see him?”

“With that lady and girl over on Greenfield Street,” Dog said, still panting. “He’s got a gun, too. Thomas saw him buy one at a pawn shop today.”

“Call for backup!” Gil took off before she’d even unclipped her radio mic. “SWAT team, too. Do it!”

“How the—! Dog, go tell Pope I’ll pay him once we confirm he’s there. Now get lost!” She raced away. He continued to run after her. “Dog, for God’s sake, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

She stopped, faced him. “Dog, listen. I don’t have it with me. But I’ll bring it tomorrow. Okay? Now scram!”

She passed Gil after another three blocks and arrived a block ahead of him at the intersection. A cruiser pulled up at Antoinetta’s house a moment later. Two officers jumped out and hid behind it, guns drawn.

“Stay down!” one of them hissed at Val, a young red-haired officer named Shaughnessy. “Armed and dangerous!”

“We know,” she said, tumbling into a crouch next to them. “We’re the ones that called it in.”

“Which house?” asked the other officer, an older African American named Jameson. Val pointed to Antoinetta’s house, dark on both floors. “Who else lives here?” Jameson asked.

“I see movement on the upper floor,” Shaughnessy said, peeking through field glasses. “Looks like it’s one of the girls.”

Gil joined them, out of breath, moments later. “Harkins has Antoinetta and her mom, or maybe her aunt, inside,” she told him.

Gil nodded. “Dispatch said we’ve got two uniforms staking out the neighbor’s yard and two more to the south,” he said, still breathing hard. “They can watch the back door and the driveway from there.”

Radio static echoed somewhere south of them. “Greenfield Units, please turn your damned radios down,” Jameson said into his mic. “Unless you want to broadcast our every move to the son of a bitch!”

Gil gritted his teeth and glimpsed over the hood of the cruiser. “Once the SWAT team arrives, he ain’t going anywhere, unless—”

Gunshots rang out, splitting the night with ear-shattering reports, accompanied by the tinkling of glass cascading down the roof over the front porch. Curtains sailed in the wind from an upstairs window.

“Sounds like a .44,” Jameson said. “The real question is, what’s he firing at?”

Another explosion, this time followed by a loud, close collision of metal on metal. The body of the cruiser vibrated against Val’s hand.

“Us, that’s who he’s firing at!” She flattened herself to the ground, and another shot shattered the pavement in front of the vehicle.

“We’ve got to wait for the SWAT team,” Shaughnessy said, fear quaking in his voice. “No way we can take this guy ourselves.”

Jameson radioed in for more backup, and the four of them huddled behind the cruiser.

Gil peeked again over the cruiser’s hood. “I see movement in the living room,” he said. “He may be making a move.”

“Something, or someone, is running around upstairs, where the shots came from,” Shaughnessy said. “He might have help.”

Quiet reigned for several moments. All four officers checked their weapons. Val’s heart raced, the danger of the situation colliding with the possibility of nailing Harkins. If it was Harkins. Please, please, she begged the universe, let it be Harkins.

A woman appeared in the bedroom window to the right, her hands on her head, elbows splayed to either side. She stood there, unmoving. Val couldn’t tell if it was Camila, Antoinetta, or Rosa, her mother.

“He’s got to have a gun on her,” Jameson said. “Where the fuck is he?”

“It looks like she might be blindfolded,” Shaughnessy said, again viewing the house through the binoculars.

More movement inside. A young girl appeared in the picture window in front. Val borrowed Shaughnessy’s binoculars and looked through. “That’s Antoinetta,” she said. “She’s blindfolded too. And her hands are tied.”

Another cruiser pulled up and parked behind them. Two more uniforms got out, guns drawn.

“Could you be a little more obvious?” Jameson said in a hoarse whisper to them. “Turn those stupid lights off!”

“Movement in the rear of the house,” a male voice barked over someone's radio. “Door’s opening—”

A shot rang out, echoed over the radio, followed by swearing. “This fucker’s crazy!” the radio voice shouted. “Holy shit, he’s out, he’s on foot, he’s coming around...he’s on the north side, coming toward you—”

Val caught Gil’s eye. “He’s mine, remember.” She unholstered her weapon. “You promised.”

“Dawes,” he said. “In a normal situation, yeah, but this is different. We—”

Another explosion, and a bullet whizzed past over their heads. Val peeked through the car windows, then swung her arms over the hood, aiming her weapon toward the north of the house.

A flash of light, and a shot slammed into the car’s front grille, spraying shards of metal and glass everywhere. Bits of everything sprayed her face, drawing blood. Luckily nothing hit her eyes. She dropped to her belly and rolled toward the front of the car, again aiming at the shadows on the house’s north side.

Something moved in the darkness on the side of the house. She’d never get a shot at him from behind the car. “I can get a clear shot from those hedges over there,” she said.

Another gunshot. The windshield of the cruiser behind them shattered onto the sidewalk. “We’re sitting ducks here!” Shaughnessy said. “We’ve got to do something!”

“I smell gas,” Jameson said. “Shit, look! One of those shots must have hit the gas line. If he gets lucky, we’ll all go up in a goddamned fireball!”

She swore and raised herself into a sprinter’s crouch. She took in a breath—

A rough hand drew her backwards, and she tumbled onto the ground, bits of broken glass pricking her skin. Gil sprawled backwards, landing in front of the car. His backside, then his head, hit the pavement, and he lay still.

Another gunshot, and asphalt exploded on the opposite side of Gil. He raised his head, shook it, as if dazed. His weapon lay a few feet from him, farther away from the shelter of the cruiser, and he leaned over to reach for it.

“Kryz!” Jameson shouted. “What the hell are you—!” Another shot drowned out his remaining words.

“He’s concussed. He needs help!” Val tried to crawl over to him, but a pair of large hands held her in place.

“Don’t you go out there too!” Jameson shouted in her ear. “Kryz, get back here!”

Val struggled against Jameson’s grip, but she couldn’t shake herself loose. Then another shot rang out, and Gil’s body convulsed.

Val screamed in rage, throwing Jameson’s arms off of her. “Cover me!” she yelled over her shoulder and scampered on her knees toward Gil, weapon drawn. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement—a dark figure, Harkins-sized, near the house. She fired at it, splintering the siding on the corner of the house, and the shadow disappeared.

She reached Gil’s side. More gunshots rang out, and bullets whizzed around her. She ignored them. Gil wasn’t moving.

Then she noticed the blood, drenching his right side, in the gap where the kevlar vest ended above the hip. The torn fabric. How still his body lay.

“Officer down!” she heard herself shouting. “Goddamn it to hell. Officer down!”