I suddenly remembered that I had my own therapy session to attend to. In about an hour. If I missed it, I could end up facing off with Hartley at a police board meeting.

“In a lot of cultures, I would owe you a life,” Kelly Borland said. She smiled as if embarrassed. “I know that sounds hokey, but—”

“Not in my culture,” I said. “In my culture, we’re even-Steven.”

She had been fidgeting with her hair and undid something that made it fall to her shoulders.

“Well, my counselor said it was good to come here, and I did. But I’d also like to buy you dinner. As a sign of my appreciation.”

“Again,” I said, “not necessary. Really.”

She nodded then, as if she’d done what she came here for.

At the same time, it was odd. I could feel an energy between us.

“Thanks for coming by,” I said, and she shook my hand. I started toward the stairwell.

“Detective Marsh,” Kelly Borland said from the door before leaving. “It was just an offer for dinner. A salad. A plate of food. Not your hand in marriage.”

Hope Duffy, the desk sergeant, started laughing at me then, and I smiled. Now I was the one who was embarrassed.

I walked back toward Kelly Borland. Pulled out my card. “I’m on a case now, but try me in a few days. I’d be honored.”

She took the card from me and wrote a phone number on the back of it.

“I didn’t mean to be pushy,” she said. “You call me if you feel up for it.”

16

The office of Dr. Gary Cavendish was located in a building just south of the precinct, on the corner of 5th and Drake.

The psychiatrist’s place of business was on the same floor that housed human resources and was the place where city employees went to get discount tickets to Amicalola Falls or add a child to their insurance policy.

I waited for the shrink in a red upholstered chair set up in the hallway outside his office. On the walls were prints of coastal Georgia. Tybee Island. Skidaway State Park. The squares of Savannah, hung with moss and covered in tourists.

A minute after I arrived, I heard a door scrape open. Cavendish emerged from the stairwell.

He was slightly shorter than me and slender, with thin wispy strands of blond hair that barely covered his head.

“Am I late?” he asked, checking his watch.

“I’m early,” I said. “Take your time, Doc.”

Cavendish unlocked his office door and flicked the lights on.

Inside, the place had an artificially floral smell. Like a lavender candle or air freshener was used more often than needed.

“Come on in, Detective. Grab a seat.”

I had seen Cavendish two times before. The first was when I was a young detective and had shot a man who had pinned down me and my partner inside a check-cashing place. Then in January, I’d been ordered to see the doc a second time after I’d killed a man who was trying to drown me.