“An eye for an eye,” the doctor said.

I didn’t answer. ’Cause it wasn’t like an eye for an eye. And maybe I’d walked into the therapy session feeling a little chesty. Like I didn’t need to be here.

But that came from the knowledge that the Jed Harrington shooting was a good kill. The ruling wasn’t official yet, but I’d been all but told.

“Are we here to talk about other options I had, Doc?” I asked. “’Cause I assume you know there was a man with a gun to a woman’s head. A man who turned that gun on kids. Was about to kill them.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Let’s talk about something different. What do you want to get out of these two sessions?”

This was a standard Cavendish question, and I’d been thinking about it since I woke up that morning. In fact, I liked the question for its simplicity and purpose. It was good to have a goal after all, rather than just show up and bullshit.

“I’d like a lay of the land,” I said. “Symptoms. Stages. What do your studies say I should be feeling? So I can see it coming. Work on it.”

Cavendish sat up taller.

“The whole idea is that we work on it together, P.T. I don’t hand you a playbook.”

I went quiet then, and Cavendish scrutinized me a minute. He knew me well. He also knew I was already working, and would be out of his sight after the next session.

“Tell me what you’re feeling, Detective.”

“Okay.” I leaned in a little. “Honestly, at first when I shot him, I felt relief.”

“All right,” he said. “That’s good. You wanted to know about symptoms. We call that first period ‘the impact phase.’ A lotta cops feel a sense of survival. Relief is part of that.”

“I mean, I know it’s a righteous kill,” I said. “But nobody wants to take a life. Right?”

Cavendish shrugged at me. “If that’s what you’re feeling . . .”

“I am,” I said. “I mean, I was. A few hours after that, I guess I got a bit sensitive. I went back to work. Got a lot of ‘atta-boys.’ Friends and neighbors heard about the shooting. It’s on the news.”

“And how did you feel?” he asked. “About the ‘atta-boys’ . . . ?”

“Maybe I bristled a little.”

“Okay,” Cavendish said.

“Then I felt a little remorse.”

“Remorse?” Cavendish blinked. “Specifically what . . .”

“Guilt.” I shrugged. “Self-questioning. Regret. I mean, he’s a scumbag school shooter, but he was somebody’s son, right? He’s got a mom. A sister.”

Cavendish was staring at me funny.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he answered, shaking it off.

“And now I feel like it’s gonna be okay,” I said.

“Acceptance?”

“You could call it that,” I said. “Like I’ve realized this was the only way things could’ve gone down.”

A chime sounded from atop Cavendish’s desk. Our time was over.

The doctor stood up. “Well, this sounds better than I thought, Detective.”