I cocked my head. “I thought so too. I mean, I know it’s only been a couple days,” I said. “But I feel solid.”

I grabbed my phone from where I’d placed it beside the chair. Stood up. “I know we have a time on Monday. Can we pick it up then?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I’m glad you’re feeling so confident.”

I got up then and walked out. Took the stairwell two steps at a time. When I got to the bottom, I checked my phone to see if Remy had finished prepping for the stakeout at Tandy’s.

I also closed the browser window that I’d been studying before Cavendish showed up in the hallway.

It was an article about the “five stages” a cop goes through after a shooting.

There was the impact phase, which Cavendish mentioned. Followed by recoil. Then there was remorse, bargaining, and eventually acceptance. Below the headline was the author: Gary Cavendish. And I knew that the doc was wondering whether I’d read it and was bullshitting him.

But at the same time, if he’d asked and was wrong, he knew he’d be sending me looking for it online.

A catch-22.

I crossed the street and opened the back door of the precinct.

I was fine, and it was time for real police work.

17

In my first three years as a detective, I was a part of five stakeouts, and my then-partner, Miles, who later became chief, was most in his element on a sting.

But Remy had only been a part of one operation of this type, and I felt like I’d done her a disservice by not getting her into more of these scenarios.

While I was in with the head-shrinker, my partner had gone home and changed into a casual outfit that consisted of black tights and a torn white UGA sweatshirt. Her straightened hair fell to her shoulders, and she was back in contacts.

As she met me outside, Remy motioned at a beat-up green Ford 250 Ranger parked at the curb.

“I picked it up from impound,” she said proudly.

“These are great trucks,” I said, starting a three-sixty around the old beater. “They’re worth cash too, Rem,” I added, trying not to reveal what a shit-kicker I could become around trucks.

By the time I made my way around the old beast, I was eating my words. The passenger side featured an un-matching door. It was blue in color and the rest of that side had rusted from water damage. “’Course, the ones that have been underwater in lakes . . .”

“Are worth considerably less?”

I laughed at myself. “Does it run?”

“I got it up to fifty. Engine made a racket, but it seemed solid.”

“You get me that jacket?”

My partner tossed me an old jean jacket and a T-shirt. She’d swung by my house and grabbed a couple things, to help me dress down.

“Let’s do it then,” I said.

I got up into the cab and Remy hopped in the passenger side. I fired up the Ranger with a deep thrum and headed toward SR-914, which zigzagged north from the west side of Mason Falls like some wild artery.