He nods as if understanding, but his eyes are digging in to me, prying into places I don’t want him to pry.

“Tomasetti, for God’s sake, stop staring at me,” I say, trying to feign annoyance and not quite managing.

“I’m just trying to figure this out.” He shrugs. “Figure you out.”

I choke out a laugh that eases some of the tension. “There’s nothing to figure out. It was just a dream. That’s all.”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t look away.

I glance at the alarm clock and groan when I realize it’s already after seven. “I have to go.”

I start to rise but he stops me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you if you don’t want to, but I’m going to keep asking.”

I look down at my hands, which are clasped in front of me. He puts his arm around my shoulder and holds me against him for a moment. It’s a kind gesture, not sexual, and he tells me he’s here for me if I need him.

“All right,” I tell him.

He presses a kiss to my temple. “Just so you know.”

* * *

I blast through an abbreviated morning routine, forgoing breakfast with Tomasetti for a Pop-Tart and a to-go cup of coffee. My third-shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz, calls as I pull into my designated parking spot off of Main Street, which is crowded with vehicles I don’t recognize, including a news van from Columbus. I let the call go to voice mail and head inside.

In a town the size of Painters Mill, the police department is usually the kind of place someone might go for a little peace and quiet. That’s not the case this morning. The instant I walk inside, I’m assailed by a series of camera flashes that leave me half blind. The man behind the camera has hair longer than mine, black rimmed glasses, and enough facial hair to make a rug.

“Blind me with that flash again and you’re going to lose it,” I mutter as I stalk past.

He snaps two more shots at my back.

At the reception desk, Mona Kurtz is standing, talking to a woman wearing a geometric-print dress. At twenty-five, Mona is one of my more colorful employees. She keeps things interesting with her Lady Gaga–esque wardrobe and a personality that’s part rock and roll, part girl next door. But when it comes to her job, all frivolity goes out the window; she’s got her eye on an officer position, and as soon as one becomes available—or my budget allows—I plan to promote her. She’s not unflappable, though, and as I close the space between us, I see her composure waiver.

She spots me and her relief is palpable. “Chief.”

To my right, I see T.J. Banks, my third-shift officer, standing outside his cubicle. It’s nearly 8:00 A.M., which tells me he’s finishing post-shift incident reports.

The woman in the geometric dress turns, her eyes sweeping over my uniform. “Chief Burkholder?” Even as she says my name she nods at her hairy counterpart with the camera.