That type of environment takes a certain breed of cop with a specific set of personality traits, not all of which I possess. I’ve known several undercover cops over the years, most of whom worked in narcotics. It’s dangerous, intense work that involves weeks or months of assuming an identity, infiltrating a sometimes-hostile organization or group, and earning the trust of those in the know. You’re isolated, cut off from friends and family, and most often surrounded by individuals you can’t trust and don’t necessarily like.

Most cops who take on the challenge are young and male. Adrenaline junkies who like being in the thick of things. Extroverts. Good liars. High-energy. Most important, they have an innate ability to transform themselves and take on another persona. They’d never admit it, but a lot of them think they’re bulletproof. A few of the narcs I’ve known have gotten in too deep and ended up in rehab afterward.

I’m none of those things. A few years ago, I might have jumped at the opportunity, if only to prove to myself that I was capable. But I’ve reached an age where I’m secure in my job. I’m comfortable in my own skin and content with my accomplishments. I like my life the way it is: stable and predictable. While I still like a challenge, I have nothing to prove to anyone. And I’m sure as hell not bulletproof.

That’s not to mention Tomasetti. He knows, more than anyone, that no one is impervious to tragedy, especially loved ones. I have to take his feelings into consideration. If I decide to move forward, it won’t be easy for him. Five years ago when he was a detective with the Cleveland Division of Police, a career criminal by the name of Conn Vespian targeted Tomasetti’s wife and two children and murdered them in cold blood. Tomasetti is a strong man, but no one recovers from that kind of loss; not unscathed, at least. As a result, he’s overprotective and can be overbearing. He’s a good cop; I value his opinion and I care about what he thinks, but I know even before discussing this with him that he will not give his blessing.

I’m out the door by eight P.M. The roads are slick with an inch or so of snow, and it takes me forty-five minutes to reach the farm in Wooster. As I drive up the lane, the windows of the old farmhouse glow yellow. Tomasetti has left the porch light on for me. I park next to his Tahoe and enter through the back door. The kitchen is warm and filled with the aroma of the beef stew I tossed into the Crock-Pot this morning. A bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses sit on the counter. I’ve taken off my boots and am in the process of hanging my coat on the rack when he appears at the kitchen door. He’s fresh out of the shower in faded jeans, a flannel shirt over a waffle henley, white socks on his feet. He doesn’t smile, but I can tell by the appreciative way his eyes sweep over me that he’s glad to see me.