“Probably a good idea.” He looks at me as if seeing me in a whole new light. “Anything special you want done here while you’re gone?”

“I think business as usual would be our best bet.”

“You got it, Chief.” I’m a little more touched than I should be when he extends his hand to me for a squeeze and a shake. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Call if you need anything.”

I give his hand a reciprocal squeeze. “Bet on it.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, I’m standing at the half podium in our storage closet–turned–meeting room. Everyone on staff at the Painters Mill PD is here, including Pickles, who just turned seventy-five. As usual, he’s in full uniform, including his trademark Lucchese boots, which are polished to a high sheen. He’s down to about ten hours a week now, which includes the elementary school crosswalk and the occasional jaunt down Main Street to ticket folks who don’t put a quarter in their parking meter.

“Looking sharp, Pickles.” Sitting next to him, Skid nurses an extra large cup of coffee from LaDonna’s Diner. He’s the resident practical joker and all-around smartass, both of which are endearing traits—most of the time, anyway.

“That’s what your wife told me this morning,” the old man replies.

T.J. Banks, my youngest officer and the only rookie, coughs out a laugh.

For the first time it occurs to me that I won’t have my team around to support me. To make me laugh. To back me up. I’m not married to my job, but I enjoy my work. I love the people I work with. They are my family, and the department is the one place, it seems, where I fit in.

I tap the mike, realize I don’t need it, and flip it off. “I just wanted to let all of you know I’m going to be away to consult on a case out of state for a couple of weeks. Glock will be acting chief in my stead. Business as usual here at the station.”

“Which are code words for behave yourselves,” Pickles mutters.

I spend twenty minutes going over assignments and another half an hour as each of my officers reports on things they encountered during patrol since our last meeting. As I wrap things up and watch my team shuffle from the room, I experience an oddly emotional moment and an overwhelming need to call them back. I know it’s silly, but in that instant, it feels as if I’ve bid them farewell and may never see them again.

* * *

I’m sitting at the table in the warmth of our farmhouse kitchen. Rain taps like gentle fingers against the window above the sink. A candle flickers in the center of the table, the scent of warm vanilla wafting up to mingle with the aromas of basil and tomato from the soup simmering on the stove. Tomasetti stands at the sink, rinsing our wineglasses, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. From the living room, Harry Connick Jr.’s smooth-as-silk voice floats on the air like smoke.