It should be one of those rare slices of time when everything is right in the world and I’m reminded of all the things that are settled and good in my life. All the things I have to be thankful for. I’m with the man I love, and confident in the knowledge that I’m loved as fiercely in return. I should be relaxed and happy because I’m ensconced in the warmth and comfort and familiarity of my home. But I’m none of those things. I’m antsy and edgy, and though I should be content, some small part of me is already gone.

The clock on the wall ticks, a metronome that never stops. Another minute gone that can’t be gotten back. I want to reach out and stop those black hands.

At the stove, Tomasetti still has his back to me. He’s putting up a good front, but I know he’s angry with me for agreeing to the assignment. We both know that if he turns, I’ll see what he’s thinking, and this perfect slice of time will no longer be perfect. I don’t know how to make any of it right.

“You’re quiet,” I say when I can stand the silence no longer.

“I’m not the only one.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “I suppose I’m just thinking.”

“About my leaving?”

“About the soup.” But he grins. “Needs a little more cayenne.”

I laugh and some of the tension leaches from my shoulders. “I miss you already.”

“Not too late to pull out.”

I watch as he taps red pepper into the soup. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But there it is.”

He ladles the soup into bowls and brings them to the table, sits across from me. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning. Early.”

“You packed?”

“Yep.” I tell him about the dresses I borrowed from my sister, and he groans.

“Any idea how long you’ll be gone?” he asks.

“I can’t imagine it taking any longer than a couple of weeks. Three, max.”

“Three weeks can seem like an eternity when you’re working undercover.”

“I know.”

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“I don’t expect it to be easy, but I can handle it.”

He’s looking everywhere except at me. I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to see what’s in his eyes. John Tomasetti might have a good poker face, but there are certain things he can’t hide—not from me. I know him too well. I know anger is one of them.

I’m not hungry, but I pick up my spoon and eat some of the soup anyway. It’s good, but too spicy. “Tomasetti.”

Finally, he looks at me. Dark eyes level. Resentment simmering just beneath the surface, hidden by a thin film of civility.

“I know you don’t want me to do this,” I tell him. “I get that.”

“You’re right. I don’t know what else to say.”

“You could give me your blessing.” I set down my spoon. “You could trust my judgment. My capabilities.”