When she’d gone, I pounded ketchup onto my fries, transferred the lettuce, pickle, and tomato from the plate to my burger, and added condiments.

“I told you. Dorton owns a couple of strip clubs in Kannapolis, just north of Charlotte.” I took a bite. The ground beef was somewhere between scorched and vaporized. I took a swig of Coke. It was Coke. Not Diet Coke.

My mood was darkening by the nanosecond.

“The police have been watching Dorton on and off for a few years, but they’ve never been able to nail him with anything.” The waitress presented Ryan with a tiny corrugated cup of mayonnaise and more teeth than a coping saw.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Anytime,” she said.

I felt my eyes rol toward my frontal lobe.

“They think Mr. Dorton’s lifestyle exceeds his earning power?” Ryan asked, dipping a fry into the mayo.

“Apparently the man’s got a lot of toys.”

“Dorton’s back under surveil ance?”

“If Ricky Don so much as spits on a sidewalk, he’s busted.”

I upended the ketchup, pounded, returned the bottle to the table with a loud crack.

We ate in silence for several minutes. Then Ryan’s hand slipped over mine.

“What’s bugging you?”

“Nothing.”

“Tel me.”

I looked up. Deep concern in the cornflower eyes. I looked down.

“It’s nothing.”

“Talk to me, cupcake.”

I knew where this was going and I didn’t like it.

“What is it?” Ryan probed.

Easy one. I didn’t like feeling depressed by my work. I didn’t like feeling cheated because of a postponed vacation. I didn’t like feeling jealous over an innocent flirtation with an anonymous waitress. I didn’t like feeling that I had to answer to my daughter. I didn’t like feeling left out of her life.

I didn’t like feeling I was not in control.

Control. That was always my problem. Tempe had to be in control. That was the sole insight I’d gained from my single experience with analysis.

I didn’t like analysis, didn’t like admitting I needed outside help.

And I didn’t like talking about my feelings. Ever. Not with a psychologist. Not with a priest. Not with Yoda. Not with Ryan. I wanted to slide from the booth and forget this conversation.

As if in betrayal, a lone tear headed south from one eye. Embarrassed, I backhanded my cheek.

“Done?”

I nodded.

Ryan paid the check.

The parking lot held two SUVs and my Mazda. Ryan leaned against the driver’s door, pul ed me to him, and tilted my face upward with both hands.

“Talk.”

I tried to lower my chin.

“Let’s jus—”

“Does this have to do with last night?”

“No. Last night was…” My voice trailed off.

“Was what?”

God, I hated this.

“Fine.” Skyrockets and theWil iam Tel Overture.

Ryan ran a thumb under each of my eyes.

“Then why the tears?”