It’s not that I didn’t understand where she was coming from. Tim was the closest thing to a partner I had out here. In order to work together effectively, we needed to be in sync. Offset each other’s weaknesses and play off each other’s strengths. Many days after I started coming to the station and sitting at the desk next to Tim’s, I visualized what it would be like to bring him some sludgy, too-hot office coffee and ask for a few minutes of his time. In my mind, the scenario always ended with him giving me a sorry look that mutated into bottomless concern. If by some miracle he heard my story and didn’t immediately start questioning my mental state, he would surely see me as a charity case. Assume I was hired because of some obscure office policy that required damaged officers be given a chance to prove they’re healed. I’d always be broken to Tim.

As an experiment, I reversed the situation in my head. What would I do if my new colleague and informal adviser recounted a story like mine right after we met? The fact is, I wouldn’t trust him. And I deserve to be trusted, don’t I? There’s more to me than those dark days spent in the East Village, clawing at a cellar door until my fingernails bled. Screaming under the city in the land of rats and rust, and carving objects out of the kind of dark so full and rich it has texture. What happened with Bram doesn’t define me. It was Carson who taught me that, though I can’t say I was a quick study.

Telling Mac and telling Tim were two very different things. Tim wasn’t a self-imposed mentor like McIntyre, but a peer I’d have to see every day. He was someone Carson knew—hell, Carson wanted him at our wedding. If I allowed that to happen, Tim would meet my parents and see the everlasting shame and sadness in their eyes. There was no way he’d understand.

“This is entirely your call,” McIntyre said. “I’m just saying you should give him a chance. Tim’s a good man, Shay.”

“I know he is.” In the three months I’d known him, Tim hadn’t done a thing to suggest he lacked empathy. About everything else, in every situation, he’d been sympathetic but strong, compassionate without being feeble. That was part of the problem. I liked the guy. Tim’s opinion of me mattered.

“If you need help out there, he can give it to you.”

“Speaking of help,” I said, anxious to change the subject, “have you got a few minutes to do some recon work on our witnesses?”

McIntyre missed her detective days, and I knew she’d love to pitch in. With a smile in her voice she said, “What do you need to know?”

I gave her every name I had and asked her to poke around for anything peculiar. Assault charges, divorces, bankruptcies.

“I’ll text you when I’ve got something, see if you’re free,” she said.