I was all set to call it quits and fight through that pain on my own—go through the motions, my ass—when Carson did something surprising. After our first meeting he called me to apologize. It was too much too fast, he conceded. Of course I felt overwhelmed.

As we talked, I realized it wasn’t his diagnosis that left me feeling beaten down, but the implication that it wouldn’t go away. I needed to work, couldn’t imagine a life without the force once my leave of absence came to an end. Dr. Gates said the damage was done. My trauma was too great. I could no longer separate good from evil, not even when evil stared me in the face. He recommended a desk job, and tasks that were “professionally gratifying, but far removed from violence.” It was the last thing I wanted to hear. So I refused to hear it.

But I didn’t quit. Week after week I begrudgingly continued those mandatory visits, and every time I argued my case. I could get over the ordeal, I told him. I’d find a way to move on. When he saw how determined I was, he made me a promise. He’d work with me until I was ready to go back, no matter how long it took.

I showed up for our sessions with new energy and resolve. For his part, Carson went out of his way to schedule extra meetings and check in with me via phone calls and texts in between. Before long we were seeing each other outside of the office—a coffee on a Saturday morning, a drink when he finished work. In all the ways I felt weak, Carson was strong. He insisted the horrible things I’d done for Bram were forgivable.

It felt like ages before our relationship progressed beyond a friendship. The more time I spent with Carson, the more convinced I became that only a psychologist trained in trauma therapy for police officers would ever be able to understand the person I’d become. The day he told me he could no longer be my therapist because our connection felt too personal, I knew there was no going back. It didn’t seem to matter that dating him was unethical and unwise, not to mention a criminal offense. When I stumbled out of that basement with blood on my hands, I was utterly alone. Until I found Carson.

“Detective Merchant?”

“Jesus.” I brought my bandaged hand to my heart. Norton had a way of sneaking up on me that made me want to jump out of my skin. He was standing in the hall. Over his shoulder I saw Ned crouched next to Abella, murmuring gently in her ear. Watching them together yanked at my gut. Three friends with a lifetime ahead of them, now down to two.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Norton said, “but I was wondering if you noticed the time.”

Putting away my phone, I said, “Got someplace you need to be?”

He flushed, all the way from his neck to the tips of his ears. “’Course not, I just meant it’s almost cocktail hour. After that there’ll be dinner and dessert—”