He was a firefighter. My first firefighter, I always teased. When it came to dating, I had a definite “type.” Men in uniform, and it had nothing to do with symbols of authority setting my libido aflutter. I’d grown up in that culture. Lived it, breathed it, loved it. Born to a family of cops. Practically grew up at the station. Raised by the force, as they’d joke. So I’d dated cops, with the odd military officer thrown in for variety. I understood guys like that. I was comfortable with them. Dating a firefighter hadn’t been much of a stretch.

It had been a good time of my life. The right time for someone like Eric. I had my problems, but I’d learned to control them. Then along came Wayne Franco.

When I shot Franco, Eric tried to hide his shock, tried to convince me—and, through me, himself—that it had been an uncharacteristic act brought on by overwork, stress and anxiety over Dawn Collins’s murder.

In the aftermath, Eric stood by me, even when his superiors started “suggesting” he might want to take a vacation, get out of town while all this was going on. Seeing that pressure on him, I did the right thing. I told him I could handle this myself and suggested he step back. To my surprise and, yes, my disappointment, he’d done just that. And I’d realized that he’d supported me not because he believed in me, but because he believed it was the right thing to do, the noble thing to do.

After almost a week passed and he hadn’t called, I phoned and told him where he could stick his nobility.

We never spoke again.

The food arrived as Jack and I were scraping up the last of the crab dip. My steak was a decent size—I’d turned down the “smaller” portion offered by the server—but Jack’s took up most of his plate, so big they had to serve the potato separately.

We both started to eat, quiet for a few minutes, relishing the food. After a moment, Jack paused to watch me, as if making sure I was enjoying it.

“This is great,” I said, tapping the steak. “I haven’t had one like this in a long time.”

“Yeah?” He waved his fork over his plate. “To Evelyn? This is workman’s food. Me? Growing up? Rich people’s food. We’d dream about eating like this. See it in movies, magazines.” He cut off a generous slice. “I was a kid? Used to brag. Saying I’d be rich. Live in America. Eat steak every day.”

I smiled. “Did you ever do that?”

“Tried. After my first big job? Ate at places like this almost two weeks straight. Made myself sick.”

I laughed. “I’ll bet.”