“I know you don’t like the fact I talked to him. It wasn’t like we were having drinks. I wanted to make sure you were safe from him,” he explained. “And like I said, wanting to make amends doesn’t make up for what he did, but isn’t feeling remorse for one’s own actions better than having none?”

I frowned as I mulled that over. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Guess so?”

“I mean, how do you really know if someone feels remorse? Or guilt? Or if it’s just because they got caught and are in trouble?”

“You know, I saw a lot of messed-­up shit when I was in the sandbox,” Reece said, jarring me with the unexpected comment. “I saw what happened when someone got hit by an IED. I saw bodies of guys I considered friends riddled with bullets, some losing their legs or arms—­their lives. I saw ­people who when it was all said and done didn’t have much of anything to ship back to their families. You kind of get used to it—­the anger every time your group loses someone. Doesn’t make it easier, but you’re at war. I guess that helps you compartmentalize the shit that’s going down, what you got to do to make sure everyone survives.”

He paused, taking a long swallow. “When I left the academy and started working here, I thought I could do the same. Compartmentalize the bullshit, the annoying traffic stops and the domestics at the same house every Friday, and the god-­awful traffic accidents, the senseless overdoses, and dumbass-­on-­dumbass violence. Packed that shit away where it belongs. I was doing it. So I thought having to shoot someone would be no different from being at war or just doing my job. I was wrong.”

I lowered the bottle to my lap, shocked into silence. He was talking about the shooting. Reece never talked about the shooting. I didn’t dare to breathe too loudly for fear of him stopping.

“It was a normal call. A fight outside of Spades Bar and Grill. I got there at the same time as another officer did. The fight was in the parking lot, and it took us a few to make it through the crowd.” He shook his head slowly. “The kid—­his name was Drew Walker. Only eighteen. He was beating the shit out of an older guy. To the point that when we got there, the dude was knocked the fuck out. You know, he had a broken jaw, shattered nose, and eye. A cracked skull. That’s what that kid did to him.”