“And yet, here we are. One session down, two more to go.”

D.D. gave her awkward half shrug, rose slowly to standing. “Fucking Melvin,” she murmured under her breath. Then, “I kinda like cursing him.”

“Detective,” I asked as she started for the door, “given that we have only two more appointments, what goal would be most valuable to you? What do you want most right now so that we can pursue it?”

“I want to remember,” she said immediately.

“Remember . . . ?”

“The fall.” She looked at me quizzically. “I have physician-patient privilege, right?”

“Of course.”

“My injury—I fell down the stairs at a crime scene. Discharged my weapon. Except I don’t remember why I was there, or who I was firing at.”

“Interesting. Concussion from the fall?”

“Possibly. Which according to the docs can cause memory loss.”

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

She fell silent for so long, I thought she hadn’t heard my question. Then, “The scent of blood,” she whispered. “The sensation of falling. Down will come baby, cradle and all.”

“Detective Warren?”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the night, when you’re done cursing out Melvin, I want you to ask him a question. I want you to ask him why he doesn’t want to remember.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Then I want you to tell him it’s okay. You’re safe, and you can handle it now.”

“The memory of what happened?”

“Yes. Then prepare yourself, Detective Warren. Melvin may have a very good reason for wanting you to forget.”

Chapter 4

MY PAIN IS NAMED MELVIN.”

“Better than Wilson,” D.D.’s husband, Alex Wilson, observed. “Or, say, Horgan.” Deputy Superintendent of Homicide Cal Horgan was D.D.’s boss.

“Please, you two are minor pains in the ass, while Melvin is a major pain in the neck.”

D.D. continued walking toward her husband, who already stood on the front porch of the modest redbrick town house. It was dusk. Sun sinking, evening air sharp with early winter bite. She’d parked three blocks back. Maybe a local, arriving home from a day’s work. Or an injured detective, who just happened to be in the neighborhood of a recent homicide, out for an evening stroll.

She shouldn’t be here. Had no right to be here, in fact.

And yet, leaving her new doctor’s office, she’d known the most recent murder scene was exactly where she’d go. As she’d eased herself into the driver’s seat, carefully reached across her body for the strap Alex had jury-rigged to the inside of the driver’s door, then used the strap to awkwardly pull the door shut without overjostling her left arm. The process was slow, uncomfortable, laborious.

Meaning she’d had plenty of time to change her mind.

Putting the key in the ignition. Shifting the vehicle from park into reverse.