He dried her first, an act of chivalry, as it left him wet and cold. She should be grateful. Appreciative of her caring, compassionate husband. Knowing how lucky she was to have his help.

Mostly, she felt bitter, angry and frustrated. Worse, he knew it. Yet he tended her quietly and thoroughly, even as her ingratitude rolled off her in waves of impotent rage.

“You would do the same for me,” he said finally, if only to ease the tension.

“No, I wouldn’t. I suck at basic humanity.”

“Not true. I’ve seen you with Jack, remember? You can be tough for the rest of the world, D.D. But you never have to be tough for me.”

“The doctor says I’ve lost my true Self to a bunch of control-freak Managers running around my psyche.”

“What do you think?”

“Fuckety fuck fuck Melvin,” she whispered, but she didn’t sound like herself anymore. She sounded dangerously close to tears.

“You’re going to be okay.” He kissed the top of her head.

“Don’t lie. Your rule, right? I can lie to myself, but not to you. Well, ditto. I was in the room with the doctor. I heard him say I may not regain full use of my arm. And I’ve taken the BPD’s yearly physical enough times to know what that might mean. Don’t pass the field test, don’t work in the field. Me, not on the job? Now who’s crazy?”

“You’re going to be okay.”

“Don’t lie!”

“I’m not. I know you, D.D. One way or another, you’re going to figure this out. And you’re going to be okay. And you know how I know that?”

“How?”

“Because you’re not even on the job, and you’re still about to spend your morning catching a murderer. Now, come on. Stop stalling. As long as you’re this pissed off, we might as well pull a shirt over that lovely shoulder of yours. What’s your pain’s name again?”

“Melvin,” she muttered.

“Well, Melvin, I’m Alex. Pleased to meet you. Now, fuck off.”

• • •

PHIL AND NEIL WERE ALREADY WAITING at the scene. D.D. entered the town house self-consciously, as if expecting to be surrounded by shadows and assaulted by the stench of blood. Instead, the downstairs was pleasantly illuminated by natural daylight flowing through multiple windows, while the air contained the unmistakable tang of Lysol. The landlord must’ve finally been granted permission to tend his unit. She would bet he hired professional cleaners, one of those firms that specialized in exactly this kind of work. It made her curious to see just what sort of magic they’d wrought upstairs.

“Any news on cause of death?” she asked her squad mates.

“Good morning, D.D., good to see you, too. How are you feeling?” Phil asked dryly.