Sadie is past the age where a smacking would be effective. But I have no doubt she will be punished for her disobedience, more than likely by the assignment of some unpleasant chore. I wonder if it will be enough.

I’m tired, still thinking about Sadie, on my way to the station to file my end-of-shift reports when my cell phone chirps. Mild annoyance transforms into plea sure when I see Tomasetti’s name on the display, and I pull on my headset. “Morning, Agent.”

“I called earlier and got voice mail. Everything okay?”

“Sorry. Got tied up with a stop.”

“Cows?”

“Worse,” I tell him. “Teenagers.”

“That is worse.”

“At least with cows, you know what you’re getting.”

“Less bullshit anyway.”

John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation in Cleveland. We met a year and a half ago, when he assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders case. It was a tumultuous time for both of us, not only professionally but personally. His wife and two children had been murdered just nine months before, and he was an emotional basket case. He’d been taking some heavy-duty prescription drugs and mixing them with alcohol, a coping mechanism run amok that had put his career on the skids and sent his life careening out of control. There were probably other things going on as well that he didn’t see fit to reveal. But then, people like us excel at keeping secrets, especially when they’re big ones.

It was my first major case as chief, and my personal connection to the killer made for an extremely stressful investigation. The murders themselves were shocking and brutal—the things of nightmares. Somehow, in the course of all that depravity and blood, Tomasetti and I became allies. We became friends and, later, lovers. In the end, we broke that damn case wide open.

“Have you slept?” He knows I covered the graveyard shift last night.

“I’m heading home as soon as I file reports.” In the back of my mind, I’m wondering if he’s going to drive down. If he’s got the weekend off and wants to spend some time with me. It’s been a month since I last saw him. Something inside me surges at the thought, but I quickly bank it. I’m still reluctant to trust any emotion that packs so much power and comes with such ease.

“I just got handed a case,” he tells me. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in coming up to consult.”