I look at Tomasetti and wonder how he has fared. So many times I’ve tried to imagine him with a wife he loved and two little girls he doted on. It’s a difficult image to capture. I suspect he’s a different man now than he was before.

“I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for you to deal with a case like this,” I say after a moment.

He looks down at his coffee, but not before I see the walls go up, and I realize even after three years, the deaths of his wife and children is the one topic he won’t breach.

“Tomasetti?

He looks at me. “Yeah?”

“If you ever want to talk about it, I’m a good listener.”

His expression softens. “I know.”

The sound of a train whistle drowns out the final notes of “Lunatic Fringe.” The liquor bottles above the bar rattle as a train passes. The tabletop shakes, and I feel the vibration through the floor beneath my feet.

Across from me, Tomasetti slouches in the booth, staring at his coffee, his face revealing nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s a battle-scarred face, though it bears not a single mark. I want to heal him, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if he’ll let me.

“I got a room,” Tomasetti says. “The old hotel by the river.”

“The Petry,” I say slowly. “I noticed it when we drove past.”

“I figured we could both use some downtime.”

Even after so long, it unsettles me that I want him with such intensity. That I’m vulnerable to him in that way. That I’m vulnerable to my own needs and that we’re sitting here as if any of it makes sense.

I reach across the table and take his hand. Surprise flashes on his face when I tug him toward me. I lean across the table and touch my mouth to his. His lips are firm and warm against mine, and my only conscious thought is that I want more. I smell coffee and the fading redolence of aftershave, and something profound stirs inside me.

Not for the first time, I wonder where our relationship will take us. I wonder if two people with as much baggage as we have can get past it, make a go of something good. I wonder if our demons will allow it. And I wonder how long this precarious happiness will last.

After a moment, I break the kiss and move back slightly. But I don’t let go of him and our faces remain close. “You make me happy,” I tell him.

He stares at me as if I’m some puzzle that’s unexpectedly baffled him. It would be just like him to spout off something flippant or crude. But he doesn’t, and his silence leaves me stammering.

“Are you okay?” I ask.