He laughs. “I don’t think my probation officer would appreciate that.”

A few minutes later, Tomasetti and I are sitting in the Tahoe, waiting for Goddard to start rolling. Tomasetti is staring out the window, brooding and preoccupied. I’m trying to find the right words, when he beats me to the punch.

“What the hell are people doing to their kids, Kate?”

It’s not the kind of statement I’m accustomed to hearing from him. He’s more apt to spout off some politically incorrect joke than a serious philosophical question, and it takes me a moment to find my feet. “Not everyone treats their kids that way.”

“Too many do.”

I want to argue. Only I can’t, because he’s right. So I let it stand. “We do what we can, Tomasetti. We can’t control everything.”

“That bitch in there doesn’t deserve those little kids.”

“I know.”

“She’s going to fuck up their lives the same way she fucked up her own.”

“You can’t say that for sure.”

His laugh is bitter. “Since when are you the optimist?”

“Don’t get cynical on me, Tomasetti.”

“That’s kind of like asking the ocean not to be wet.” But he doesn’t smile as he stares out the window. “We take so much for granted. I wish I had five minutes with my kids. Just five lousy minutes to say the things I didn’t say when they were alive.”

Tension climbs up my shoulders and into my neck. This is the first time he’s talked about his children with this level of intimacy, this kind of emotion. It’s the first time he’s mentioned regret or allowed me a glimpse of his pain. I don’t have children. But I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. I’ve been to that dark place and I know firsthand the toll it can take.

“That’s human nature,” I tell him. “We take things for granted. All of us do.”

He says nothing.

“I’m sure they knew you loved them,” I say, but I feel as if I’m floundering.

“When I was on a case, I’d go for days without seeing them. Even when I was home, when I worked late, I didn’t kiss them good night. I didn’t tuck them in. I barely looked at them some days. Half the time, I didn’t even fucking miss them. What the hell kind of parent doesn’t miss his kids?”

I glance over at him. He’s gripping the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead, and I think, Shit. “Tomasetti . . .”