“Well, I’m not a psychiatrist.” Eric winced, looking at Robin as though maybe he shouldn’t have said it. “But you know . . . if I’d had Kathleen Sharkey for a mother and I believed there was someone out there who was to blame . . .”

“Yeah. I get it.” Morasco looked at Robin. “Can you do me a favor? Screenshot that text and email it to me?”

Robin did, Morasco staying long enough to make sure the email had gone through.

Once he left, Robin sat back down at the kitchen table. Eric came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs resting at the base of her neck. “Do you think we did the right thing?” she said.

“No question.” His voice was firm. This was another thing about Eric, and it went hand in hand with the blind optimism. He never questioned a decision he made, whether it was the color swatches for their new kitchen or opting not to have kids or working for Shawn Labatoir or turning the cops on Quentin Garrison. Robin was more the type to agonize and second-guess, probably because she was an analyst’s daughter. “What if Garrison’s innocent?”

“Then the truth will out.”

She looked up at him with flat eyes. “Sure,” she said. “That always happens in law enforcement.”

Eric kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got to trust someone, Robin,” he said. “And given the choice between Nick Morasco and his partner . . .”

“Good point.” Robin closed her eyes, a sense of calm sweeping through her. It helped, right now, to see the world the way Eric did—without self-doubt, questioning nothing. She thought back to what he’d said to her at the emergency room, just before she got word that her father had died and her entire life came apart at the seams. You aren’t the only one who’s pissed people off. He had said it without elaborating. Hadn’t brought it up again and, as far as Robin could tell, hadn’t given it another thought. Who had he pissed off? Had it been professional? Personal? “Eric . . .”

“What?”

But she realized that she didn’t want answers from him, not now. She just wanted to be able to trust him, to lean on him a little. Let him have his secrets. It seemed like a fair trade. “I’m going to have a glass of wine. Do you want one?”

“Sure.”

Robin removed two glasses from the cupboard and got the sauvignon blanc out of the fridge. It had been a long time since she’d poured two glasses of wine. It felt good, as did the fact that he hadn’t checked his phone once—not one single time since they’d started dinner, and that was hours ago.

She handed him a glass, and he raised it to her. “To your mom’s full recovery.”

She smiled. Raised hers. “To new beginnings,” she said.