“Yeah, well, I scare myself sometimes.” The lines on either side of his mouth deepen, and he sighs like an old man who bears the weight of the world on shoulders that have grown brittle and frail. “There was a time when I thought I could walk away from just about anything. I was one of those cops who could go directly from some bloody murder scene to lunch and not think twice about it. I was untouchable. Never had demons. Never felt too much. That was one of the reasons I was such a good cop. The job never got to me. I never let it.” He pins me with a grim look. “All of that changed the night Nancy and the girls were murdered.”

“That’s understandable,” I say. “But you dealt with it. You got help.”

“I let a lot of doctors prescribe a lot of pills I was all too happy to take.”

“But you’ve come a long way since then.”

“Not far enough, evidently,” he says dryly.

“I don’t know what that means. And I don’t know what it has to do with what just happened to you.”

Tomasetti scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m having anxiety attacks, Kate. I’ve been to the emergency room.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m seeing the company shrink. It’s a condition of my continued employment with BCI.”

The words hit me like hammer blows. My head is reeling. Knowing everything he’s been through, I hurt for him. “How long have you been having the anxicty attacks?” I finally manage.

“A couple of months.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not exactly the kind of thing a guy wants to discuss with his lover.”

I think about that a moment, trying to ignore the knot in my gut. “What’s the prognosis?”

“Going to keep me on the couch awhile.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Before you go all doe-eyed on me, you probably ought to hear the rest.”

“Now, you’re really making me nervous.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a pisser.” He grimaces. “The deputy superintendent has no idea I’m here.”

That isn’t what I expected him to say. “What?”

“I’m on leave. It’s mandatory.”

“Because of the anxiety attacks?”

He sighs. “Because of ancient history.”

“Maybe you ought to tell me everything.” Despite my efforts, my voice is tight.

“A few weeks before the Slaughterhouse case, I didn’t pass a drug test.”

I’m still trying to absorb the part about the panic attacks. It’s not easy. John Tomasetti is one of the strongest, most capable people I’ve ever known. To learn he’s suffering with an anxiety disorder truly stuns me. “Is your job going to be okay?”