I glance over to see Glock, T.J., Pickles and Skid emerge from their cubicles, staring at me as if I’m some mental patient that’s escaped the psycho ward and wandered into the police station. Skid wears his Painters Mill PD cap. I see the edge of a bandage sticking out at his right temple. A black eye. Residual bruising on his right cheekbone. I withhold a smile . . . barely.

“You look pretty good for a guy who got shot in the noggin.” My grin spreads despite my efforts. “How’s the head?”

He grins back. “Pretty hard, evidently.”

“All them rocks rolling around inside,” Pickles growls.

“Fragmented the bullet so badly, BCI techs couldn’t find all the pieces,” Glock puts in. “That’s a hard fuckin’ head.”

Everyone laughs, but I feel their collective attention on me. I wonder if I look as strung out as I feel. I wonder if they know Barbereaux was alive and defenseless when I took that last shot. I wonder if they know I flew into a rage at Barbereaux’s house and that Tomasetti had to physically subdue me before he could drag me out. I wonder if it’s obvious I’ve been hitting the painkillers just a little too hard.

“How’s the arm?” Glock asks.

“Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

Skid sends me a silly grin and moves his eyebrows up and down. “How ’bout those Kevlar vests, Chief?”

That makes me laugh, which is almost as bad as coughing because my ribs protest loudly. “Don’t make me laugh,” I say, touching my side gingerly.

Silence trickles over us, reminding me why I’m really here. “I just wanted to thank all of you for going above and beyond on the Plank case. It was a tough one.” I sigh, surprised when my breath shudders. “You did a good job. We got them.”

Pickles unwraps a toothpick and sticks it between his teeth. “McNarie says he’s got a bottle of Absolut with your name on it when you’re ready.”

I smile, but for some reason his mention of McNarie’s Bar only makes me think of Tomasetti. He returned to Columbus yesterday, and I haven’t heard from him since. I wonder where he is this morning. I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. If he misses me as much as I miss him.

“You’re looking kind of pale, Chief,” T.J. says after a moment. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“I’m heading that way now.” I send him a smile, but it doesn’t feel real. I’m aware of their stares, and I realize they’re worried about me.

“See you guys in a couple of days.” I start toward the door.

T.J. rushes forward and pushes it open for me. “Get some rest, Chief.”

“I’ll do that,” I say and start toward the Explorer.