Street dreams, they’re called, all too typical for new cops. First-year med students dreamed of a bleed-out from Ebola; first-year lawyers dreamed of arriving in court dressed only in underwear. So far as I knew, only cops dreamed of getting their heads blown off. I got up, my stomach in a knot, and threw on my terry-cloth robe.

Then, on the off chance that it might be Koby, I took off the terry robe and put on a silk one. I took a few quick moments to preen in front of the mirror; then I quickly brushed my teeth and rinsed out the bad taste with some no-name brand of electric green mouthwash. I was still mad at him, sure, but I wanted to look decent and smell good.

I checked through my peephole.

It was Oliver.

I was disappointed on so many levels, I couldn’t even begin to analyze my feelings.

I opened the door and tried to keep my face neutral. He was wearing a blue suit, white shirt, and gold tie. He had shaved and smelled nice—a fresh scent without the cloying sweetness common in most men’s cologne. His silver-streaked black hair was slicked back, but a chip was falling across his forehead. “I’m meeting Hayley Marx for breakfast, Scott.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

I hesitated, then let him in. He walked past me, so I closed the door. He glanced around my living room as if it were foreign territory to him. It wasn’t, of course, but it was a lot barer than when he had last seen it. I had taken away all my personal effects, intending to pack up and bid the place good-bye, but I had never got around to the actual jump. The atmosphere was about as warm as Motel 6.

“You’re moving?”

“No.”

“A fan of the minimal look?”

“What do you want, Scott?”

“How are you doing, Cin?”

“I’m doing lousy. Why is none of your business.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Accepted. I have to go—”

“Can you give me a minute?”

“Why should I?”

“Maybe because you owe me?”

“Excuse me?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “You know, you should have called me, Cin.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“I said”—his eyes bore into mine, but his voice got softer—“you should have called me.” A pause. “You know, last year after it all happened. I must have left fifty messages. I left those messages because I cared about you. Surely you could have found the time to return just one of them.”

We maintained eye contact.

He said, “You don’t want a relationship with me, fine. I’m a big boy. No prob. But you could have just been nice about it. You know how that works—asked how I’m doing, how my cases are going, was Daddy giving me a hard time. You know … chitty-chatty. You never had trouble talking to me when you wanted to talk.”

He dared me to respond. I didn’t accept the challenge.

“I was there when you needed me,” he said softly. “I was good to you. You owed me civility.”