He frowns, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

“I think the smartest thing you can do is leave.”

“No one’s ever accused me of being smart.”

I give him a withering look.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not the enemy here.”

“You stabbed me in the back.”

“Someone filed a complaint against you. Considering that scene in your office yesterday, I’d say Johnston is a pretty good guess.”

He’s right; Glock told me as much. But it’s not enough to quell my anger. I don’t feel like being reasonable and I don’t know who to trust.

“If I had spilled your secret to the town council,” John says, “you can bet your ass you’d be in some interview room surrounded by a bunch of gnarly cops asking nasty questions about the whereabouts of a missing Amish man.”

I step back and open the door. “Why are you here?”

He enters the foyer and closes the door behind him. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

I look down at my glass. It’s empty. I want to refill it, but I don’t want him to know my frame of mind has deteriorated to that low point. “You could have used the phone.”

“I’m sorry about the job.”

“Do me a favor and don’t apologize, okay?”

Nodding, he shrugs off his coat. He expects me to take it, but I don’t, so he carries it to the sofa and tosses it over the arm. “You can fight the termination, you know. There’s an appeal process.”

“Probably not worth it.”

He starts toward the kitchen and I realize he’s spotted my laptop and notes. I follow, wishing I’d put things away before letting him in. I don’t want him to know I’m still working the case.

His eyes take in the scene and he frowns. “You’re not one of those obsessive cops who can’t let go, are you?”

“I just like to finish what I start.”

“And maybe I’m a well-adjusted, middle-aged man.” Shaking his head, Tomasetti goes to the cupboard and pulls out a glass.

“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” I say.

Holding my gaze, he crosses to me, invading my space slightly, and takes my glass from my hand. At first I think he’s going to take it away. Instead he sets both glasses on the table. I watch, fascinated, as he pours three fingers of vodka into each glass, then passes mine back to me. “So, are you okay, or what?”

“I’d feel better if you kept me in the loop.”

“I’ve got a penchant for breaking the rules, anyway.”

“No one has to know.”

“The truth usually comes out sooner or later.” He raises his glass. “Believe me, I know.”

I clink my glass to his and down the drink. The vodka burns all the way to my stomach. My already fuzzy head goes fuzzier. I look at Tomasetti, really look at him, and a weird quiver of attraction goes through me. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s my best link to this case or if it’s something a hell of a lot more complicated.