“We know what you’ve been through,” Bogart soothed.

“I seriously doubt it.” John said the words through teeth clenched so tightly his jaws ached.

“We sympathize with your . . . situation.” This from Rummel.

John looked at him, wondering how many times the man had said those hollow words to other agents who’d lost partners or loved ones. Insincere son of a bitch; he was probably enjoying this. He envisioned himself lunging over the table, grabbing the other man’s collar and slamming his face into the rosewood surface until his nose was a bloody pulp. He could feel his pulse throbbing at his temples. The blood roaring in his ears.

Silently, he counted to ten, the way Doc Pop-a-pill had instructed. It didn’t help. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he ground out.

Denny groaned aloud. “John, for chrissake . . .”

Shoving away from the table, John rose abruptly. “If you people want me gone, I suggest you get your cards in order and grow some balls.” Not waiting for a reply, he started toward the door.

“John!” McNinch called out.

John didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.

“Let him go,” Rummel said quietly.

John hit the door with both hands, sent it flying open. It banged against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed picture of the attorney general in the hall. Keyboards fell silent. Heads swung his way. Pretty administrative assistants. A field agent holding a Krispy Kreme doughnut. The mail guy with his cart piled high with envelopes. Their expressions were wary, as if they expected John to pull out his sidearm and go postal. A little afternoon entertainment to go with their lattes and Diet Cokes. High drama on the fourteenth floor. Break out the fucking popcorn.

John felt the eyes burning into him as he strode toward his office and yanked open the door. Inside, he looked around, wondering what the hell he was doing. He should have taken the offer. He should have stayed calm. Now, if Rummel had his way, they were going to fire him. God knows he’d given them cause. Liquid lunches. Lost afternoons. That was when he bothered to show up at all. His penchant for prescription drugs was just the icing on the cake.

But God help him, he didn’t know what he’d do without the drugs. Didn’t know how he’d get through the day or God forbid a whole goddamn night. Talk about a clusterfuck.

He crossed to the window behind his desk and stared out at the traffic on Broad Street fourteen stories below. Not for the first time, the thought of ending it all flitted through his mind. He could go home. Have a couple of drinks. Work up the courage. Be done with it. But while John was squarely at the bottom of the barrel, he wasn’t so far gone that he could blow his brains out.

Not yet, anyway.

Sighing, he turned from the window and slid into the chair behind his desk. He thought about Nancy and Donna and Kelly, and shame for what he’d become cut him. The urge to pull out the photos was strong, but he resisted. Seeing their faces didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t remember them the way they’d been. When he thought of his wife and two little girls, he saw them the way they’d been on the dreadful night he’d found them . . .