As I considered Gil’s question, I retrieved a hair tie from my pocket and pulled my unruly mop into a ponytail. A jolt of pain shot down both arms, the aftereffects of karate. “Guess I’ll visit my folks,” I said.

“In Swanton.”

“Yeah.”

Gil nodded. “It’s been a while, right? Last time we talked you said you hadn’t seen them in, what, three weeks?”

“Not since my suspension.”

“Why is that?”

And we’re back to business. Gil’s job was to get me thinking about my feelings, my behavior, and how they were connected. His opinion of my condition mattered, because he’d be sharing his notes with my superiors prior to my psych evaluation, the evaluation I needed to pass in order to resume my role as BCI senior investigator. I had to show Gil I was the strong, stable detective the New York State Police expected me to be, so I’d done everything he’d asked, from the cliché (make a list of my fears) to the absurd (download a meditation app and listen to a guru murmur affirmations in my ear). I’d talked more over the last twenty-one days than I normally would in months, answering loaded questions like Are you able to identify your core stressors? and Are you prepared to apply positive self-talk in your daily life? I could only hope he liked what he heard.

“Why haven’t I gone back to Swanton?” I asked, confirming his question. After so many previous trips, it was a valid one. “My parents know what happened on Tern. That was my first case up here, and it wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. Couple that with my breakup and the situation in New York last year and . . . well, they’re worried about me.”

Gil used a napkin to dab tea from his mustache. “Sounds like the perfect time to visit. Bond a little. Talk it out.”

“You’d think so,” I said, “but sometimes seeing me isn’t good for them.”

“Why’s that?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Gil hadn’t asked about the origins of my scar. As a rule I didn’t tell that story, and I didn’t plan to share it now. Instead, I lifted my hand. “They don’t need a visual reminder of how dangerous my job can be,” I said, showing Gil what remained of my burn. “This kind of work—it’s my life. I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman who’s wanted this since I was five. I’m not about to gin up a whole new career now. It’ll be easier for them to accept that after my hand heals. Easier to forget the drawbacks of the job.”

Gil set down his cup and gave me a look. “When you’re recovering from acute psychological stress, having a good support system is crucial.”

“It’s not that they don’t support me,” I said. “But I’m their only daughter, and the baby of the family. I’m sure they’d prefer I had a nice, safe job in advertising like my brother, or did administrative work like half my old classmates from high school. That’s not me, though. My family gets that.”