“Good. Things are good.”

He raised his thick eyebrows. “Well? When is it?”

So this was why he wanted to talk. “What, my fitness-for-duty psych eval? That old thing?” I stirred cream into my coffee, licked the straw. “Next week.”

“And you feel ready?”

“It’s not the SATs.”

“No, I know, I just—you’ve been slacking off long enough, is all. I could really use a hand back at the station.”

As the senior investigator for our unit, I head up our team. All the guys answer to me. But the time Tim and I spent on Tern Island investigating the Sinclair family altered the dynamic between us, and with a pang of regret, I realized how much I’d missed our special brand of repartee. “Been busy, have you?” I said. I meant it as a joke—A-Bay in the off-season is as action-packed as a grade school in summer—but Tim’s face lit up.

“You have no idea. Last Thursday? We had a drug deal go south in a hurry, this divorced couple fighting over who gets to keep the clients. The hubby goes out to sell from their mutual stash and his wife tips me off, failing to realize she’s implicating herself in the process.”

“Dear God.”

“But wait! There’s more. A motorboat got stolen from that RV park on Swan Bay—you know, over by the Price Chopper? Shittiest vessel you’ve ever seen, and someone felt the need to nab it while the owner was onshore buying groceries. She calls herself Miss Betty, and she calls me daily to ask why I haven’t found it yet. Says I’m a disgrace to the legal system.”

I laughed so hard I had to stabilize my mug. “Did you point out you’re not a lawyer?”

“Not yet, but I’ll be sure to mention it when she calls again on Monday, and Tuesday, and Wednesday. To be honest, I’d rather take calls from Miss Betty than the paper any day. Looks like Cunningham’s finally moved on from the Sinclair story. I was starting to feel like I had a stalker.”

“You and me both.” When Tim and I went to Troop D headquarters to report on our last case, the Watertown Daily Times features writer tailed us all the way to Oneida. The resulting article led to more calls, more requests for a comment, which I promptly ignored.

“Anyway,” Tim said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Mac insisted we squeeze in one last breakfast burrito before this place closes for the winter.”

“Here in the county, I mean.”

The atmosphere around us fizzled. “Where else would I go?” I said it lightly, but Tim’s expression was somber.

“You know where. I’ve been thinking about our talk. That day in Oneida.”

I remembered it well. While we’d managed to close the Sinclair case, it hadn’t been the cleanest of solves. I knowingly barreled onto the scene a liability, and did some serious damage. Our witnesses could easily have built a police misconduct case against me; it was a wonder they hadn’t. The fact that I’d worked the case on Tern Island while still wrestling with PTSD was irresponsible on every level. Over the last few weeks, the magnitude of what I’d done had settled on me like barbed wire biting into flesh. Little wonder the big guns wanted to know how it all fell apart, and how my conduct turned a missing persons case into an unholy mess.