As bad as it was, this was not the longest or worst headache. Once, when he lived with Kate, a migraine had lasted two weeks. In the last few days, he hated the smallest things she did: the wordless tune she sang to herself while she dressed, the ritual searching for keys at the bottom of her purse, tapping of her toothbrush on the sink’s edge, the Hank Williams ringtone on her cell. Listening to it from under the ice pack on his forehead, he wanted every molecule of her body somewhere far away.

Mahler turned on the water and cupped his hands in the hot stream. He splashed his face and slowly massaged his eyes.

A year earlier, a migraine had started at night while he lay in bed. He had seen an aura, the bright, sparkling lights of a migraine scotoma, as he had Tuesday night in the interview room with Dorothy Knolls. But that time, a year ago, as he blinked and watched the lights swell and fade, he had seen something else, a figure in the darkest corner of his room—crouched, wings folded, head raised to stare at him—an angel.

The restroom door opened. Chief Truro walked in, wearing his Class A uniform, with dark shirt, black tie, and navy jacket. Seeing Mahler, he stopped, still holding the door. “I was looking for you.”

Mahler felt the chief taking him in, seeing him bent over the sink, his face dripping with water. He straightened, letting the water fall onto his shirt, and faced Truro. “Tell me something, Chief. Do you believe in an afterlife? Do you think we’re spirits?”

“Lieutenant Mahler…Eddie, you can’t go on like this. You need to go home.”

“You must believe in something, don’t you? Or do we just end up underground, buried with animal bones—mixed with birds, mice, and cats—stranded forever between the tree roots and the dirt?”

“You can’t lead a team this way. The investigation’s getting away from you. You’re no longer able to protect your own officers. We got lucky with Frames. The city’s out there waiting for the other goddamned shoe to drop.”

“The problem is, there’s so much counter-evidence in our work. What kind of God permits the things we see?”

“A story’s going around that you and Rivas pulled your weapons on a motorist in front of police headquarters. Social media’ll get hold of that. You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

For the first time, Mahler looked at Truro. “We had cause to think the car might be the suspect’s.” He looked away again. “I want to believe. Sometimes I think I do.”