“I’m good. Really good. Just seeing that kid smile again after everything he’s been through.” Chris smiled. He looked tired, but content. “Joshua is a great kid—he’s going to be okay. I gave his grandparents instructions, and they’re bringing him back for a checkup next week. Referred them to a local doctor I trust for follow-up care, and the psychiatrist you recommended.”

“I’m glad I could help in a small way.”

“It’s truly a miracle he survived, but he’s a strong kid.”

“I don’t believe in miracles. You saved him—you and the paramedics on scene.”

Chris didn’t comment. The only thing she and Chris had fundamentally disagreed on—other than her work for the FBI—was religion. He believed in God; she didn’t. It wasn’t that she disbelieved, but she imagined a cruel God or an indifferent God; a bully, a brute, not the loving God of Chris’s church. She didn’t like how Chris deferred his accomplishments to someone else—even if it was someone who couldn’t be seen, touched, or heard. When he gave a speech during his medical school graduation ceremony, he thanked God first.

She didn’t understand. His parents had paid for his education, he did the hard work to graduate top of his class, he was smart—brilliant—and had more compassion than anyone she knew. Why credit a distant deity who anointed a few and cursed others?

But as a psychiatrist, she understood that some people—even smart people like Chris—were so humble that they couldn’t accept their accomplishments on their face. Believing they were somehow blessed made their success easier to live with.

She closed the door behind Chris. “Would you like some wine? I have some food, but I’ll admit I’ve been eating mostly takeout.”

“Wine sounds good. Thank you.”

She poured two glasses, handed one to Chris. He was looking at her closed office doors. “You’re working again.”

How did he know that? How could he see what was behind the doors?

“Consulting.” She didn’t want to talk about this now. She promised she would quit, make it official. “Just this one case.”

He didn’t say anything, but opened the den doors and looked at her work.

“Matt asked,” she said lamely.

She felt the tension grow in the room. Chris and Matt had once been friends, good friends, but after eight months—she didn’t expect them to mend fences. And that was as much her fault as theirs.

“It’s an old case of mine,” she said. “The Triple Killer, on the West Coast.”

“I remember.” He faced her. “You’re not quitting, are you?”

“I already turned in my resignation.”

“But you haven’t left.”

“My boss is stubborn. She ordered me to take a sabbatical before she’ll accept my decision.”

“Dammit, Catherine, that’s what I told you to do in the first place! Take time. You can’t quit unless you can be at peace with the decision, and you’re not at peace.”

He had suggested it, but Catherine knew he really wanted her to quit. When she broached the idea of private practice, he’d concurred.