Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
Lincoln / Present
T he silence is deafening as I make a list in my head of at least fifty other things I could be doing right now instead of this. It’s the beginning of September, the perfect time to gather firewood when the weather is cool enough so I don’t sweat my balls off, and the bees aren’t infesting the wood pile. Then there’s the yard that needs tending to, thanks to the blanket of orange, yellow, and red leaves that cover the once-green grass that’s an inch too long. I could go on, thinking of the never-ending to-do list that always grows ten times longer when the fall hits.
Not that any of it matters. If I skipped another session, the lieutenant would hear about it within the hour and tear me a new asshole. Then he’d be on me about all the reasons I needed to go and talk out my feelings like that could change anything that happened over the past year. It can’t. I know that, he knows it, and the attractive brunette in the seat across from me knows it too.
Doctor Theresa Castro holds my fate in her petite hands thanks to the work-ordered grief counseling I have to sit through before my happy ass can get back to my regular schedule.
It could be worse. The psychiatrist is pretty in a sophisticated sort of way. Professionally put-together. There isn’t a piece of hair out of place on her head or a wrinkle to be seen in her purple dress, which reminds me of the tie I used to wear as part of my old uniform.
The woman, who must be around my age, seems comfortable in the leather armchair, with a quiet confidence about her that I can appreciate even if I don’t want to be here.
But I have no choice, no matter how far away my mind wanders from the events that led to the weekly meetings to discuss all the fucking ways my life has been turned upside down over the past year. I’ve learned by now that getting lost in the what-ifs of life only gets you closer to rock bottom, and I don’t think I could survive the plummet at this point. Talking about it seems like a cruel punishment—like pouring salt into an open wound.
Rolling my shoulder, I internally wince at the pain radiating from the torn flesh and muscle between my heart and left clavicle. The reconstruction surgeries fixed the majority of the damage but not all of it. Five months after the incident and I can still feel the bullet ripping through me.
My eyes lift to the antique clock hanging beside the door for what must be the fifth time in the past twenty-five minutes. When I look away, I’m caught with calm, curious eyes behind a pair of brown glasses.
Theresa Castro reminds me a lot of Georgia.
Dark hair. Fair skin. Piercing eyes. From here, I can’t tell what color they are. Lighter, like some shade of blue or gray or green. The gleam in her glasses lenses makes it hard to tell. My guess would be green. Not quite emerald or mint, but something in between.
Like the grass I really need to mow.
Sighing, I lean back on the emerald suede couch and study the woman whose job it is to analyze me. I’ve always had a thing for brunettes. Even in high school, the two girlfriends I thought I’d loved had brown hair.
Crossing my arms, I keep the same stoic expression on my face that’s been painted there since I walked into the brick building with Psychotherapy written in gold lettering on the door. It felt like a diagnosis the second I opened the door like the world could see there was something wrong with me.
I hate the free advertisement that might as well tell people I’m fucked up, just like I hate the laundry list of reasons that led me here.
Don’t go, Georgia had pleaded. I have a bad feeling.
Jaw grinding at the warning I chose to disregard, I sink into my seat and feel the crushing weight of my consequences.
Tell Matt you changed your mind.
Grinding down until my teeth hurt, I force myself out of my head and train my focus on the doctor.
Women like the one in front of me have always captured my attention. I used to enjoy their lingering gazes as they scoped out my body. It was an ego stroke to have their attention.
But not hers. If she were anyone else, a random stranger on the street, maybe the circumstances would be different. I’d flirt with her. Maybe ask her to get coffee sometime. That’s another what-if I choose not to fixate on for long.
“What’s on your mind?” she asks.
It’s only the second question she’s asked me since I sat down, preceded by “How are you?” and “let her know if I need to turn the air conditioner down.” The rest of the time has been filled with awkward silence, save the ticking clock that taunts me as each slow second passes.
Just like the last three times I’ve been here.
“What’s on yours ?” I counter.
Her expression isn’t nearly as stoic as mine, but I’ll give her credit where it’s due. She’s got a good poker face. But I see the tiny little twitch in the corner of her mouth. She’s amused by my reluctance to talk to her. I doubt it’s the first time it’s happened to her in this profession, but I find that smile oddly…fascinating.
She may be good at reading people, but I’d like to think I’m better. I spent years training to figure out what isn’t being said. Body language gives a lot of people away. I’m good at my job because I pay attention to details. I’d like to think that’s the real reason I got promoted to the investigative unit in my station. The BCI, Bureau of Criminal Investigations, is a competitive unit. There are hundreds of applications a year that spread across New York State. I worked my ass off to be one of the people accepted without any special treatment.
I refuse to believe the alternative reason thrown in my face for the better part of five years. I don’t kiss ass or shake hands with the right people like some believe. I get results by quietly observing.
Like how the doctor doesn’t have any personal touches in her office—no photographs or degrees or anything that could give away her identity or personal life. I bet she doesn’t even have a social media presence for the sake of her privacy.
There are plants everywhere, though. On the desk, hanging from the ceilings, and a few spread out on the hanging shelves. Probably all real, based on the small watering can on the windowsill across the room.
She keeps a lint roller on her desk, which most likely has to do with the few short pieces of coarse hair on her outfit, so I know she has an animal—maybe more than one. I’d guess a cat, but she could be a dog person.
She doesn’t wear jewelry or anything flashy. I don’t see any tan lines on her fingers either. She’s either single, divorced, or chooses not to wear her ring when meeting clients.
It’s smart. You never know who you’re going to meet, especially in her career.
I respect her dealing with people like me—closed off and unpredictable. Maybe if I actually spoke during these sixty-minute sessions, I’d realize she and I aren’t that different.
But I have no intention of doing that.
I’ve gotten used to the weight sitting on my chest, suffocating me with every bad decision I’ve made as a reminder that it’s my fault.
“What are you observing, Mr. Danforth?” she questions, the notepad on her lap untouched since she sat down with it.
“I’m trying to figure out if you’re a cat mom or a dog mom,” I answer honestly.
The corners of her lips lift a fraction. “Both. I have one cat and two dogs. They keep me busy in what little spare time I have.”
So she’s a busy woman. A workaholic like me. Although I stay busy because I have nothing else in my life. It’s a way to drown out the thoughts that keep me up at night. What’s her motive?
She doesn’t ask me if I have pets, not that I’d expect her to. The things she wants to talk to me about go beyond which dog breed I find superior or what vacuum works best for getting fur off carpets.
Heaviness settles a little deeper into my stomach when I think about the events that led me to this seat, and the throbbing ache in my shoulder rattles to life.
Good . Another reminder.
The good doctor clears her throat. “I have a lot of experience dealing with both men and women in your field, Mr. Danforth. Your line of work is not easy. You see a lot—get put on the front line of a lot of very difficult, dangerous situations. Each of your experiences may be unique, but the gravity of them is all very similar. There’s nothing wrong with feeling the effects of the job or talking about them if things go awry.”
Awry. Is that how she views it? “That’s putting it mildly,” I mumble, meaning to keep the scoffed tone to myself.
I’ve been molded to be guarded after serving four years in the Marines, two years as a sheriff’s deputy, and now seven years with the New York State Police. Law enforcement is taxing in more ways than one, sure, but I’ve learned to do what a lot of my peers can’t. Detach before it completely drains you. Three years on the road and four years working on various crime scenes have reminded me that humanity can be a fucked-up thing with a lot of fucked-up people.
I’ve witnessed it firsthand.
Experienced life’s repercussions.
The more you take home with you at the end of the day, the harder you’ll slip. I’ve seen guys lose it. Some of them even quit their job and take a different one, with fifty percent pay cuts for the sake of their sanity.
“Not everybody is cut out for this job,” I tell her, jaw ticking when the tip of her pen drags across the notepad to write God only knows what.
When she sets down the ballpoint, there’s a look on her face that I recognize all too well when we lock eyes. Sympathy. “You may be right, but nobody can sustain a lifetime of suppressed emotions either. We all have our breaking points.”
I swallow the lump forming in the back of my throat and sit straighter, not bothering to look away first. “I can’t change what happened.”
Her head dips once in thoughtful acknowledgment, her features softening. “No, you can’t. But that doesn’t mean you can’t process it and mourn. If you bottle up all of those pent-up emotions, you’ll combust. And if there’s anything I want you to take away from these sessions, it’s that what happened wasn’t your fault.”
Those words are a punch to the gut.
I’ve heard them before, but they don’t soak in or make a difference. If anything, they keep me up as I think about what happened that night. And it always leads me back to the same thought—the same hypothetical what-if.
Because if I’d done things differently, if I didn’t let myself be ruled by my emotions, then my friend would still be alive today.
“I appreciate the sentiment, doc,” I say, standing up and walking to the door. “But I didn’t come here to be lied to.”
*
“Heard you walked out of your therapy appointment,” Lieutenant Folts says as soon as I walk into his office. He doesn’t even bother looking up from the report he’s reading over to spare me a glance.
I drop some papers onto his desk that he asked me to look over for him. “I thought the happenings of those sessions are supposed to be confidential.”
When he lifts his head, there’s a deadpan expression on his face. “You do understand that they’re not going to clear you for full duty until you’ve completed the grief counseling, right? It’s not just your physical you’ll need to pass.”
My eye twitches at his firm tone. For someone barely ten years older than me, he sounds fatherly. “You and I both know those appointments are ridiculous. It’s a PR stunt to show the public that the state is willing to kiss our booboos and act like they give a fuck about our wellbeing before ripping the Band-Aid off and sending us back out there to put our lives at risk some more.”
He sits back with a sigh, his chair groaning under his weight. Ever since Folts became head of the BCI, he’s packed on a few pounds. His promotion came with a bigger paycheck to go along with a larger uniform and hair loss. When I took on this position, I told myself I wasn’t going to be stuck behind a desk eighty percent of the time, like Folts told me I’d be. I wanted to become a detective to make a difference, not make phone calls.
“Look, Hawk,” he begins, using the nickname I got during my probationary period doing field training as a rookie. Every new recruit is assigned to a seasoned officer to do on-the-road training after you graduate from the academy. The officer I worked with noticed my ability to point out things he never saw. He said I had eyes like a hawk, and the name stuck from there. “I know you’re not happy about this, but I do think it’s worth a real chance. In my eighteen years, I’ve seen what these kinds of situations have done to people.”
“Respectfully, sir, I’m not the victim. And I don’t know why everybody is treating me like one.”
He studies me for a split second, scrubbing his clean-shaven jaw. “Marissa popped by today. She was hoping to see you.”
My spine goes ramrod straight at the name.
Folts eyes me. “Everybody knows how close you and Conklin were. If she can manage to pull herself together enough to come here and get the rest of his belongings and still find it in her to ask about you, don’t you think you can entertain the idea of talking to a therapist? Maybe even getting back to Marissa to let her know you’re okay?”
It’s a low blow, and he knows it. “You can’t honestly be guilting me into this by comparing me to Conklin’s widow .”
I like Marissa Conklin. She was the glue that held my former partner together; grounded him. After my divorce, she was the glue that kept me from absolutely losing it too. I spent more time at their house than I did at my own because I hated being there alone, where my thoughts echoed off the half-empty walls.
I don’t know why bad things happen to good people, especially not to people like them, but it pisses me off every time I think about it.
Because it should have been me.
It would have made everything easier.
“Marissa is worried about you,” he replies, lifting a shoulder. “Said you haven’t been returning her calls. Frankly, I think her coming here today had nothing to do with the stress ball or snow globe that her husband left in his desk. It was you she wanted to see.”
I have been avoiding her calls. And texts. And even the emails she sent when she realized I wasn’t going to return her other messages. What could I possibly say to her? I failed her husband. A colleague I should have tried harder to protect instead of putting his life on the line for a lead that I needed for my own personal vendetta.
Matt Conklin and I became friends during the academy, then got transferred to this station within a year apart. I spent a lot of time at their place, watching them live their lives. I was in their wedding. I became their son’s godfather, for Christ’s sake.
I knew his death wasn’t entirely on me. I’m not the one who pulled the trigger. But I was the one who insisted on dragging him there. I delivered him right to death’s goddamn doorstep.
And for someone with eyes like a hawk, I sure as hell didn’t see that shot coming.
Or the three that followed.
“I don’t know what to say to her, Folts,” I admit. “Telling her how sorry I am isn’t going to change the outcome for her and their kid.”
He makes a thoughtful noise. “I don’t think she’s looking for an apology, Danforth.”
Then what the hell is she looking for?
As if he can read my mind, he says, “If I had to guess, she’s looking for somebody who can understand her pain.”
My eyes go to the floor as I soak that in.
A piece of paper is extended out, capturing my attention. I take it, brows furrowing at all the red marks throughout the summary. “While you figure out what the right thing to do is, you might as well edit this report and consider taking a class on basic grammar since you seemed to skip that in high school.”
I snort at his remark, grateful for him lightening the mood. “Do you get off on this shit? I’ve never seen so much red ink on one piece of paper. It’s like you slaughtered a virgin.”
“Hawk.”
“Yeah, sir?”
He points that red pen at the door. “Get the hell out of my office. And call back the DA’s office about the upcoming Hebert trial. We need to make sure the ADA has everything they need so this jackass doesn’t get off again.”
I salute him sarcastically, earning me a hard glare that has me smirking on my way out.
But as soon as I get into my office down the hall, the smile falls and reality slinks back in.
Just like it always does.