CHAPTER SIX #2
The compulsion had a texture she could almost describe if she tried, though she wouldn't, certainly not here.
It wasn't recklessness, despite what Kate and James and anyone else would call it.
It was the impossibility of stillness when the thing that needed doing wasn't being done.
She'd felt it in Miami, too—the nights after Alicia Mendez's death, when she'd driven past the crime scene over and over, as if proximity to the place where she'd failed could retroactively change the outcome.
She knew it was irrational. She knew what a therapist would make of it.
That was precisely why she wasn't going to share it.
Dr. Linden watched her for a moment. The silence stretched, comfortable from the therapist's side, calibrated from Isla's.
"Good," Linden said. "I'm glad you've stepped back from that." She said it without the weight of someone testing a statement for truthfulness, which either meant she believed Isla or was choosing not to challenge it in the first session. Either way, the ground held.
They spent the remaining thirty minutes on safer terrain.
Dr. Linden asked about Isla's background—the Coast Guard childhood, the coastal cities, the parents.
Isla gave her the outline, the version she'd given a dozen intake forms over the years, stripped of the details that mattered most and padded with the ones that mattered least. She mentioned Claire.
She didn't mention how the phone calls with her sister had become a thin wire she clung to on the worst mornings.
She mentioned Miami. She didn't mention Alicia Mendez's face at the moment of death, which she still saw with high-definition clarity on the backs of her eyelids at three in the morning.
Dr. Linden didn't push. She asked, listened, noted, moved on.
If she sensed the careful architecture of Isla's responses—the way every answer was a wall built to look like a window—she gave no sign of it.
She was patient the way water was patient, present and unhurried, willing to find the cracks on its own schedule.
At 10:50, Linden glanced at the clock on the wall—not her watch, not her phone, the clock, visible to both of them, so the time was shared rather than imposed.
"We're coming up on our time. Before we wrap up, I want to ask you something, and you can think about it this week rather than answering now.
" She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, the first shift in her posture since they'd sat down.
"You described everything that's happened—the case, the leave, your partner's injuries—in terms of the investigation.
The facts of it. What I didn't hear much about is how any of it has made you feel.
" She held up a hand, pre-empting the response Isla was already composing.
"I'm not asking you to perform emotion. I'm genuinely curious.
You're carrying an extraordinary amount of stress, and you've described it to me the way you'd describe it to a supervisor.
I'm wondering what it looks like when you're not presenting it for evaluation. "
The question sat in the room between them like something with weight. Isla looked at it, and through it, and at the woman who'd asked it.
"I'll think about it," she said.
"That's all I'm asking." Dr. Linden stood and extended her hand. Her grip was warm and firm and precisely calibrated—not challenging, not limp. "Same time next Thursday?"
"Same time."
Isla collected her jacket and walked through the waiting room, past the white noise machine and the tissues and the painting of the lake, down the creaking stairs and out onto East Fourth Street, where the March air hit her face and the sky was the color of old pewter.
She stood on the sidewalk and breathed. The session had been manageable.
Linden was good—better than Isla had hoped for, which meant more dangerous than she'd prepared for.
The question lingered like a scent she couldn't place. What it looks like when you're not presenting it for evaluation.
She shook it off, walked to her car, and drove to the hospital.
***
They'd moved James to a regular room on the third floor two days ago, and the difference was like stepping from one world into another.
The ICU had been a place of machines and silence, the air thick with the hum of equipment doing work that bodies couldn't do for themselves.
Room 314 was simply a hospital room—a window with a view of the parking lot and a sliver of lake beyond the rooftops, a television mounted on the wall that James never turned on, and a whiteboard with his care team's names written in dry-erase marker.
It smelled of floor cleaner and the particular staleness of recycled air, but it didn't smell of crisis.
It smelled of recovery, which was a different kind of waiting.
James was sitting up when she came in, propped against pillows with a lunch tray on the rolling table in front of him, most of it untouched.
He was wearing a hospital gown over a t-shirt—his own, she noticed, which meant Stacey or Emma had brought clothes—and his color was better than it had been even yesterday, the grayish pallor of the ICU replaced by something closer to his normal weathered complexion.
His father's watch was back on his wrist. That detail mattered to Isla more than the medical charts, though she wouldn't have been able to explain why.
He looked up when the door opened and something moved across his face—relief, she thought, or the particular expression of someone whose day had been long and featureless and who was glad to see someone who didn't treat him like a patient.
"You look terrible," he said.
"You're eating hospital Jell-O. We both have problems."
He almost smiled. It cost him—she could see the effort in the way his abdominal muscles tightened and the corresponding wince that he tried to suppress.
The injuries from the scrapyard were healing, Patel had explained, but healing was a relative term.
Cracked ribs, a concussion that had kept him unconscious for nearly two weeks, deep tissue bruising across his torso and back where Brune had beaten him.
He was walking short distances with physical therapy now—down the hall and back, once in the morning and once in the afternoon—but each trip left him winded and frustrated in the particular way of strong men confronting the absence of their strength.
Isla set a coffee on his table—the real kind, from Superior Street, the cup still warm.
"Contraband," James said, but he reached for it immediately, wrapping both hands around it the way a man in Duluth held coffee when the world outside was made of cold.
He took a sip and closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he looked more like himself than he had since waking up from the coma.
She dropped into the visitor's chair—a different chair than the ICU one, this one upholstered with institutional vinyl that squeaked when she shifted.
She'd been here every day since the move, just as she'd been there every day before it, and the staff on the third floor had already learned her schedule the way the ICU staff had.
Noon, give or take. The FBI agent with the amber eyes and the coffee and the particular intensity of someone who needed to confirm daily that her partner was still breathing on his own.
"How was PT?" she asked.
"Humbling." He set the coffee down carefully.
His hands were steadier than they'd been last week, but she noticed the slight tremor in his right—the hand with the old fishing scar—when he reached for anything that required precision.
"Made it to the nurse's station and back.
Young guy named Travis has me doing breathing exercises and core work that makes me feel about ninety years old.
" He shifted against the pillows and winced again, trying to hide it and failing.
"Patel says maybe another week here, then outpatient rehab.
I asked about returning to work and she gave me a look that could strip paint. "
"You asked about returning to work."
"I asked about a timeline."
"James, you were unconscious two weeks ago."
"And now I'm conscious and bored, which is worse." His blue eyes found hers, and the humor faded into something more direct. "How was the therapist?"
Isla picked at a thread on the chair's armrest. "Professional. Competent. Asked me how I feel."
"And?"
"And I told her I'd think about it."
James studied her the way he studied everything—carefully, without rushing.
She could see him cataloging details: the faded bruise line at the collar of her turtleneck, the healing cut above her eye, the shadows under her eyes that concealer couldn't quite reach.
He didn't comment on any of it. He'd already said what he had to say about the docks, and James Sullivan was not a man who repeated himself.
"Any news?" he asked instead, and the question carried the weight of the thing they were both thinking about.
Isla shook her head. "I talked to someone yesterday.
Off the record, since I'm technically not supposed to be involved.
" She paused. "The task force has been running grid searches through the port district and the industrial zone since the attack.
Canine units, thermal imaging, the works.
They've cleared three-quarters of the container yard and both decommissioned warehouses on the south end. "
"And?"