like this happens, and I wonder if there’s something better out there that doesn’t hurt as much.”
He looks down at his glass, swirls the liquid inside. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this, Kate, but it’s the cops who care that have it the worst. The cops that feel something. The ones that feel too much sometimes and can’t turn it off. I don’t know if you realize this about yourself, but you fall into that category. You have an inherent inability to disconnect emotionally. Maybe you care a little too much.” His gaze lands on mine. “In case you’re wondering, that’s not a criticism but an observation.”
“I’m glad you clarified that,” I say dryly.
“Look, it’s tough not to get involved. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t feel that way. Some cases get under your skin. You get pissed off. You get your heart torn to bits. It’s happened to all of us at some point, and it doesn’t mean you’re not a good cop.” He tilts his head, makes eye contact with me. “But it’s a tough row to hoe, Kate. You’re the chief of police in a small town. You have family here. Friends. You care about these people. That’s a lot of responsibility, and you don’t take any of it lightly. Good for the town. Hard as hell for you.”
We fall silent. Around us, the house seems to hold its breath as if in anticipation of our next words, the direction in which the conversation will go. The last thing I want to do is cry. It’s an innately humiliating experience, particularly if it happens in front of someone I respect and admire. Like Tomasetti. But I can feel the exhaustion peeling away the layers of control. The ones that even in the face of heartbreak I can usually clutch together in desperation because there’s something inside me I don’t want him to see.
“She had blue eyes,” I whisper. “She looked at me. This brand-new little person. It’s like … I don’t know … she knew she was in trouble. And she just handed herself over to me. She was counting on me to help her.”
“You did your best. That’s all any of us can do. When it’s not enough, you pick up the pieces and you move on.”
“That’s a good speech, Tomasetti, but sometimes life pulls the rug out from under you. Then what?”
His eyes sharpen on mine. I’m aware of tears on my cheeks, hot and unwelcome. I know I’m overreacting and making a fool of myself. I’m exhausted and overwrought, and had I been a smarter woman, I would have forgone the bourbon and conversation for a shower and bed.
Embarrassed, I rise to leave, but Tomasetti reaches out and stops me. “What are we really talking about here, Kate?”
Something that feels vaguely like panic quivers in my gut. For an instant I consider broaching the subject I’ve been avoiding for a week now. But I’m in no frame of mind. Not tonight.
I glance down where his fingers are wrapped around my wrist and ease away from him. “I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep.”
He releases me but holds me immobile with his eyes. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”
“I know.” I give him the best smile I can muster. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge, Tomasetti.”
“Anytime,” he says.
But I feel his eyes on me as I walk away.
CHAPTER 4
He’d given up baseball practice for this. According to his mom, he was probably going to have to forgo the away game on Saturday, too. Twelve-year-old Josh Pennington loved baseball almost as much as he loved being an Eagle Scout, but his mom had laid down the law: He couldn’t do both. It’s too much, she’d said. You have to choose. Luckily for Josh, his dad—who’d been an Eagle Scout and played shortstop—saved the day and told him as long as he kept his grades up, he could do both.
It was a lot harder than Josh thought. He’d had to get up at 5:00 A.M. this morning and be at the school by 6:00, where he met the rest of Troop 503 for the bus ride to Painters Mill. It was volunteer day,
He looks down at his glass, swirls the liquid inside. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this, Kate, but it’s the cops who care that have it the worst. The cops that feel something. The ones that feel too much sometimes and can’t turn it off. I don’t know if you realize this about yourself, but you fall into that category. You have an inherent inability to disconnect emotionally. Maybe you care a little too much.” His gaze lands on mine. “In case you’re wondering, that’s not a criticism but an observation.”
“I’m glad you clarified that,” I say dryly.
“Look, it’s tough not to get involved. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t feel that way. Some cases get under your skin. You get pissed off. You get your heart torn to bits. It’s happened to all of us at some point, and it doesn’t mean you’re not a good cop.” He tilts his head, makes eye contact with me. “But it’s a tough row to hoe, Kate. You’re the chief of police in a small town. You have family here. Friends. You care about these people. That’s a lot of responsibility, and you don’t take any of it lightly. Good for the town. Hard as hell for you.”
We fall silent. Around us, the house seems to hold its breath as if in anticipation of our next words, the direction in which the conversation will go. The last thing I want to do is cry. It’s an innately humiliating experience, particularly if it happens in front of someone I respect and admire. Like Tomasetti. But I can feel the exhaustion peeling away the layers of control. The ones that even in the face of heartbreak I can usually clutch together in desperation because there’s something inside me I don’t want him to see.
“She had blue eyes,” I whisper. “She looked at me. This brand-new little person. It’s like … I don’t know … she knew she was in trouble. And she just handed herself over to me. She was counting on me to help her.”
“You did your best. That’s all any of us can do. When it’s not enough, you pick up the pieces and you move on.”
“That’s a good speech, Tomasetti, but sometimes life pulls the rug out from under you. Then what?”
His eyes sharpen on mine. I’m aware of tears on my cheeks, hot and unwelcome. I know I’m overreacting and making a fool of myself. I’m exhausted and overwrought, and had I been a smarter woman, I would have forgone the bourbon and conversation for a shower and bed.
Embarrassed, I rise to leave, but Tomasetti reaches out and stops me. “What are we really talking about here, Kate?”
Something that feels vaguely like panic quivers in my gut. For an instant I consider broaching the subject I’ve been avoiding for a week now. But I’m in no frame of mind. Not tonight.
I glance down where his fingers are wrapped around my wrist and ease away from him. “I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep.”
He releases me but holds me immobile with his eyes. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”
“I know.” I give him the best smile I can muster. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge, Tomasetti.”
“Anytime,” he says.
But I feel his eyes on me as I walk away.
CHAPTER 4
He’d given up baseball practice for this. According to his mom, he was probably going to have to forgo the away game on Saturday, too. Twelve-year-old Josh Pennington loved baseball almost as much as he loved being an Eagle Scout, but his mom had laid down the law: He couldn’t do both. It’s too much, she’d said. You have to choose. Luckily for Josh, his dad—who’d been an Eagle Scout and played shortstop—saved the day and told him as long as he kept his grades up, he could do both.
It was a lot harder than Josh thought. He’d had to get up at 5:00 A.M. this morning and be at the school by 6:00, where he met the rest of Troop 503 for the bus ride to Painters Mill. It was volunteer day,
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