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Then she typed in her own report with the particulars of the incident that took Tanisha’s life—the time of the call, the trip with the GSW vic, all the details that Dana had run through her mind over and over since Friday evening. Robin had offered to change the cartridge and print out the report while Dana got dressed, probably to make up for her bad behavior earlier.
    “Here you go,” Dana said, handing the pages to Julia.
    “Thanks. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.” Julia leaned over the desk and offered Dana a sympathetic look. “Please take all the time you need to decompress, Dana. You know you’ll have to sign up for the CISD sessions?”
    Dana nodded. She knew how it worked. The county participated in a national program for ES workers, in which severely stressful job-related incidents were discussed with peer counselors and mental health professionals. The death or serious injury of a coworker in the line of duty was high on the list. She’d be expected to show up at a meeting at least by tonight. Fortunately, she had a relaxing massage coming, too, thanks to Elaine.
    “And you’re scheduled to see Dr. Barnett today?”
    Another nod.
    “Good. You know that seeing a counselor one-on-one is part of the comprehensive critical incident stress management system …”
    “ … recommended for emergency services workers,” Dana finished. “I know the drill. I’m good to go.” She tried for a don’t-worry-about-me tone.

    Julia pushed back from her desk. The wheels of her chair rumbled along the linoleum. “One more thing, Dana. Be careful what you tell the cops today.”
    What was this? Everyone seemed concerned about her interview with the Berkeley PD. Maybe she should be more worried herself.
    “I’m not suggesting you lie, of course,” Julia continued. “Just, you know, we want to avoid anything that would reflect badly on the company.” She flipped her short too-red hair, as if making sure her own appearance would give a good impression of Valley Med.
    “Okay,” Dana said, without the slightest idea what Julia meant.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    E arly Monday morning Matt and I sat side by side on the gold jacquard loveseat in our room. Elaine was down the hall, still asleep—or preparing her face for public view, but quiet at any rate—so we’d brought our mugs of coffee and two lemon biscotti back to the bedroom. The perfect breakfast.
    Sunlight came into the room with great effort, having to first pass through Elaine’s elaborate window treatment and a hexagonal piece of stained glass, in gold and blood-orange hues, hung by an invisible cord.
    “I’ve been patient,” I said to Matt, “but I need to know.”
    “What I said to Dana on Saturday.”
    A statement, not a question. No wonder I loved him. No games, no making me beg.
    I hoped I wasn’t motivated by idle curiosity or, worse, by jealousy that another woman might know something about Matt that I didn’t. I was reasonably sure this need came from loving him and wanting to understand the highs and lows of his life before I met him. I’d thought about it off and on for two days, and I felt more and more certain he’d shared a significant occupational low with Dana.
    Unlike our friends Rose and Frank Galigani, childhood sweethearts, now married more than four decades, Matt and I had met as adults. We carried baggage and emotional histories, both positive and negative.

    I hadn’t needed to tell Matt much about my first and only other fiance, Al Gravese. Matt was a rookie cop at the time and knew before I did that Al was “connected” and that the car crash that took Al’s life three months before our wedding wasn’t an accident.
    I hoped I was less naive now than I had been then. I’d never questioned where Al got the rolls of bills he carried around, and felt proud when he’d tear off a fifty and give it to my father. I remembered his deep voice and his flashy style: Get yourself some butts, Marco .
    I’d pieced