I hear Tomasetti’s car door slam as I let myself into the house through the back door. Flipping on the overhead light, I’m welcomed by my tidy farmhouse kitchen, the smells of vanilla and lemon-scented furniture polish, and a table that’s somehow developed a thin layer of dust. I remove my .38 and set it on the tabletop. My equipment belt comes next. The .22 mini Magnum and the ankle holster. I drape all of it over the back of a chair. I try to shake off the apprehension creeping over me as I cross to the sink to wash my hands.
When Tomasetti comes in, I grab the towel off the hook and dry my hands. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “I didn’t get lunch and I’m—”
“We need to talk about what happened,” he cuts in.
Taking my time, I nod. “All right.”
“Kate, this is the second time someone’s tried to kill you. You don’t know who it is or why they did it. You don’t know how determined they are or if they’re going to try again.”
“I understand all of that,” I tell him. “There are multiple police agencies working on it, including BCI. They were able to lift tire tread marks. Glock and Skid are going to pull in Nick Kester for—”
“You don’t know that it was Kester.”
“I don’t know that it wasn’t. He’s a person of interest.”
“The point, Kate, is that you’re pregnant.”
“Don’t you dare throw that in my face,” I say, surprised by the unintended attitude in my voice.
It isn’t well received. I see anger overtake him—the way his mouth goes tight, his eyes go flat and cold—and I realize my mistake too late.
“You were out there alone,” he snaps. “In some barn out in the middle of fuck-all. Where the hell was Glock?”
“He was doing his job.” I pull the towel off my shoulder and sling it onto the counter. “I know you asked him to keep an eye on me. Tomasetti, I’m his boss. I’m as capable as he is. It was inappropriate for you to do that.”
Tomasetti doesn’t even flinch at the accusation. “I don’t care. Putting yourself in that situation was incredibly irresponsible.” He gestures in the general direction of my abdomen. “It’s not just you anymore, Kate. It’s not even just about us.”
I’ve seen Tomasetti angry many times over the years. Usually that anger is calculated. Conjured from that place where he keeps his emotions locked down tight until he needs it to make a point or he uses it as a tool to accomplish some goal. There’s nothing calculated about this; it’s raw and nasty, and I’ve never seen him skitter this close to losing control.
“I have a job to do,” I snap. “People rely on me. I can’t run away and hide until this is over. For God’s sake, Tomasetti, I’m a cop.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be.”
Incredulity rises inside me, a flash flood churning and bursting its banks. “You have no right to ask me that. You can’t do that.”
“Don’t preach to me about my rights or what I should feel. I didn’t ask for this to happen. But it has, and now we have to deal with it.”
“Tomasetti, Painters Mill is a small town. Crime is usually negligible here. It’s a safe place to be a cop. What happened today is an anomaly.”
“Tell the shooter that, Kate! Tell the guy who had you in his sights and pulled the goddamn trigger! All it takes is one bullet and one lucky shot!”
“It’s part of the job! You know that. You have to accept that, or this isn’t going to work.”
“That’s the problem! It’s not working, Kate!”
“You’re being unreasonable,” I say, but my voice has gone breathless.
“Am I? Tell me you don’t think about something happening every time you make a stop. When you’re out on some back road in the middle of the fucking night and you have no idea who or what you’re walking up on. Does he have a warrant? Does he have a weapon in the waistband of his pants? A shotgun on the floor? A knife on the passenger seat? Is he willing to use it to stay out of jail? Tell me you don’t keep your hand over your .38. Can you tell me that? Honestly?”
“Of course I think about it. Every cop does if he’s smart. It’s called caution and training, and those are the things that keep us alive.”
He stalks toward me. “Yeah, Painters Mill is a small town. It’s safe. It’s a regular fucking lovefest. But let me tell you something: It’s the rural cops in towns like Painters Mill that don’t have backup when they need it. Even if you can get to your radio, how fast can someone get there to help you if you get into a jam?”
“I’m aware—”
“You could have been killed today, goddammit!”
I don’t even realize I’ve taken a step back. I’m not afraid of him. I trust him with my life. But he’s formidable when he’s angry. “I wasn’t.”
“Is that all you have to say about it? ‘I wasn’t’?”
“You’re out of line,” I tell him.
“You’re goddamn right I’m out of line,” he says. “I’m worried about you.” He taps his finger against his temple, snarling. “How can you not get that?”
Neither of us speaks for the span of several heartbeats. I absorb everything that’s been said, and I struggle to settle my emotions and put my thoughts in order. “Okay, Tomasetti, everything you’ve said is true. I know sometimes things go bad. But it’s a worst-case scenario. Chances are—”