“In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I mumble, crossing myself. I bound down the steps in time to see Joey, his long arms forcing the wheels of his chair along the walkway.
My stomach bottoms out, and I freeze. For all I think I need my cop face now, it doesn’t come. Every muscle on me tightens, the same way they do when I see a fist swing my way and know it’s a blow I can’t avoid.
I know he sees me, but his focus is so fixed ahead, I think for sure he’ll roll right past me, like he did during the trial. Instead he stops directly in front of me. “Hey, Joey,” I say.
He blinks up at me, his jaw set tight. “Hey, O’Brien.”
Neither of us says anything for what has to be the longest damn minute of my life. “You here for the group?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Been coming long?”
I try to shrug, but can’t manage. “A couple of weeks.”
“This here’s my first time.” His voice is hollow. Kind of like mine. “The sarge told me it might help. I don’t know, but what the hell. Got nothing else to do tonight but piss through a straw, right?”
It’s a kick to the nuts I don’t need. “Sorry” is all I say, but I feel it down to my gut.
Joey stares straight ahead, then angles his chair and keeps going, up the ramp as fast as his chair can take him.
Chapter 22
Tess
I flip through my Torts notes, trying to make a dent in my class work now that I finished emailing Declan all the documents he needed and wrapping up my phone call with the judge’s clerk. Good Lord, the Montenegro case has been brutal, and my law school work just as demanding. If it weren’t for Curran, I’m not sure I’d know anything but stress.
I miss him. Since he started attending his peer counseling group on a regular basis, his superiors have allowed him to return to the station one shift a week. It’s desk duty, which he gripes about, but it’s a step forward.
While I’m happy he’s moving toward something positive, it’s hard being away from him. The other police guards I have are nice. But they’re not him. They’re not who I love.
My fingers idle on the keyboard. As much as I think counseling has been good for him, I’m not blind to how hard it is. The stories his peers share have a profound effect. For a time, Curran’s nightmares worsened. I worried he’d stop attending, but he hasn’t, demonstrating his commitment to his well-being and our future.
The first night he shared his experiences was the hardest for him. I met his shattered expression at the door, saying nothing, only reaching for him. Although he was emotionally battered, it was the first time in months he seemed to sleep peacefully.
Curran’s progress remains slow. He continues to wrestle with his regrets and the uncertainty of whether he can be the cop he once was—the one who won’t hesitate, and the one his fellow officers can depend on. But each session he attends reinforces that he’s not alone.
A sharp rap to the door jerks me back to reality. “Contessa.”
Oh, God.
I barely manage to push away from my dining room table before he knocks again.
“Contessa. I know you’re in there.”
I mutter a few curses as I stomp toward the door and wrench it open. “What took you?” he demands. “I haven’t all day.”
My jaw tightens. “I was working—”
“Is that what you call entertaining men I haven’t approved of?” he asks, scowling.
His bluntness and accusation cement me where I stand. Panic overtakes me as he storms past me, appearing to take everything in and searching for something to throw in my face.
“Farrington Blake phoned me. You remember Farrington?”