She couldn't speak. She was beyond words, stupefied by shock and rage. If she could just find the mantel, she could get a grip on the wooden trim and anchor herself. In the next instant, however she had a clear image of her hand wrapping around the brass candelabra there and using it to bash in her father's head.

In her own detached way, she wasn't sure what surprised her more: the depths of her grief or the strength of her fury.

"Thank you for your time," she heard herself say. She brought her hands to her sides. She forced them to open. She breathed in, breathed out. The calm returned to her. Icy, yes. Barren. But better for her, better for her father, than any genuine emotion could ever be.

Catherine got her coat and very carefully moved toward the door.

Her father stood in the doorway behind her, watching her go down the steps, watching her walk to her car. He raised a hand in parting, and the sheer casualness of the gesture made her dig her teeth into her lower lip to keep from screaming.

Moving with practiced precision, she put her sedan in reverse and slowly backed out of the driveway. Put on the brake, shift to drive, find the gas. She took off down the street, driving too fast and still pursing her lips into a bloodless line.

She needed support. Her lawyer had been very clear. Without some kind of help, the Gagnons would win, they would take Nathan from her. Most likely, she would never see him again. She would be all alone. And she would be broke. Oh God, what was she going to do?

She was scattered. Distracted. Desperately searching for answers. That's why she didn't see it, of course. Not until the third or fourth intersection down. Then she finally glanced up, finally looked into her rearview mirror.

Someone had used her own lipstick to do it; she'd left it lying on the console between the seats. It was her favorite OPI color, a deep crimson, the color of a Valentine's Day rose, or fresh-spilled blood.

The message was simple. It read: Boo!

Bobby went home. He had about thirty messages on his answering machine. Twenty-nine were from bloodsucking reporters, each and every one promising to tell his side of the story in return for an exclusive-did I mention exclusive?-interview. The thirtieth was from his LT, inviting him over for dinner.

"Come on over," Bruni extolled into the answering machine.

"Rachel's roasted half a cow and is serving it with ten pounds of mashed potatoes. We'll eat too much, make rude bodily noises, and shoot the shit. It'll be fun."

Bruni was a good guy. He looked out for his team, kept them all together. He meant the invitation sincerely and Bobby should go. It'd be good for him, get him out of the house, keep him out of further trouble. He already knew he wouldn't.

He walked away from the blinking machine, into his tiny kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, eyed the empty interior.

He wanted to call Susan. Say… what? I'm a jerk. I'm an ass. worse, I'm a killer. None of it sounded promising. None of it changed anything. Pizza, he thought. He'd walk to the local pizza parlor, order himself a pie. But thoughts of pizza made him think of beer and thoughts of beer suddenly had his heart racing and his mouth salivating.

Yeah, that was it. Screw his kindhearted LT. Screw too-perfect Susan. Screw even dark and dangerous Catherine Gagnon, who'd raked her nails across his chest and made him pant like an overeager lap dog. Fuck ' em all. He didn't need people.

He needed a beer.

It occurred to him, in the last functioning spot in his brain, that if he didn't do something now, right now, he was going to end up at a bar. And once he did, he was going to drink……

Bobby picked up the phone. He made a call. Then, before he had time to regret it, he headed out the door.

dr. lane buzzed him straight up to her office. Last time he'd seen her, she'd been wearing a suit. Tan pants, squarish jacket, some kind of ivory blouse. Expensive clothes, he'd guessed, but he hadn't cared for the outfit. Looked too mannish, like what a corporate woman with a chip on her shoulder might wear to board meetings. The outfit hadn't gone with her smile.

Tonight, called out on a Saturday to rescue an officer in distress, she wasn't wearing business clothes at all. Instead, given the frigid cold, she'd donned dark brown leggings and a warm, cable-knit Irish sweater that curled up around her neck and set off her long, chestnut-colored hair. She looked like she should be lounging in front of a large stone fireplace with either a good book or a good-looking man.

The image momentarily discomfited Bobby and he found he couldn't make eye contact as he unwound his scarf and hung up his jacket.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, from the doorway of her office.

"Water, coffee, soda, hot chocolate…"

He went with Coke, refusing her offer of a glass. She took a seat behind her desk. He returned to the wingback chair he'd used on Friday night, balancing on the edge.

"Thanks for the Coke," he said at last.

"You're welcome."

"Sorry if I messed up your plans."

"Not a problem."

"Did you have plans?" he found himself asking.

"I was thinking of going to a nursery and buying a ficus tree."

"Oh," he said.

"Oh," she agreed.

"What about during the day?" he continued like an idiot.

"Do anything then?"

She regarded him with open amusement. After his complaint during their last session, he was now using small talk as a stall tactic and they both knew it. For a moment, he thought she might call his bluff, force him to cut to the chase, but then she answered his question.

"Honest to God, I did nothing interesting today. Thought about running, decided it was too cold. Thought about cooking, decided I was too lazy. Thought about reading a book, decided I was too sleepy. So mostly, I spent the day contemplating life, then ignoring it. All in all, I'd say it was a perfect day. And yourself?"

"I spent the day ignoring your advice."

"Ah well, not the first time. What did you do?"

He decided he might as well get to it.

"Last night I went to a bar."

She regarded him expectantly.

"I ended up drinking."

"A lot?"

"Enough." He took another breath.

"I'm not supposed to drink."

"Are you an alcoholic, Bobby?"

"I don't know." He had to genuinely consider her question. He wasn't sure he liked the answer.

"Life is better when I don't drink," he said at last.

"I take it you've had some experiences in this area."

"You could say that." He spun the soda can between his fingers, from the distance, her carpet appeared a rich, dark green. He could see now that it wasn't one color, however, but a mixture of many, many threads. Not just green, but giving the appearance of green.

"My father used to drink," he said.

"A lot. Every night. Came home from work and headed straight to the fridge to grab a cold one. He said it helped him unwind. What's a few beers after all? Nothing hard-core. My brother and I were just kids. We believed what he said. Though after a while, we all knew it wasn't just a few beers anymore.

"After I joined the Academy, I started doing the post-shift bar scene. Hanging out with the guys, having a few laughs, drinking a few beers. You know, because it helped me unwind. And maybe at one point, I wasn't having just a few beers anymore. Maybe I was having a lot. So many I was showing up late for my shifts the next day. Then one night, I got a call. A buddy of mine had just arrived at the scene of a single-vehicle accident. It involved my father and a tree. In the bad-news department, my father had nailed the sucker going a good forty miles an hour, wrapped his GM truck right around the beech tree. In the good-news department, my father walked away with just a lacerated scalp. Truck was totaled, but he survived."