At the last minute, he saw the woman.

At the last minute, he saw the child.

Susan came with a guttural scream. He caught her as she collapsed upon his body, and he lay there withered on the floor, feeling a darkness that went on without end. Dr. Elizabeth Lane was thinking about getting a small dog. Or maybe a cat. Hey, what about a fish? Even a four-year-old could raise fish.

She had this conversation with herself once a year. Generally, right about now, when the holidays were looming and people were talking excitedly about upcoming family gatherings, and she went home each night to an empty condo that seemed much emptier than it did in spring-filled May or hot, sunny August.

It was a stupid conversation, which she of all people should know. For one thing, she had a very nice "empty" condo. Ten-foot ceilings, sweeping bay windows with original bull's-eye molding, rooftop terrace, gleaming cherry-wood floors. Then there was the furniture she'd spent the better part of her professional life acquiring-the low-slung black leather sofa, the bird's-eye maple cabinets, the stainless steel Soho lamps. She was pretty sure puppies and silk rugs didn't make a good mix. Cats and custom woodwork didn't sound like a good match either. Though none of that ruled out fish.

For another thing, if the upcoming holidays were really all fun and games, Elizabeth 's schedule wouldn't currently be so overbooked. In fact, she'd spent the majority of the past four weeks working ten-hour days trying to help her various clients devise coping strategies for just this time of year. She had to get the bulimics prepared to face the groaning Thanksgiving table. She had to get the manic-depressives medicated enough to handle the candy-cane-fueled, festively wrapped frenzy, then the inevitable shattered-ornaments, dying-fir-tree, nobody-loves-me letdown. And finally, she had to get everyone-the self-destructive, the obsessive-compulsive, the neurotic, the psychotic, everyone-in shape to meet their families.

That alone should make Elizabeth grateful for her quiet home. Though again, it did not rule out fish.

Truthfully, Elizabeth had a nice life. She loved her condo, loved living in the city, and most days liked her job. She was starting to approach forty, however, and not even a trained psychiatrist could stare forty in the face without feeling the weight of her baggage. The marriage that had failed. The children she'd never had. The distance she lived from her family in Chicago, which hadn't seemed so much at first, but now they were all so busy and flying was so damn tiring that she made the trip less and less and her parents and sister's family made the trip less and less and now it had been so long since she'd seen any of them in person, it would be awkward to go home. She'd throw them out of their own rituals and routines. She'd be the outsider, looking in.

Maybe she'd get a Siamese fighting fish. Or better yet, a ficus tree. God knows a plant would probably be a lot less offended that she ate take-out sushi almost every other night. It was a thought.

The buzzer sounded out in the front office. Elizabeth ignored it, used to the random sounds of a city office, and the buzzer sounded again. Now she frowned. It was after five, too late for deliveries, and she didn't schedule after-hour appointments on Fridays; she needed at least the pretense of having a life. The buzzer sounded a third time. Shrill. Insistent. Elizabeth finally grew curious enough to leave her office for her receptionist's desk, where she hit a few buttons on Sarah's computer and promptly saw the man from the security camera posted above the outer door.

What she saw surprised her. But then again, maybe it didn't. Elizabeth let the man in. Minutes later, he'd mounted the steps to her second-story office. The weather outside had turned cold-they might have flurries overnight-but that wasn't the only reason this man had a dark blue Patriots cap pulled low and a thick red scarf wrapped tight. Unfortunately for the man, his eyes still gave him away.

Elizabeth had seen the same cool gray gaze just this morning, staring back at her from the front page of the Boston Herald.

"State Trooper Kills Judge's Son," the headline blazed.

"Late Night I Shootout Leaves Family Devastated."

The photo had most likely been taken without the man knowing it. His gaze, peering off in the distance, appeared stark and! grim. Elizabeth had no idea what it must feel like to kill a man, but the officer's expression implied that it wasn't great.

"Good evening," she said evenly, and held out her hand.

"Dr.] Elizabeth Lane."

The man's grip was firm but brief. Then he buried both his) hands back into the front pockets of his jacket.

"Bobby Dodge," he; muttered.

"Lieutenant Bruni said he spoke to you."

"He thought you might be interested in coming in."

"Should I have made an appointment?" Bobby frowned.

"I didn't think about it. Guess I should've called first.

"Course, it's late I now, too. Maybe I should just leave."

Elizabeth smiled.

"Appointments generally help, but it just so happens that you're in luck. My plans have been canceled at the last minute, so as long as you're here, let's meet."

"I don't know how this works," the officer said in a rush.

"I mean, I've never gone to any shrink. I'm not even sure I believe seeing a shrink helps. But the LT said I should come, and the EAU guys said I should come, so, well, here I am."

"What do you think?" "I think I did my job. A woman and her kid are alive today because of me. I'm not ashamed."

Elizabeth nodded, and thought that anyone who asserted that quickly that he wasn't ashamed, probably was.

She gestured to her coatrack.

"Please, hang up your things and follow me."

Bobby shed his jacket, hat, and scarf. Elizabeth gestured him toward the opened door of her office. She followed behind him, already making mental notes as she went.

She'd guess his age to be mid to late thirties. Not a huge guy. maybe five ten, one hundred and sixty pounds. He moved well, though. Tight, controlled, a man who knew his way around. His jeans were well worn, same with his navy flannel shirt. She'd bet his family was strictly blue-collar, and that Bobby had been the first to attend college. Rather than follow his father's wish for a corporate dream, he'd split the difference and joined the state police-still moving up the economic rung from his father, but not drifting too far from his roots. He ran as a hobby and felt most at home when he was in the woods.

She was guessing, of course. It was a game she liked to play with herself whenever meeting new patients. It amazed her how often she got it right.

They entered her office and Bobby immediately spotted the small leather sofa.

"I'm not gonna have to sit there, am I?"

"You could take one of the wingback chairs." Elizabeth 's office contained two hunter green chairs, tucked back from the desk, and not easy to see in the dim light. Most patients spied the sofa first and had their various reactions. Elizabeth often considered rearranging her office to make the chairs more prominent, but then again, a girl had to have some fun.

Bobby took one of the chairs. He sat on the edge, knees apart, long fingers braced in front of him. He surveyed the mahogany-paneled room with his dark gray stare, absorbing all the details-the textbooks lining the shelves, the brass plaques on the wall, the Zen garden that drove the obsessive-compulsives nuts.

There was something about him that niggled at her brain, but she couldn't quite place it. He wasn't just uncommonly self-possessed, he was preternaturally… quiet. No undue noise, no undue movements. She imagined he'd do very well with long stretches of silence. When talking to this man, he didn't come to you, you came to him.