I shook my head. I couldn't even begin to think of an answer to that question.

"You did real good, kid," my boss said before he left. "Made us all proud."

I sat there, watching him walk away.

The department had their shooter.

Paul was probably off the hook.

Brooke and her kids would be taken care of, as they ought to be.

I watched the blue NYPD helicopter skim over the razor wire at the rail yard's fence, then sail into the bright blue sky. Out of the corner of one eye I saw the CSU camera lights pop in the glassless window of the train car.

Everything had worked out okay, hadn't it? This was the end of the mess.

So why was I crying?

IT WAS SUNNY and cool the following Monday morning.

Standing at attention out on the steps of St. Michael's on 41st Street in Woodside, I was glad for the warmth of my dress blues, and for the body heat coming from the officers around me.

Though there were maybe three or four thousand cops on the cordoned-off street, waiting for the arrival of Scott's hearse, the only sound was the snapping of the honor guard's flag; the only movement, the billow of its bright stars and stripes.

The rattle of snare drums began at the first tolling of St. Michael's bells. From around the corner of the stone church came a forty-member contingent of the NYPD Emerald Society, the bagpipes silenced, the drummers sounding a funeral march on black-draped drums.

Behind them came a seemingly endless two-by-two line of motorcycle police, their engines crackling as they rode at parade speed.

When the sleek black body of the hearse finally slid into view, you could almost hear the lumps forming in thousands of throats. Presidents don't get put in the ground with more heart-wrenching class than an NYPD cop killed in the line of duty.

My muscles in my jaw stood out as I prevented myself from shaking, moving, breaking down completely.

From the limo that pulled to a stop behind the hearse, Brooke Thayer finally appeared. She was holding her baby and her four-year-old daughter.

A member of the honor guard suddenly broke rank and leaned into the limousine with an extended hand. Then Scott's two-year-old son finally emerged, wearing a black suit.

A black suit and his father's eight-point policeman's cap.

The Mass was excruciating. Scott's mother broke down during the second reading and his sister during the eulogy.

It was even worse when Roy Khuong, Scott's oldest friend and partner, told a story about how Scott had saved his life during a gun battle. He finished it by turning from the pulpit toward the crucifix and saying with a simple yet startling conviction, "I love you, Scott."

How I got through the rest of it, I'm not sure. People can survive amazing things. Look at that hiker who cut off his own arm with a pocketknife when it got stuck under a boulder. We are capable of anything, aren't we?

Well, I am. I know I am now.

They buried Scott in Calvary Cemetery on a high hill overlooking an unobstructed Manhattan skyline.

The mayor of New York gestured toward the city as he finished his graveside words.

"We ask that Scott do what he did so well in life. Watch over us, Scott. We will never forget your sacrifice."

Brooke embraced me like a vise after I had dropped my rose among the hundreds that buried the casket's varnished lid. She touched the bandage on the side of my face.

"I know what you did for me," she whispered. "What you did for my family. I can sleep now. Thank you for that, Detective."

I pulled the black lip of my cap even more tightly over my eyes to shield them, nodded stupidly, and then moved along.

I SAT ALONE IN MY CAR before leaving Calvary. I could see the flower-covered casket in my rearview.

When the skirl of the bagpipes started up, for a moment I again caught a heady gust of cologne and rain and grass. Felt again the holy, fevered heat of Scott's body in his bedroom. The strength of his jaw against my bare skin. I banished the forbidden thoughts like the demons they were as "Amazing Grace" sailed up above the gravestones.

Mistake, I reminded myself.

It had all been a terrible mistake. Quick as lightning, just as deadly.

I looked out at the red-eyed police heading back to their cars. That I was fooling them burned like battery acid in my stomach, but I tried my best to believe it was the best thing for everyone under the circumstances.

What result could have been better? I thought. The dehumanizing, demoralizing tabloid circus that was the truth?

I stared out at the casket as Scott's son raised a hand in salute to the wobbling brim of his father's hat. Then I looked up at the stunning skyline of Manhattan, at the gravestones in the foreground like a kind of city itself.

My eyes were dry as I turned the engine over.

There was one good thing – undeniable – Paul and I had been given a second chance.

IT WAS COMING UP ON NINE the morning after Scott's funeral when the phone rang.

I lay there, hoping that Paul would pick it up. He'd been unbelievably terrific since the shooting. He'd even taken time off work and was cooking for me, fielding my calls, and listening when I needed to talk. He seemed to relish his role as my protector and healer. There were no more naked scotch binges in the garage, at least, so I guess the focus on me was having a positive effect.

And I have to admit, no-nonsense, capable woman that I can be, it was a relief to have someone taking care of me for a change.

The phone kept on ringing, though, and when I turned over, I saw that Paul wasn't there.

I lifted the receiver and sat up.

I thought it would be either my boss or Mike. Maybe IAB. But I was wrong on every count.

"Lauren? Hi, it's Dr. Marcuse calling. I'm glad I caught you at home."

I shuddered, waiting to hear the worst.

"Don't worry, Lauren. Relax," Dr. Marcuse said. "The tests came back, and everything is okay."

I sat there, relief rattling the receiver off my bandaged head.

"You're perfectly fine, Lauren," the doctor continued. "In fact, you're better than that. I hope you're sitting down. You're not sick, you're… pregnant."

Seconds passed. A lot of them actually. Each one filled with stark silence.

"Lauren?" I heard Dr. Marcuse say faintly. "Are you still there?"

I found myself slowly falling back onto the bed. It seemed to take quite some time for my head to actually touch the pillow.

Pregnant? I thought, feeling suddenly as if I were melting.

How could that be? How could it happen now?

Paul and I had only been trying to have kids for years. After an extensive round of fertility specialists and tests, we learned that a pH imbalance was producing an environment not conducive to conception. We'd tried everything short of fertility drugs, which weren't recommended because I had a family history of ovarian cancer.

"What? Are you sure?" I said. "How?"

"I don't actually know, Lauren," my doctor said, chuckling. "I wasn't there. You tell me."

My head was spinning. The whole room seemed to be. I'd always wanted to have a baby, of course.

But now?

"I'm pregnant?" I said, stunned, into the phone.

"You're what?" Paul said. He was just coming into the bedroom with a breakfast tray.

My mouth refused to work, so I handed him the phone. I didn't know how he'd react. I'd stopped trying to anticipate Paul's feelings. I stared into his eyes. But I didn't have to wait long. After a brief moment, a look of ecstatic surprise lit up his face, followed by an ear-to-ear grin.