"A… what?" he said. "You're… Oh my God…"

Paul dropped the phone and lifted me out of the bed. For what seemed like an eternity, he hugged me.

"Oh, God," Paul said. "Thank you, God. Thank you, God. This is so great."

As we embraced, I did some quick mental math. The last time I had my period. What was I thinking? Of course it was Paul's. I'd only slept with Scott the one time, and that had been only six days ago.

Something cold inside me began to change then. The whole time I'd been convalescing, not an hour had gone by when I hadn't been attacked with feelings of guilt and shame and black anxiety.

But standing there, being waltzed around my bedroom by my joyous, good-looking husband, I suddenly came to realize something startling. Paul and I had simply tried to have what everyone wanted. A happy marriage, a happy family. We were good people, hardworking, humble. But from day one, we'd been faced with hardship. Stasis. We were two people who, try as they would, couldn't become three.

Did we divorce? Part ways because it was inconvenient to be together? No. We clung to each other, tried to make it work. For years, we struggled to make our love conquer some biological gyp. We spent years trying to keep things together while our separate careers and the everyday stresses of modern life did everything in their power to wrench us apart.

I started crying when Paul cupped my stomach with his palm. A baby! I thought, grasping Paul's hand.

A sign of hope finally.

And forgiveness.

A new life for both of us.

We can get through this after all, I thought. We really can get through this.

"I love you, Paul," I said. "You're going to make an amazing father."

"I love you, too," Paul whispered, and he kissed away the tears on my cheeks. "Mommy."

THERE WERE TWO MEN sitting in my boss's office when I finally came back to work the following Monday. From the other side of the squad room, I took in their executive-looking haircuts, their dark suits.

My paranoid brain went to work instantly. Scott had worked with the DEA, which was a section in the Department of Justice. The FBI did the legwork for the DOJ. This was all I needed now, a visit from the Feds!

I didn't even make it as far as my desk before Lieutenant Keane opened his door.

"Lauren, could you come in here a second?" he said.

I brought my bodega coffee with me to make it look like I really thought this would take only a second. I was getting good at deception. At least I hoped I was.

"Have a seat, Detective Stillwell," a man in a navy suit said from one of my boss's chairs. His partner, wearing what looked like the same style three-button, only in gray, stood at his shoulder, staring at me expressionless, motionless.

Their authoritative attitude both irritated and scared the living hell out of me. And since showing fear wasn't an option at this juncture, I tried pissed-off on for size.

"What's the dealio, boss?" I said to Keane. "You set me up on a blind date? Where's bachelor number three?"

Two badges came out. My adrenaline shifted down half a gear when I saw that they weren't the tiny gold badges the Feebs sport. They were copies of the one in the Chanel knock-off on my desk.

"IAB," Navy and Gray said in unison.

So, they weren't Feds here to arrest me, I realized. My relief was short-lived when I considered that they were definitely tin collectors here about Mike's shooting. It was too late to play demure, I realized as I sat down. Never take a step back, my father advised me when I'd decided to get on The Job after law school. He'd also given me another tidbit of wisdom.

Fuck the IAB.

"Hey, nice. Synchronized rats," I said, plopping down in the guest chair. "You guys should try out for the Special Olympics."

They glared at me. I glared back.

Keane's pale face turned scarlet as he struggled to not spontaneously combust with laughter.

"That's very funny, Detective," Navy said with a click of his pen. "What's less funny, I guess, is the shooting death of Victor Ordonez. As we speak, there is a rally being planned in his Washington Heights neighborhood. The cry for the details of his death has gotten loud enough to be heard way down at One Police Plaza. We fully intend to find and report the truth of what occurred."

I stared at him for a beat after his little speech.

"I'm sorry," I said, cupping the bandage on my ear and cheek. "Did you say something? I can't hear very well. Some virus named Victor Ordonez shot me a week ago."

"You're coming close to insubordination, Detective Stillwell," Gray said. "We are here to do a routine interview. If you want us to swivel the focus of our investigation onto you, that can be arranged."

"Swivel it off who?" I said. "My partner? Well, get ready to write this down. My partner saved my life. I was running between two parked trains, and I was shot. I climbed for safety into one of the cars. As Victor Ordonez was attempting to come into the car where I was hiding – to finish me off, no doubt – my partner arrived and took him down."

"How many shots were fired?" Gray said. "Was it boom-boom-boom or just boom?"

I took a sip of my coffee and set it down on my boss's desk. Some coffee spilled and I didn't give a shit.

"It was a gunfight in a train yard," I said. "I was shot. I was sucking floor. I wasn't playing sound engineer for some episode of Law and Order."

Gray finally slammed his book shut.

"Fine," he said. "But for the record, will you answer me just one more question? Detective, you were the primary investigator in this case. You were on your way to apprehend two very dangerous suspects who you believed to be responsible for the death of Detective Thayer. Why didn't you call for the tactical assistance of the Emergency Service Unit?"

I sat there for a couple of seconds. He had me on that one. It was standard operating procedure, and I hadn't done it.

I opened my mouth to say… God only knew what.

Then my jaw dropped as my boss jumped in.

"I authorized her to go ahead."

I looked over at Keane. He looked back with an expression that said, keep your mouth shut.

"I determined that there wasn't enough time to wait, so I gave the go-ahead," Keane went on. Then he rose from his seat. He walked across the length of the room and opened the door for Navy and Gray.

"Now, my detective has to get back to work," he said.

"Thanks for the save there, boss man," I said after the IAB creeps left and Keane had shut the door again.

"Yeah, well, you and your partner are heroes as far as I and every self-respecting cop in this department are concerned," Keane said, taking his seat back.

"And oh, yeah," he said. "Fuck the IAB."

I WAS COMING OUT of Keane's office when my partner called me on my cell phone.

"Have the rodents left the building?" Mike wanted to know.

"The two-footed ones at least," I said.

"Come meet me for an early lunch at the Piper's," Mike said. "My treat."

It took me twenty minutes or so to drive to the Piper's Kilt on 231st Street in Kingsbridge. The Bronx cop and district attorney hangout was much more bar than grill, but the burgers were outrageous. Ten thirty being on the early side, the restaurant part of the establishment was empty – except for my partner tucked away in the farthest corner booth.

After I sat, I clicked my waiting Diet Coke to my partner's Heineken.

"How's the face?" Mike said.

"Flesh wound, like you said, amigo," I said with a shrug. "No hearing loss either. And as a bonus, I get to wear this attractive bandage."

Mike smiled.

"What do you think IAB will say on their report?"