I can’t even take credit for “thinking it through.” A situation presented itself, and I reacted. One therapist explained it as an extreme response to the primal fight-or-flight instinct. Mine apparently lacks the flight portion.

“What did you do with the gun?” she asks.

“I wiped it down and threw it in the river. It was never found.”

“Have you ever pulled the file? As a cop?”

She doesn’t even bother to say “police officer” now. All formality gone.

“No, that could flag an alert,” I say. “It didn’t happen here anyway.”

“Was the boy’s family really connected? Like capital F family?”

She says it as if this is an episode of The Sopranos.

“I guess so,” I say, which is a lie. I know so. The Saratoris aren’t major players, but Blaine’s grandfather, Leo, is definitely part of the Montreal organized crime scene.

“Don’t you worry they’ll find out and come for revenge?”

Every day of my life, I think, but all I grant her is a shrug.

“Biggest therapist fail ever.” I down a shot of tequila two days later, my first chance to have a drink after work with Diana. “I might as well have confided in that chick over there.” I point at a vacant-eyed girl in the corner. Hooker. Crack addict. If she’s old enough to be in a bar, I’ll turn in my badge.

“Remind me again why you put yourself through that,” Diana says. “Oh, right. You’re a sadist.”

“Masochist,” I say. “Also, possibly, a sadist, but in this situation, it’s masochism.”

She rolls her eyes and shifts on her stool. She’s already sitting on the edge, as if placing her ass—even fully clothed—on the surface might result in lethal contamination. At least she’s stopped cleaning her glass with an antiseptic wipe before drinking from it.

Another shift has her sliding off the stool, and she does a little stutter-jump to get back on, tugging down her miniskirt as she does. One of the guys across the bar is checking her out. Or he’s checking out her hair, blond with bright pink tips. He squints, as if suspecting he’s had too much to drink. They don’t see a lot of pink hair in here.

“So how was work?” I ask. Diana is in accounting. Her exact title seems to change by the month, as she flits about, not climbing the corporate ladder, but jumping from rung to rung, testing them all for size.

“We’re not going to talk about your therapy session?”

“We just did.”

I down my second shot of tequila. The bartender glances over and jerks his thumb at the soda fountain. It’s not a hint. Kurt knows I have a two-shot limit. I nod, and he starts filling a glass.

“So work …?” I prod Diana.

She runs a hot-pink fingernail around the rim of her martini glass … which is actually a regular whiskey glass, but it’s currently holding a lemon-drop martini. I know she has something to say. Something about therapy, I presume, but I pretend not to notice, as Kurt brings my Diet Coke.

“You staying till closing?” he asks me.

“Maybe.”

A smile lights his eyes. When I stay until closing, I usually end up in the apartment over the bar. His apartment.

“You should,” he says. “Looks like you could use a break.”

I’m sure he’s about to make some smutty suggestion about ways to relieve my stress. Then his gaze slides to Diana, and instead he heads off to wait on another customer. He thinks he’s being discreet, but Diana knows about us, and she’s just as horrified as he suspects she’d be. Diana does not approve of casual sex, especially not with an ex-con bartender who works at the docks by day. She has no idea what she’s missing.

Normally, she’d make a smart comment as Kurt walked away. But tonight she’s lost in the mysteries of her lemon drop.

“You okay?” I ask.

“It’s … Graham.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, and sit back on my stool.

Graham Berry is Diana’s ex-husband. Respected lawyer. Community pillar. Also one of the most goddamn brilliant psychos I’ve ever met. He knows exactly how to stalk and torment her while keeping his ass out of prison. Restraining orders? Sure, we can get them. But any cop who’s spent time in SVU knows they’re as useful as cardboard armour in a gunfight.

She downs her martini and signals Kurt for a refill. Diana rarely has more than one, and when he comes over to deliver it, he gives me an “Is everything okay?” look.

“Rough day,” I say.

When he says, “Maybe tomorrow will be better,” I know he isn’t talking about Diana.

“It will be,” I say.

“Graham’s in town,” she blurts when Kurt leaves. “He claims he’s here on business.”

“And he wants to see you, because he loves you and he’s changed.”

I look her in the eyes as I say this, steeling myself for the guilty flash that says she’s considering meeting with him. Like many abusive relationships, theirs is a complicated one. He’d beat the shit out of her, and then he’d be so very sorry, and she’d go back to him, and the cycle would start again.

It’s been two years since she left him and we’d both moved to a new city so she could start a new life. This time I don’t detect any guilt in her eyes, any sign that she wants to see him.

“Okay, step one,” I say. “You’ll stay at my place tonight and work from there tomorrow. Call in sick.”