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“Yeah, ‘ah.’?”

“Have you mentioned pursuing a criminal justice degree to your mom, even in passing?”

“No,” said Sam. “I could never find the right time.”

“Because you feared there might never be one.”

“Let’s say I wasn’t optimistic.”

She was correct about that much. Rachel’s brother had been a state patrolman, killed in the line of duty, and then there was also my history to consider. My father, an NYPD detective, had taken his own life after a shooting incident, and my experience with the same force had not been a happy one. My vocation as a private investigator had contributed to the end of my relationship with Rachel, put both her and Sam in danger, and left me with lifelong injuries, not to mention blood on my hands.Any suggestion on Sam’s part that she wished to pursue a similar line of employment might lead her mother to chain her to a D-ring on the basement floor until she came to her senses.

“Have you thought about becoming a police officer?” I asked.

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for it. Ultimately, like I said, I want to be a private investigator, but with a specialization. I’ll run a female agency, taking on only women as clients.”

I didn’t doubt her. This wasn’t a passing fancy.

“If you’re serious, you’ll need experience in the field after your formal education. It’ll be a long haul, with little return for the maximum of effort.”

“I could always come work with you. For you, I mean. At first. Like an apprentice.”

“Or I could just start banging my head against a brick wall now, to get used to the pain. No, I think it would be better if you worked with a more—”

I searched for the right words.

“Conventional agency?” Sam offered.

“That about covers it,” I agreed. “When it comes to the time, I can ask around. We’ll find somewhere appropriate.”

“I thought you’d say that, but I couldn’tnotraise the question of working alongside you. It would have been like I didn’t want to, which isn’t the case. I can’t do what you do, or not the way you do it. I don’t know—I haven’t explained that part very well.”

“You’ve been doing fine,” I said, borrowing her own word. “If you’d said you wanted to follow directly in my footsteps, I’d have told you to stick to liberal arts. I’m very aware of how I ended up on this path. It was only through hurt, but it shouldn’t have to be that way.”

“And you won’t try to talk me out of it?”

“Would it do any good?”

“It would only make me dig my heels deeper.”

“What about your mom?”

“I was hoping you might be with me when I tell her.”

I laughed.

“Even Louis would tag along for that conversation only if he was armed and wearing riot gear,” I said. “As for me, I’d have to be dragged to Vermont, bound and sedated. No, that discussion is for you two alone. Seriously, if I’m with you, your mother will think we’re ganging up on her, which won’t help. Talk it through with her. Tell her your reasons. In fact, you can try telling me, because I still haven’t heard them.”

Sam sat up straighter in her chair, like a candidate at a job interview.

“I want to make a difference,” she said. “Shit, that sounds so lame.”

“A) There are other means of achieving that. B) Yes, it does sound lame. And C) Mind your language.”

“Sorry, I must remember not to say ‘shit’ in front of my D-A-D.”

“Funny, but you’re not answering the question, or only with a platitude. That won’t satisfy your mother. It doesn’t satisfy me either.”

She tried again, this time more hesitantly.