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Inside the station it’s all bright fluorescent light and dull, institutional paint choices. There’s the harsh ringing of phones and people shouting to and at one another. In the lobby, two officers are attempting to calm a kid who is screaming about his bike beingstolen. He can’t be more than twelve, but he’s spitting and cursing and trying to fight off the cops.

When Jordan gets to the front desk, the woman doesn’t look up from her computer. She offers a noncommittal “Mmm-hmm,” which he assumes means that she’s ready to assist him.

He explains that he’s trying to find an officer who might know something about his friend, who had a breakdown a couple of weeks ago on a nearby street. “A police officer from this precinct … uh, helped her.”

“You got a name?”

“Me?” Jordan asks. “I’m Jordan Hass—”

“The officer’s name,” she says, and Jordan can practically hear her thinking,you dumbass.

“No, but if I could find out who was working on January seventeenth at about eight in the morning—”

“You want the time sheets?” she says, then laughs. “No dice, mister. You’re going to need a few more specifics. Who do you want to speak to?”

“I don’t have the officer’s name,” he says, and he can feel the people in line behind him getting restless.

“I gotta get my fingerprints done,” someone behind him says. “Shit.”

“You got a complaint?” the woman asks Jordan, raising an eyebrow. “About the officer?”

“No. I’m just trying to find out some information about my friend.”

“If she’s your friend, you should probably ask her.”

If getting an answer out of Hannah were a realistic option, Jordan would’ve done it already. Not that he can explain that to thiswoman. “She’s, uh, sick,” he says. “Look, I know it’s a weird thing to ask, but this is really important.”

“I don’t know how to help you,” the woman says, shaking her head. To her credit, she soundsalmostsorry about it.

He leans forward, like he’s going to tell her a secret. He’s never been pushy in his life, but the stakes are too high now. He can’t be sent away with nothing. “Listen,” he says, “ma’am—please. I don’t mean to trouble you, I swear. But my friend is really, really not well, and I’m not sure there’s a soul in the world who cares about her as much as I do.” He stops.God, he doesn’t want that to be true. But he’s afraid it is. “I need to talk to the officer who found her. I think …”WhatdoI think? How is this going to help?“I think it’s possible that he might have seen her before. And I think he might be able to help me understand what’s going on.”

The woman looks at him for a long time, her face betraying only the slightest hint of curiosity. Of kindness. She swivels around in her chair, looks back at someone sitting at a desk behind her—her supervisor, maybe?—and then starts tapping something into the computer.

Two minutes later, during which the man behind Jordan complains nonstop about people who take too long in line, the woman hands Jordan a scrap of paper with a name scrawled on it. Officer Brian Dunthorpe.

“He’s back on duty next Wednesday,” she says.

CHAPTER 80

At 9:30 a.m. I stumbled into Dr. Nicholas’s office for our regularly scheduled appointment.

“Thank you for coming, Hannah,” he said, all polite and formal.

Like I had any choice?

I sank into the hard chair on the other side of Dr. N’s desk. “I justmisshim,” I said.

Dr. N steepled his fingers and looked over their tips at me and said, very quietly, “I’m listening.”

He probably didn’t even know who I was talking about—Indy wasn’t one of his patients—but I told myself that it didn’t matter. Dr. N would pop a bottle of Dom Pérignon if I told himanything.

God, he must be so sick of me and my endless refusal to talk.

But if I opened up—if I let myself remember—

What would happen then?

I felt my nails digging into the upholstered arms of the chair. I said, “Maybe I’m jealous of him.”