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Faith sank to her knees and gripped two handfuls of her hair. She wept and shook as the EKG monitor blared its alarm tone and the image of Turk’s heart rhythm returned a flat, useless line.

“Chest compressions!” David called. “Now!”

Michael got to his knees next to her and held her tightly. She derived no comfort from his presence.

The veterinary nurse began chest compressions.

Faith watched her dog’s body jerk limply as the nurse beat his heart for him.

She didn’t know a body could jerk limply before now.

After two combat tours and countless encounters with the most violent people on Earth, she thought nothing could horrify her anymore, but watching Turk jerk fucking limply on the table because he was dying from potassium cyanide poison horrified her.

“Get her out of here!” David commanded.

It was only then that Faith realized she was screaming. Her eyes widened. “No! David, please!”

Her boyfriend met her eyes, and the expression he wore horrified her further.

Michael wrapped his arms even more tightly around her and pulled her to her feet.

She shrieked and fought madly, begging not to be separated from Turk, but Michael was twice her size and strong as an ox, and he dragged her away despite her best efforts to stay.

The door closed behind her, and Faith shrieked again as she watched the nurse struggle to revive her dog.

“Faith?”

Faith blinked and looked up at Dr. Keraya.

The psychologist regarded her with that coldly empathetic look that mental health professionals always wore when talking to patients.

Most of them, anyway. At least one of them had a warmly empathetic demeanor, but then he’d killed at least thirty-two people, so maybe these were the kinds of books that couldn’t be judged by their covers.

“Sorry, what was the question?”

Dr. Keraya smiled, an even worse expression. “I asked what you felt when you saw Turk on the table.”

“Point-four-five milligrams epinephrine,” David called.

“Right here, doctor.”

Faith took a deep breath to give time for the emotion to course through her. “Helpless.”

Dr. Keraya nodded. “That’s a very natural emotion to feel when one is witnessing a loved one in distress.”

“He wasn’t in distress. He was dead. That bitch fucking killed him.”

The vehemence in Faith’s voice didn’t surprise Faith at all, but apparently Dr. Keraya wasn’t prepared for it. She blinked and leaned back defensively, as though Faith had called her a fucking bitch. “But he’s alive, right?”

Faith sighed and rubbed her left temple. “Yes, he’s alive. David brought him back.”

“We have a rhythm doctor!”

“Excellent. Push forty milligrams of propranolol and get an ICU prepped.”

“That’s wonderful,” Dr. Keraya said. “So everything’s all right.” Faith looked at her, and she quickly amended, “With his health.”

“He’s not dead,” Faith said curtly.

Dr. Keraya finally got the memo that Faith didn’t want to discuss her dog’s health with her anymore. She looked down at her notes—a sign she was about to change course. “And you’re preparing to return to work, yes?”

Faith sighed inwardly. She shouldn’t have expected this to help her.

Therapy didn’t really offer her much more than having someone she could vent to and then leave.

The chance to compartmentalize her negative emostions was worth the FBI’s money but it didn’t really help her work through the emotions she carried.

It was just impossible to get anyone to understand that things couldn’t be fixed by practicing positive thinking and allowing herself to “be human.”

But that wasn't Dr. Keraya's fault. No doubt, the vast majority of the population saw actual benefits from this. Faith just wasn't one of them.

“Yes, I’m returning to work,” she said, managing a half-smile. “Now that Turk has a clean bill of health, it’s time for us to get back out there.”

Dr. Keraya leaned forward and rested her forearms on her thighs. That offered a more generous view of her bosom than Faith preferred, so she lifted her gaze slightly and stared at Dr. Keraya’s hair.

“And you’re ready?” the doctor asked. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Dr. Keraya leaned back and gave Faith a frank look. Faith wasn’t fond of her maternal gaze, but at least it seemed genuine. “You clearly have very strong emotions about what happened. I don’t know if it’s wise for you to return to work so soon after suffering such a traumatizing event.”

“I’m being kept off of the Messenger case, obviously,” Faith said. “Also any cases having to do with dogs. I’m being careful with how I return to work, but I can’t just sit at home. I can’t just do nothing.”

That argument seemed to sway Dr. Keraya.

“Very well. I will pass along my endorsement of your return to work. But please take care of yourself, Faith. If you feel in any way emotionally compromised, let your superiors know and take time off. There are ways to keep yourself busy without further damaging your psyche. And I don’t have to tell you that if you are emotionally compromised, you will be less able to perform your duty, and therefore, you will put people at risk.

Faith’s lips thinned. “You don’t have to tell me,” she agreed. “You have my word that as always, I will do my duties to the best of my ability.”

“Of course,” Dr. Keraya said, “but it’s all right to admit that one’s ability fluctuates.”

***

Faith gripped the steering wheel of her Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor hard enough that she felt the leather stretch under her palms. She tried to attach her anger to Dr. Keraya and her pop psychology catchphrases and distantly polite attitude, but her mind kept drifting back to the murderer who attacked her and killed Turk.

And the bitch had killed him, even if he was only dead for five minutes.

The Messenger. God, what a stupid name. Faith hated that people gave nicknames to serial killers, like they were wrestling stars who needed a cool handle to strike fear and awe into the crowds.

Fucking assholes. Why did people worship them?

What was cool about a crazy bitch who was so in love with a man who killed over thirty innocent people that she had to bash in the skull of a middle-aged FBI agent, tear an elderly woman's eyes out and embed a television in a shopkeeper's hollowed-out chest cavity?

What did normal people think when they read those stories?

That they were always going to be spectators in these games?

What if, one day, they were the main show?

Faith guaranteed they wouldn't cheer then.

She wasn’t laughing. She hated the bitch.

She hated her just as much as she hated Franklin West, the Copycat Donkey Killer whose exploits had far surpassed the original Donkey Killer.

She hated that the Messenger had murdered her friend and mentor, her neighbor, and another innocent man trying to scrape out a living in an expensive city in a tough economy.

She hated that the Messenger had hurt her dog, and she hated that the Messenger had somehow managed to beat her in a physical fight despite being several inches shorter and at least twenty pounds lighter and not a trained fighter.

She hated that she was afraid of the Messenger, hated having nightmares of the woman’s sick smile as she raised her hammer high to shatter Faith’s skull while Turk choked to death in the background.

She pulled into the driveway of the home she shared with David.

Two FBI vehicles sat in the drive, leaving her just enough room to pull into the garage.

A third sat across the way. The six agents assigned to watch her house had learned the hard way that Faith didn’t want to make small talk with them.

She didn’t need any more reminders than already existed that she was a victim who needed to be kept safe.

She shut the garage door and sat in her car for several minutes.

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths to calm her anxiety and leave her ready for the greeting to come.

The first few times she’d returned home after Turk was released, she’d broken down sobbing and caused her poor dog unnecessary stress.

When she felt she was okay to go inside, she got out of the car and entered the door into the kitchen.

Clawed feet immediately pattered on the laminated hardwood floor, and Faith couldn’t stifle the smile that came to her face when ninety pounds of fluffy puppy barreled across the kitchen to jump into her arms.

Turk barked joyfully and licked her face, tail wagging powerfully as he greeted his best friend.

Faith laughed and held him tightly, pressing her face into his luxurious fur and inhaling his pleasantly musky scent.

Turk craned his neck to keep licking her, and when his tongue went into her ear, she laughed and set him down.

“Okay, boy, that’s enough of that. I don’t want David to get any more jealous than he already is. Who’s hungry?”

Turk looked at her in amazement. There was no way she could think he was ever anything but hungry. She laughed again, reached down and cupped his cheeks. “I love you, boy. You know that? I love you.”

Turk beamed at her, and the love his eyes returned was so bright that all of Faith’s negative emotions fled like shadow from sunlight. Night would fall again, but it was midday now, and Faith was happy.

She gave Turk his dinner and watched him devour it hungrily. David was concerned that Turk might be averse to eating after the Messenger poisoned his food, but he had bounced back as though nothing had happened. He was all right, and Faith was all right, so the world was all right.

If only that were true. Her smile faded, and though the shadow remained hidden, the sunlight dimmed slightly. She ruffled his fur once more, then washed her face and warmed up some dinner for herself. David was on-call that night and wouldn’t be home until early the next morning.

She really wished he was here with her. She could really use a hug right now.

She’d get hugs from Turk, but she really needed the kind of hug that Turk couldn’t give her.

She was sure Dr. Keraya would have something to say about using sex as a band-aid to cover negative feelings, but Faith didn’t give a shit.

She was desperate to feel anything other than this constant seesaw between profound relief and sheer terror.

She finished her meal and opened a bottle of chardonnay.

As she poured herself a generous glass of the wine, she wondered how the conversation tomorrow would go.

Was she really ready to come back to work?

She’d insisted to Dr. Keraya that she was fine because if she had given the psychologist an inch, Dr. Keraya would have had her suspended for months, and onsidering her past history, that suspension would basically be a prelude to termination.

Faith didn’t want to retire, but did she want to go back into the field with Turk? She thought she was okay with the risk, but she’d never actually seen him close to death before. Watching him struggle on that table made it viscerally clear that she wasn’t going to take it well if Turk died.

He was already past the mandatory retirement age. He was only still working because Faith had fought for a special exemption. Maybe it was time for her to consider letting him retire.

Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to leave the field herself.