Page 4

I listen to the shower turn on, the old pipes creaking through the ceiling.

My skin is still damp, and find I can't stay still, my body still giddy from the feel, the reality of him. I should have basked in it for longer, lain there on Dirk’s arm, but I couldn't bear the possibility he might finish his goodbye.

And I can't bear it anymore now, waiting for him to come out with post-coital clarity and tell me that was a mistake. I've only delayed the inevitable conversation, and at what cost? Finding I can't stay still until he comes out of my shower, having washed me off, I grab my keys. Before I leave, I scribble a fast note: Had to go out. Be back soon. I hesitate then. Should I say goodbye? See you? It’s already clearly a lie. Where the hell would I have to go? But I can't stay here.

There seems to be a path our passion took through the apartment, decor I don't even recall going near knocked askew or smashed on the floor. Olivia's bed is a mess, all smeared blood and critically crumpled sheets. I settle for scribbling my name at the bottom of the note—as though it could be anyone else—and leave before I hear the shower shut off.

I'm running away, I know that. But what else can I do? I can't stand to lose him, can't stand to see the pity in his eyes as I ask if he’s still going to transfer. By the time I’ve evaded any reporters lingering outside my building and I'm standing at the supermarket door, annoying the shoppers actually here with a purpose, I come to terms with how stupid I am. A buzzing in my pocket annoys me enough to pay attention to it, and I realise I’ve thrown on the pants that had my pager in them.

Tomorrow. Needler Interrogation.

Fuck. Looks like Tawill hasn’t totally cut me loose after all. I run into someone with how fast I turn around, intending to run all the way back. But by the time I get through my front door, the apartment is empty, and my note is staring at me from where I left it.

***

I drive into the precinct, and soon regret it when I round one corner in Downtown to hear the megaphone, and Conrad's voice, right before I see the crowd. The would-be mayor is on top of a hastily built stage this time. Cars ahead of me honk behind his audience. They’re blocking traffic, making people listen.

By the time the traffic clears, sifting slowly around the crowd, it’s well past the early hour I was hoping to get to the precinct, and the space in front is already filling up with media and protestors.

I park close, almost over the footpath, but the reporters recognise my car. I duck my head, pulling my hood down as I turn my face away from them on the way to the steps. They want to know if I’m on the Cocooner case, if I’m talking with Needler. They want to know what kind of relationship I had with Needler. They know full well the answer to all of those questions, but they want it on camera. And I’m not about to give it to them.

I’m let through the police barricade, which is now a semi-permanent feature of the station. Walking down the corridor towards the offices, I feel displaced—this isn’t the ideal place for someone who had mind-boggling sex with a co-worker just yesterday.

I've barely sat down at my desk and started tapping away at the typewriter before Andrea finds me. “You’re wanted in the interrogation room.” Apparently, when Tawill said I’m here for the interrogation, she meant that’s all I’m here for. I stand and follow Andrea.

It may be taken as a sign of my mental health that talking to Needler—Tristan—is the part of being back that gives me the least nerves. He's the only one here where things don't feel irrevocably different, even given his change in circumstances. Just like before, the feeling is that he's exactly where he wishes to be.

Of course, he's also entirely likely to be a psychopath.

When I reach the doors of the interview room, I stop in my tracks to see Tawill there. She's clearly been waiting for me, but when she sees me, her expression doesn't change. "Detective." She nods towards the door. "I'll be accompanying you on the interview today."

I manage some noise of affirmation, walking to stand beside her as she turns to unlock it. Great , this won't be tense at all.

When Needler glances up at our arrival, his eyes cut to Tawill with a faint smile. "Commissioner Tawill. How lovely to meet you."

Her voice is stern. "Detective Ginsburg will be conducting the interview today. I am here to observe." As though to prove it, she takes the metal seat waiting in the corner.

You could observe from the other side of the glass, I want to point out, but turn my side to her and sit across from Tristan instead. He tilts his head to me, and I know he sees too much, my tension, and how long it’s been since I was here last.

"Eleanor. I've missed our talks."

The muscle in my jaw twitches. If looks could kill… "Are you going to give me more on Cassandra than last time?" I ask.

Casually, he sits back in his chair. "How's the other officer? Your partner. He's the only one to have survived any Cocooner attack. Quite the commendation."

I blink at the mention of Dirk. Coincidence, surely. Tristan couldn't possibly know… I clear my throat. "I'm not at liberty to talk about other detectives. He's not relevant to the interview."

"No?" Tristan raises an eyebrow. "Cassandra's never been the type to let a good thing get away."

"Are you indicating Dirk could be in danger still?" I ask, too fast, voice urgent. Like I need to go and order a squad to his house right away. Not thinking about him has proved to be as impossible this past day as it was before, so I've resolved to pretend to myself that I'm not thinking of him.

Tristan shrugs. "It is unknown territory."

"But not to you," I press. "Tell us something that will help us catch her, and she won't hurt any more people."

"She'll do something… unexpected."

"That’s not helpful."

Tristan grins and leans forward. "Tell you what will jog my memory? Not sharing a cell with whatever drunkard you throw in there. What are your people trying to achieve?” Smirking, he asks, “Is the best Tregam’s law enforcement can think of really tempting me into violence so you can show it to the media and get the mob off your doorstep?" My gaze locks to his. He is definitely not supposed to know about the rioters. His smile widens. "I know they're out there. Probably have been for a while, if I had to guess. Why else wouldn't you have sent me on by now?"

I didn’t know about who he was sharing a cell with, and I resist glancing back at Tawill. Because if they are trying to get something to smear his ‘clean’ record, that is a supremely stupid thing to do, and I could have told them it would never work.

"We need information on your sister," I offer.

"You could do that from prison. The jail is never very far from any point in Tregam. Unless…" his eyes narrow, considering, "You've decided White Rock is the better place for me?" he asks, naming the island off the port of Tregam, named for its pale cliff faces, and most notably, home of the once-infamous Eternal Light Asylum.

"We haven't decided yet," I say truthfully. It’s another thing the mobs, now led by Conrad, want to know. Whether we’re going to send their favourite killer to the madhouse or the jailhouse. Given the reputation of White Rock and Eternal Light, they’re in favour of the latter. It’s kinder.

“Or perhaps it’s some place more final,” he suggests flatly. And there’s the other outcome that I can’t quite deal with thinking about—Death Row. If Tristan won’t lawyer up, which he hasn’t yet, the death penalty could very much be on the cards.

By all appearances, he has no anxiety on the subject whatsoever. Almost definitely a psychopath, I remind myself.

“That needs to be decided in court,” I say, hoping the shake in my voice isn’t too noticeable.

"Hm," he shrugs and sits back, as though dismissing his own future. "About my cellmates…"

"This isn't a hotel," Tawill speaks up, an interruption from the corner.

Tristan spares her a hard look. “Then this isn't childhood trauma hour."

“Tristan…” I start, wishing Tawill had stayed the hell out of it.

“No.” His eyes cut back to me. “I could make this much more difficult. I could hide behind a lawyer or refuse to speak even to you. I’m not. But I’m not a wind-up toy you can bring out of the box of discarded crap when you feel like it, either.”

Tawill says, “Don’t you want to stop your sister from killing more innocent people?”

I manage to school my face as Tawill speaks again. So much for just observing. I want to slap her.

Tristan doesn’t move his pale gaze from me this time, doesn’t deign to give her a response. He must care on some level. Why else would he even be talking? Why else would he have murdered so many other killers? “What’s wrong with your cellmates?” I ask.

“They’re unclean. I can’t think surrounded by filth.” He sits back, and the interview is clearly over. Thanks to Tawill. God, how long will it be until she decides she’s ready to call me back for another interview? A week? A month?

As we're leaving, the door about to close behind us, Tristan calls to me, "See you soon, Eleanor."

The door closes, and Andrea is there waiting with another officer to escort him back to holding once we’re clear. But rather than moving off down the hall back into the building proper, Tawill is pulling open the door into the observation room, behind the glass, and she waits for me to enter before her.

We're in there alone when she asks me, voice flat, "What did he mean by that?"

"By… what?" I ask, wondering what part of that interview I can be expected to comment on already.

"'See you soon.'"

My hands spread. "I'd guess it means he's still only going to speak to me, and he'd like it to be sooner." I frown. "Surely it benefits us to get the information sooner?"

Tawill sighs, leaning on the window ledge, watching as Tristan is peacefully escorted out by armed guards. Finally, she straightens, turning back without looking at me. "That’s all for today. We'll call you when…"

"No."

Now she finally meets my gaze, and I realise what I've said. I shake my head. "I understand that I'm not your favourite employee—probably never was. But if not for my 'heinous' actions, we wouldn't have Needler at all. And if not for me now, you'd be getting nothing from him." Barring my nerves, knowing I’m about to give an ultimatum and that’s usually not a great idea, I say, "He trusts only me. And I can't do my job by being called in once a month for an hour. So, are you going to let me do my job?"

Tawill stares back, expression unreadable. What is readable is that she's not used to being talked back to. When she breaks away first, I understand what should have been obvious all along. They need me.

But still, the silence stretches out, uncomfortably long.

"Fine," she says at last, and I feel my shoulders loosen from where they've tensed up towards my ears. "You're back on the case. Full time." And she turns for the door, pulling it open before I can say anything. I step up behind her to follow her out, but she comes up short to wait for someone already standing in the doorway.

I meet Dirk's eye over the top of Tawill's head for the briefest moment before Tawill speaks, "Officer Lancaster. Good. You're both back on the Needler case, and by association, the Cocooner case. As witnesses," she adds, though the word is meaningless, just a way of limbo-ing under the red tape of case bias. Official paperwork will have us on Drug Diversion or some such obscure assignment. Meanwhile, we know, and everyone else knows, we’re working the case, just like I was working the case of the man who killed my husband. Tregam is infamous for its ‘whatever gets the job done’ outlook.

"Uh…" Dirk looks like he might like to either disagree or slink off, but Tawill nods, her orders given, and moves past him.

Suddenly alone, and with the only exit from this tiny room being past the man I somehow managed to do an Irish goodbye to from my own apartment, I shift from foot to foot. "I didn't expect you to come in," I say, about as awkwardly as someone can say any words.

"Evidently," is all he says, giving me a dark look.

I bite my lip. As usual, he has the right to be annoyed. Since I’m such a fucking idiot and keep giving him reasons. "You're staying, then?"

"For now."

Following him out of the observation room, I try, "Dirk, I…"

"Oh. My. Godddd ! You're back! You’re both back" Chloe throws herself at me in a more enthusiastic hug than I was prepared for, and before I’ve even had time to get my arms around her in return, she does the same to Dirk, who, through his frown of surprise, manages to pat her on the top of the head.

The recent events have not dulled her enthusiasm. If anything, I note with a look at the slight tan now glowing on her wide-eyed face, a holiday seems to have renewed Chloe’s energy. Which may or may not be what we all need. "I've missed you guys so much! I mean, I looove Dean and Howie, but it’s just not the same!"

That’s the thing with Chloe, she loves everyone. And everything. As we’re given no choice but to follow her, responding now and then as she chatters on about anything and everything—from the new coffee machine to a casual mention of the protestors throwing a chair through the side window—I wonder as I usually do, why she chose this morbid line of study.

"Dean and Howie have a room set up. I’m calling it the Cocooner Brainstorming Room. Let’s go get everyone up to date!"

"I actually…" Dirk attempts, but she's already moved on to getting us up to date. I only shrug and follow along. I didn't even think I was going to still have a job after today, so I've hardly got other places to be.

Feeling somehow like the most junior member of staff is now running the show, we now rejoin the Cocooner/Needler case.

"Looks like we're on the case with you officially now," Dirk comments as we step into the wide room and spot Dean and Howie. The space is set up somewhat like a classroom, with whiteboards on wheels up the front and too many small tables and their chairs facing it. Indeed, when school excursions bring their students to see the precinct, this is the room the kids and their teachers are most often sequestered to after the perfunctory tour is given.

Dean stands up, coming and shaking Dirk’s hand, clapping him on the shoulder in that way of men who are too self-conscious to actually hug one another. "Good to see you back, Dirk."

Howie trails just behind. Dean and Howie have been on the Cocooner case for years together. They're your typical pairing of wisdom and new ideas, with Dean being young and reasonably new on the force and Howie seasoned. They make a good pairing, for the most part. Dirk and I have worked with them on a number of occasions when our own leads for Needler so often dried up and we had to find some other homicide case to spend our time on. The fact that our two killers have now turned out to be related is something else, but it fits our dynamic.

Chloe sets about arranging the boards, and Howie turns to me. "Tawill has put you two on the Cocooner case with us, huh?"

I shrug. "I guess with Needler in custody, that is the most logical direction."

Howie breaks eye contact at the mention of Needler, and I sigh into the silence. "Look, can we just address the elephant in the room now? I'm not holding a candle for Needler. But we need his information on Cassandra. And if it’s me, he wants to give that to—"

Dean spreads his hands. "We're professionals. Whatever gets the psychos caught, right?"

I almost snort at that, sure he didn't mean it to quite the lengths that I took it. However, it's too late to lie to myself now and imagine that I slept with Needler out of any inclination to speed up catching him.

Chloe comes back over, handing out markers and small bundles of photographs. "Okay, I've printed out photos of people we know are involved with Cassandra, and I've got a colour code all worked out."

Dirk raises an eyebrow, fanning out the photos. An old mugshot of Cassandra is on top, back when she was Olivia, or maybe even before. He moves on quickly, away from the face of the woman who almost killed him.

"You gonna be alright on this case, man?" Dean asks.

Clearing his throat, Dirk gives a shallow smile. "I'm fine. Who'll want the bitch behind bars more than me, right?" I'm not convinced by that, and I sense that neither is anyone else, but he adds, "I'll start," and we all take our places on the desks while he starts pinning the first suspects up on the far left board.

As I watch the faces go up—Cassandra, of course, right in the middle, and then above her, Caleb, my late husband and, as it turns out, the original Cocooner—I start to get uncomfortable. Chloe really hasn't missed a thing. And to that end, Dirk looks up at her and asks wryly, "Really?"

Chloe glances at me, then back at him. "Well, it’s important, isn't it? We need all the information."

With a low laugh, Dirk turns back to the board, puts my face up there, a few inches to the left of Caleb’s, then draws an orange line between us. Then it’s his own face, further left again than mine. He draws a line from him to Cassandra, in red, for Victim. I tense, knowing he needs to draw a line between us. Will he pick orange, like what links me and Caleb? After a brief hesitation, he draws a pink line for a colleague. I wonder if anyone else saw that hesitation or has seen the invisible line held taut between us this whole time.

Next are a handful of victims, and Needler, with a line to me and a line to Cassandra. By the end, it's looking like a screwed-up family tree, or some kind of drama-tragedy flow chart. The whole board is nearly taken up, crisscrossed with connections.

Leaning forward over my desk, I peer at it. "We've got so much, so many connections. Why can't we find her?"

"Because she's too good at becoming someone else," Dean says, "Like Needler. Or Seb, or whoever."

"And too good at hiding," Howie adds.

"Well, there's no shortage of places to hide." Dirk takes a step back from the board, tilting his head at it.

I tap my fingers on the table. "Maybe that’s it. Where would she hide? I mean, she was my roommate for how long? Hiding in plain sight. But now what? Her sketch is everywhere.”

“Unless she's altered herself dramatically,” Dean puts in.

Tilting my head, I say, “I doubt she'd have the means for that, or the time.” When Cassandra was ‘murdered’ by my husband, she underwent a major change, turning from a dark-haired girl going on chubby into the almost bulimic-looking faded blonde I knew as Olivia. But it’s just as unlikely that she’s reversed that process in an effort to disguise herself, and impossible that she could have done it in six weeks. “No, she must either be around people who know exactly what she is, or…"

"No one." Dirk leans back on a desk. "So, she’s in Crennick."

"Fucking Crennick," Howie murmurs, loud enough for us all to hear it. "Place ought to burn."

I twist to look at him. "Thought you were of more traditional opinions, Howie?"

His already considerably wrinkled nose wrinkles some more. "Bunch of hogwash. 'Preserving our history'." He makes a noise almost like I expect him to spit right there on the faded carpet, then concludes, "Keeping us all locked in the past, more like."

Dirk has been staring silently at the board for a while, and with the rest of us joining the silence, he takes a loud breath, straightening, “I think that’s enough optimism for me for the day." No one argues with him, of course, no one will. After what he went through, he can tap out anytime he likes.

“Good to have you back in,” Dean says in goodbye, and Dirk offers those two a wan smile before he grabs his jacket and turns to leave.

I make no secret of chasing him out the door. If we're going to have any kind of professional relationship, we need to talk. Mostly, I need to explain myself.

"Dirk!" I call from the other end of the wide corridor when I spot him, about to open the double doors that lead out to the station front. He pauses, hesitating long enough for me to jog and catch up. It doesn’t take an expert to see that he doesn't want to talk to me, in private or otherwise. Probably he was relieved that I wasn't there when he got out of the shower at my place.

Maybe he does regret the fucking. Only one way to find out.

Half-turned like he still wants to dive outside instead, Dirk waits for me to say my piece.

And I'm suddenly at a loss. "I'm glad you're not leaving," I tell him, even though that much is obvious.

"Right."

I clench my teeth. "I went back. To my apartment."

"Well, you do live there."

"Dirk, I'm sorry…” I sigh, pressing my fingers to my forehead. “I just panicked."

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, and I know I've somehow said the wrong thing. "You panicked and left, or you panicked and fucked me?"

My jaw tightens. "The first one." When he only stares back at me, clearly not buying it, my voice rises too much as I demand, "What are you thinking? Just say it!"

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what you want from me!”

"And since when have you given a shit what I want?” His tone stills me for a moment. “I wanted you to stop drinking. I wanted you to tell me the truth. I wanted you to let me help you. To not turn on the TV and find out like that what your husband was. To not go to a fucking dead man’s office after dark and nearly get yourself killed! To listen to me when I was screaming at you that Olivia was the Cocooner! When I was trying to save your damned life…”

"I get it!"

Lips closed, Dirk turns his face away, but I already saw enough in his eyes. He's on the edge of something, and it’s frightening. He's always been strong, almost unflappable, like he'd just curse at whatever it was and move on. But now something has come unhinged in him.

Taking a breath, I manage to say, "I agree with you. I do a lot of stupid things.” Then I add, “I’m working on it.”

Dirk laughs unkindly. “Oh well, thank fuck for that.”

I narrow my eyes. "You're just being cruel."

"What did you fucking expect? Your roommate tries to turn me into some dead bird-man, you were fucking Needler and accusing me of being Needler at the same time as lying to me for months! You're lucky I'm not a sobbing mess in the corner!"

“I didn’t want that to happen to you!” I screech. “I’d do anything to take it all back. But you can’t stand here and tell me I’m the only one you’re mad at. Whatever you think…”

“You want to know what I think?” Dirk takes a step towards me, and I retreat before I stop myself, the wall of the corridor behind me. Aside from the hum of the protestors outside, our voices are the only ones here. Thank hell barely anyone is coming or going this time of day, maybe even less so given the gradually escalating riots. “I think it’s not me you wanted."

That, most of all, makes me do a double-take. He can’t be serious. " Excuse me? "

Now his voice lowers, all the while becoming louder and more imposing since he moves towards me, coming well within reach while I stand my ground. “I think you happened to be feeling lonely, or horny, and your preferred cock is in lock-up…"

Whatever he was going to say next is cut off by the sharp ring of my palm across his cheek. I’m breathless, shocked at my own act as his face stays turned just slightly away. My hand stings, but I don't believe for a minute I’ve really hurt him, not physically anyway.

There’s a dangerous spark in his eye that makes my breath catch in my throat as Dirk tilts his head back to me. I gasp when he suddenly grabs me by the upper arms and shoves me back against the wall, face lowered and so close to mine that our noses touch.

"Slap me again," he warns.

With the back of my head against the wall, it’s hard to tilt my face up and look into his eyes, the hazel almost black in his own shadow. "You're disgusting," I breathe. "You're volatile…"

"Now you want me gone?" he growls, and his body presses to mine, hands softening just slightly on my arms. My breath still comes fast, but with a new flavour as I glance at his lips.

"Maybe I do.” My voice is soft and unconvincing.

"I'm not going to give you what you want." Those lips smirk this time. The air is electric in the inch between our lips, his body hard and promising and so suddenly intoxicating.

He's wrong. It is him I want. Maybe it always has been. Right now, there is no other time, no other person. It’s just us.

Until Chloe bangs through the door at the other end of the corridor. She spots us immediately, before we have time to jump apart, and does a frantic about-face, scurrying back into the station like she hopes we didn’t see her . She’s gone as fast as she appeared, but it’s enough to break the slowly tightening leash between us. Dirk has released me, blinking like he's coming out of some moment of madness, and I feel that too. Here ? At work? And after what he just said to me? I need better standards, surely.

"Fuck," he says.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose. "I guess that solves the question of whether people are gonna know or not." Not that I have anything against Chloe, but the girl's secret-keeping abilities don't fill me with confidence.

Dirk's attention comes back. "Look…" He rubs his eyes. The circles under them are still there, worse, even. "You got what you wanted. I'm staying. What else is there to say?"

"What else ? Oh, I don't know, how about do you happen to have a girlfriend right now?"

Dirk generally has a girlfriend, though they never last long, and calling them anything so serious as even a 'friend' feels like too much credit most of the time. He pulls a face. "You're asking that now?"

"When else would I ask?" I demand, growing shrill. "You haven't exactly been stopping by."

He sighs, turning away. "You know, I don't think I'm ready for this place after all, for everything…"

With the clear intention of running away, he shoves the doors open, stepping out into the midday light before I can stop him.

The camera flashes are instant, as are the questions thrown at us, at him, like demands. But Dirk is the first one they see and apparently the one they've been dying to see. "Detective Lancaster! What can you say about your experience as Cocooner's latest victim?" "Will you stay on the case?" "How did you escape?" “Did you believe she intended to kill you?”

We’ve moved forward on the steps, stupidly allowing them to come between us and retreat. The line isn’t policed today, possibly they’re manning some other riot point in the city. They’re popping up across suburbs now, gaining followers, with Conrad often at the head of the biggest crowds. The demonstrators here sense action and pick up their placards and their signs, starting their nonsensical clamour for Needler's release.

One placard, the biggest, is a photo of Dirk, and the words, Would be dead , scrawled in red ink thick enough to be dripping.

"Jesus," I swear. We're surrounded. How had I not considered the media frenzy that would emerge around the only known survivor of the Cocooner? Sure, I was there too that night, but Dirk was her intended victim, all the way to being strung up, half-painted. They’ve been mad enough just to get my story. And now that Dirk has shown his face, and they're starved for anything on Needler, he’s the prime one this city wants to hear about right now.

Dirk is momentarily stunned, staring at the placard with his face, the photo taken as he was escorted from the scene by ambos, white plaster still clumped on locks of hair, a shiny blanket over his bare shoulders, leaving a view to his chest and what is clearly fresh blood mixed with stark white plaster on his skin. The next flash is straight in his face, and Dirk visibly flinches, staring at the one who took it like he's just forgotten where he is.

Amid a string of expletives aimed at everyone surrounding us, I grab his arm, pulling him aside as they follow. "Come on! My car is just on the street." I shout to be heard over them, and Dirk turns his face so that his dark hair falls like a curtain, letting me drag him the few dozen steps to where I parked this morning, semi-legally on the edge of the precinct frontage and what stretch of cement space somehow counts as a courtyard.

I shove him into the passenger side before dodging the cameras and prying questions that go along with them, throwing myself into the driver’s side and slamming the door shut. The interior of my car is dim, their sounds thankfully muted. I recently invested in tinted windows, and right now I think it may be the best idea I've ever had—not that the bar is high. Even if they can see in at all, the only thing they’ll get is dark shapes. Not much good for their papers. Nonetheless, they still photograph my car.

Dirk is staring straight ahead, breathing fast. I run my hands through my hair. "Jesus, there's no subtlety anymore. Are you okay?"

Rubbing his face, Dirk shakes himself. "Yeah."

"You seem it," I comment drily. "Let me drive you home."

"My car…"

"You're in no state to drive. You look like you've seen a ghost. They're not going to let up, you’re too much of a juicy news story.”

That seems to bring him back to himself, and he shakes his head with a short chuckle. “I think I miss you being the biggest news story everywhere we went.”

I narrow my eyes on him, reaching for the ignition. "How about fuck you?" I offer.

The look he gives me reminds me that I already did that.

Unclenching my fist, I focus on turning the ignition. I’m still not mad enough to ditch him here with the cameras, even though I'm not sure I could get much more furious. "Rest assured, I'll never be doing that again."

"Really?" he asks sarcastically. Given what just almost happened in the corridor, I can't say he doesn't have grounds.

"Not if my life depended on it," I snap back. It’s childish, sure, but less childish than what I want to do, which is pull his hair.

“Given your so far impeccable choice of fuck buddy." He tilts his head from side to side. "I’m actually kind of flattered."

He's talking about Needler, or my late husband, or both. Either way, it’s a low blow. "You're a real asshole, you know that?"

He looks away, hopefully not thinking of what happened the last time I called him an asshole. I know I'm trying not to think of it. In the brief silence between us, I lean on the horn and scare the reporters hanging over the bonnet away.

"I don't, and didn't, have a girlfriend," Dirk tells me. "There, now you can clear your conscience."

Narrowing my eyes, I point out, "I'll remind you that you more than participated."

"I haven't forgotten." His tone is hard to read.

We're out on the road now. Dirk sighs through his nose, watching the protesters we pass by. Gripping the steering wheel, I glance at his face as he stares at them. "You shouldn't look. They're all nuts."

"They're right."

"What?"

Looking back to me, Dirk says, "I would be dead if not for Needler."

"We don't know that."

"No?" he raises an eyebrow. "Liked our odds, did you?" I neglect to answer; I remember as well as he does that night, being at the mercy of that crazy bitch, thinking I was about to have to watch him die. Dirk looks back out his window as the last of them pass by. "I didn't think of them when I decided to come back."

"Why did you decide to stay? Why not transfer?"

He's silent for so long, through a set of lights, that I think he's not going to tell me. "I should be—I need to be—on the Cocooner case."

"Why?"

"Well, I have inside experience now, don't I?" I can tell by his tone, almost joking, that it’s not the real answer.

"It might not be healthy, or smart, for you to be on her case."

Dirk gives me a look, and I ascertain I'm probably not the right person to have opinions on healthy behaviour. "I'm worried about you, that’s all!"

"I'm fine."

"You are not."

"Are you fine?"

"No!"

This might be the most civil conversation we've had for some time.

"So maybe we're not the best for each other right now," he surmises.

I don't know in which way he means. "You could have told me how you felt before, you know."

Flatly, Dirk looks at me and says, "You knew."

"I didn't know."

"Then it was because you chose not to."

"Dirk…"

“Why’d you think it was me?” he cuts me off.

I don’t need to ask what he means. When I thought he was Needler. “Well, you’re similar…” I stop myself. Bad direction. My words dry up. “I don’t…”

“Because, by my math, you only came to that conclusion after you fucked him. Easier to assume if you figured I was interested, right?”

“That’s not… I can’t…” God, I need to sit down and journal or something sometime, try to untangle the mess that is my mental state. “Have you ever considered that I wanted it to be you?”

By the way he shakes his head, I can tell he’s not about to consider it now. Because that would be nuts. There are too many implications if he had been Needler. Murder, for one.

Dirk waves a hand, dismissing the conversation and any answer I might give that he’ll choose not to believe. "Look, I'm not some sad unrequited Romeo sop, okay? You could have never known or never admitted to knowing, that’s fine, it doesn't matter. This isn't about that. It's about your lying, about believing I was him, about turning away from me every time things got tough."

"I know…"

"Do you?" he cuts me off.

"Yes!" I insist. "Dirk, I just want things to go back to normal."

His jaw works. "That’s what you want? Like nothing ever happened."

"I don't know… sure? Yes."

He's silent a moment. "This is far enough."

"What? Dirk!" But he's already got the door open, taking advantage of a traffic lull. He steps out while the car is at a rolling pace. "Dirk, don't…"

But the door is already slammed shut, and I can only watch as he disappears down the sidewalk, hood pulled up.

***