Girls Like Us(5)

I want to pick up Dad’s bike from the impound lot. If it’s at all restorable, I want to keep it. If not, I’ll take it to the junkyard myself. It seems like a personal job, something I shouldn’t farm out to Cole Haines. The bike, like my dad, deserves a decent goodbye.

So much administrative work remains. The thought of it all exhausts me. I’ve been ignoring it, hoping it will dissipate, like the fog that hangs over the house in the early morning. But it won’t, of course. There is no one else to do these things but me. The stream of water begins to run clear. I step beneath it. It’s cool, but that’s good. The chill wakes me up, wipes the cobwebs from the drainpipes in my head. The water in this house has always been finicky. My father, a military man at his core, believed in cold showers. As a teenager, I resented him for making me bathe beneath an icy tap. His own showers were two minutes long, maybe three. They always seemed like punishment, as though he was repenting for his sins of the night before. Short, hard, cold showers. He didn’t understand how long it took for a teenage girl to wash her hair, to condition it, to shave her legs. Or maybe he did, but he wanted to punish me, too. I cut off my hair when I was fifteen. Used my own scissors and everything. My father approved. He applauded practicality. He thought blow dryers and curling irons were frivolities, especially for a girl who played sports and didn’t much care what she looked like. He had a point. I’ve worn it short ever since.

I step out of the shower and dry myself off. I fish the last bandage out of the box below the sink and apply it to my shoulder. I slip on my jeans and a T-shirt, the kind with thumbholes at the cuff, so that the sleeves stay in place. I throw on a shoulder harness and, over that, an old FBI fleece vest that I borrowed from Lightman and never returned.

From the drawer in the bedside table, I withdraw my Smith & Wesson. It’s my personal weapon, the one I’ve been carrying ever since my Bureau-assigned firearm was confiscated last month. I carry it in my harness, hidden beneath the long sides of the vest. I will continue to do so, at least until Dmitry Novak—the man we were hoping to arrest when I shot Anton Reznik—is in custody. I imagine Novak is unhappy with me for killing his favorite butcher. I won’t be safe until he’s behind bars, and perhaps not even then. With six years at the BAU under my belt, I’ve made plenty of enemies in addition to Novak. Enemies with long memories and violent tempers. I’ll likely always carry a gun. Dad did. He kept an arsenal in the closet of his office, locked of course, and pristinely maintained. If he was awake, he was carrying, and if he wasn’t, he was sleeping with a firearm in reach; usually in the drawer of the nightstand next to his bed. It never occurred to him not to. In his world, you were either predator or prey. Egret or killifish.

In the kitchen, I set coffee to brew. I look up the number for the Suffolk County Police Impound Lot in Westhampton and dial. I know Cole won’t be there—it’s too early—and I’m happy enough not to have to make conversation about Dad’s passing. I leave a brief message with my name and cell phone number, saying that I’d like to swing by and pick up my dad’s bike as soon as possible. I want to do it quickly, without too much fuss. The idea of seeing Dad’s bike torn apart or reduced into scrap makes my stomach twist. In the sober light of morning, I realize Dorsey is right. I may have seen a lot of crime scenes, but everything’s different when it involves family.

As soon as there is enough coffee in the pot, I pour myself a mug and step back out onto the deck. I take one sip before my phone rings. I set my coffee down, check the number. When I see that it’s Sam Lightman, I grit my teeth. After a moment’s pause, I pick up the call.

“Flynn here.”

“How are you doing, Nell?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Barely a scratch.”

“And your dad’s service?”

“Over.”

“Sounds like you’re ready to come home.”

“Are you ready to bring me home?”

Lightman clears his throat, something he does before he delivers bad news. “About that. I talked to Maloney.”

Paul Maloney is the assistant director of the Office of Professional Responsibility, an arm of the FBI that I didn’t know existed a month ago and very much hope to never encounter again. After the shooting, Maloney insisted that I undergo counseling with Dr. Ginnis, a psychiatrist kept on retainer by the FBI. Ginnis reports to Maloney, and Maloney has the ultimate say on whether or not I’m fit to work. I get the sense that he’s not inclined to sign off on me unless I do what he tells me to do, and that includes a lot of therapy I’ve been avoiding.

“And?”

“Maloney’s concerned. He said you don’t keep your appointments.”

“I don’t need PT. I feel fine.” I cup my hand over my shoulder, my fingers probing the wound to see if it’s still tender. It is. I stop.

“Not just physical therapy. You need to see Dr. Ginnis, too.”

“I’ve talked to Ginnis.”

“Nell, come on. You can’t go once and call it a day.”

“It’s not my fault I had to leave DC.”

“Of course not. But you could do sessions over the phone. Ginnis needs to write up a full report about your mental fitness. You won’t get a clean eval until then.”