Sherlock’s heart was still pumping wildly. She threw another hot pad at the wall, calmed herself down. “It was brave of her.” She drew in a deep breath. “I hope I would have the presence of mind to do that. But wait, Dillon, if the shooter hit her—”

“That means I wasn’t the target. Or, I really was the target, and he could have shot at her first, for the fun of it.”

Savich straightened, shrugged. “Maybe he, whoever he is, just wanted to scare us. At this point, any guess is as good as any other. Who knows, it might have been a random shooting.” Neither of them believed that for an instant.

Savich picked up Sean, who was tightly clutching his orange ball, and walked to the front window in the living room. He stared out into the calm dark night. A storm was expected to hit Monday, winter coming with a grand announcement. And the temperature would plummet. Sean dropped his ball, watched it roll under an end table. He then spoke in his father’s ear and patted his face, telling him things he understood, like good spaghetti—“I think Sean just said he wanted a puppy.”

It was so ridiculous that for a moment Sherlock actually laughed and kissed her son’s sleepy face.

She saw the strain on Dillon’s face, saw the restless movement of his hands, saw the scars on his hands and fingers from his whittling. She knew he’d been caught off guard by the same devastating feelings she had felt when that bullet had come so close to him and to Sean. It made her want to scream and cry at the same time. He said finally, as if he’d been holding the words inside but they now had to come out, “This was too close, Sherlock, far too close. Sean could have been killed.”

Of course she agreed. The corrosive fear, the sense of absolute impotence—she nodded but didn’t say anything, just moved closer.

Sean’s head now lay on his father’s shoulder. Savich lightly smoothed his back, cupped his head. She saw a spasm of fear cross his face. He said quietly, “I’ve been giving a lot of thought today to what I’ve been doing nearly all my adult life—being a cop. What if . . . what if, because of me, some crazy kills my son? It would be my fault, Sherlock, no one else’s, just mine, and it would all be because of what I choose to do for a living. I couldn’t live with that, I just couldn’t.”

“No,” she said slowly, her eyes still on his face, “neither of us could.”

He plowed forward, the words forcing themselves out of his mouth. “Maybe, just maybe, I should think about another line of work.” There, he’d said the unimaginable, and the earth hadn’t opened up and swallowed him. It was out in the open now, those words between them, and he didn’t say anything else, just let the unthinkable settle around him, and he waited. Sean suddenly lurched up against his palm, and smiled at his father. He patted his father’s face again with wet fingers.

Sherlock closed in and put her arms around him, just as they had after the shooting, with Sean between them. Then she began to lightly scratch around the healing wound in his back. They stood there silently together for several minutes. Finally, she raised her face, patted his cheek with her fingers, hers thankfully not wet, and said, “Do you know, Dillon, I agree with you entirely.”

He nearly fell back against the window with surprise. “You do?”

“Yes, I do. But the only thing is, you’re the best cop I’ve ever met in my life.”

“Maybe, but Sean—”

She nodded. “This was so scary that both of us nearly went round the bend. But, you know, if you just stop to think about it, the solution to this isn’t difficult.”

His head came up. “What solution?” He sounded irritated, and she was pleased. She could just imagine how deep he would dig in his heels if she argued with him, what with the worry and the guilt, worry and guilt that had nearly felled her as well.

She went on her tiptoes and kissed him, and again hugged her boy and her husband tight.

“Dillon, you’re a smart man.”

“Yeah, well, what’s your point? What’s this easy solution?”

She smiled up at him, kissed both him and Sean again, and said, “As I said, you’re smart. But here’s your problem; you’re just too much of a hero, Dillon; you feel too responsible, like you have to fix every bad thing that happens anywhere around you. It’s not just your job, it’s who you are.”

“Yeah, sure, but—”

“No buts. No more. You’re a cop, Dillon, one of the very best. It’s what you are, who you are. What happened in the park—it was scary, that’s for sure, but the fact is there are such things as random shootings. Would you have blamed yourself for being a cop then? I’ll tell you, there have been times when I’ve wanted to take you away to the Poconos, hide you in a cabin, and carry around six guns to protect you.”