I violated the golden rule about moving an injured patient. But I had seconds to make a decision, and I used my best judgment. If faced with the same situation again, I’d do exactly the same thing. Still, I can’t help but wonder if that baby would have lived had I not gone into that mobile home.…
I think about Tomasetti, waiting for me at the farm, and for the first time I question why I’m still here. Why I haven’t gone home to him. I’m avoiding him, I realize. Hiding from him. From a possibility I don’t want to face.
I missed my period last month. It should have happened about three weeks ago. I waited, unconcerned, certain my body would not betray me. I made excuses, blaming it on job-related stress, missed meals, too little sleep, even that head cold I had a few weeks ago. As soon as things settled down, I rationalized, it would come and everything would get back to normal. For three weeks now, I haven’t let myself think about it. The shrinks would probably call it denial—not an easy feat for a realist like me. But there are some things that are simply too frightening to confront, and, for me, this is one of them.
I’ve been diligent about birth control. I started taking the pill a few weeks before I moved in with Tomasetti. But as desperately as I want to believe I couldn’t possibly be pregnant, there were two or three times in the last few months when I was lax. Once, I got busy and let my prescription run out for two days. The other time I worked around the clock on a crazy case, didn’t make it home, and ended up skipping three days.
Tomasetti and I haven’t discussed children. We haven’t even discussed marriage. Neither of us is ready for that kind of commitment. We’re certainly not ready for a family. Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. Yes, there are times when I’m aware of my biological clock ticking—I’ll be thirty-four years old this year. Still, the thought of bringing a baby into the world at this point in my life terrifies me.
Sighing, I put my face in my hands and close my eyes. “What the hell have you done?” I mutter between my fingers.
“Chief?”
I startle and look up to see my second-shift officer, “Skid,” standing in my office doorway. I clear my throat. “Hey.”
He grins. “Long day?”
“I guess you could put it that way.” I smile, trying not to be embarrassed. “Help me with the generator?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Coolheaded and experienced, Skid is a solid police officer. But he’s not without flaws—nor is he without career problems. Originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, he was fired from the police department there for an alcohol-related offense. I hired him shortly after becoming chief here in Painters Mill, and so far it’s been smooth sailing. He brings a high level of experience to the job, a laid-back demeanor to the occasional dicey situation, and a wicked sense of humor I probably appreciate more than I should.
We cross the reception area and go through the front door. “I heard about those bones out on Gellerman Road,” he says as we unload the generator. “You guys figure out who they belong to?”
“Not yet.” I tell him about the six missing person cases in Holmes County. “The forensic anthropologist, Doc Coblentz, and another coroner from Lucas County are going to take a look at the remains first thing in the morning. If we’re lucky, they’ll get DNA.”
I hold the door while he rolls the generator inside. “How’s your shift going?”
“There’re still a lot of people without power, but everyone’s behaving themselves. Red Cross is going to be handing out hot meals and water again tomorrow.” He grimaces. “I heard you had some trouble out there today with Paula Kester.”
“Not my best moment.” I let the door close behind us and motion toward the hall. “Let’s roll it down to the basement.”
He nods. “I had a run-in with her husband a couple of years back, and let me tell you, Nick
I think about Tomasetti, waiting for me at the farm, and for the first time I question why I’m still here. Why I haven’t gone home to him. I’m avoiding him, I realize. Hiding from him. From a possibility I don’t want to face.
I missed my period last month. It should have happened about three weeks ago. I waited, unconcerned, certain my body would not betray me. I made excuses, blaming it on job-related stress, missed meals, too little sleep, even that head cold I had a few weeks ago. As soon as things settled down, I rationalized, it would come and everything would get back to normal. For three weeks now, I haven’t let myself think about it. The shrinks would probably call it denial—not an easy feat for a realist like me. But there are some things that are simply too frightening to confront, and, for me, this is one of them.
I’ve been diligent about birth control. I started taking the pill a few weeks before I moved in with Tomasetti. But as desperately as I want to believe I couldn’t possibly be pregnant, there were two or three times in the last few months when I was lax. Once, I got busy and let my prescription run out for two days. The other time I worked around the clock on a crazy case, didn’t make it home, and ended up skipping three days.
Tomasetti and I haven’t discussed children. We haven’t even discussed marriage. Neither of us is ready for that kind of commitment. We’re certainly not ready for a family. Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. Yes, there are times when I’m aware of my biological clock ticking—I’ll be thirty-four years old this year. Still, the thought of bringing a baby into the world at this point in my life terrifies me.
Sighing, I put my face in my hands and close my eyes. “What the hell have you done?” I mutter between my fingers.
“Chief?”
I startle and look up to see my second-shift officer, “Skid,” standing in my office doorway. I clear my throat. “Hey.”
He grins. “Long day?”
“I guess you could put it that way.” I smile, trying not to be embarrassed. “Help me with the generator?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Coolheaded and experienced, Skid is a solid police officer. But he’s not without flaws—nor is he without career problems. Originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, he was fired from the police department there for an alcohol-related offense. I hired him shortly after becoming chief here in Painters Mill, and so far it’s been smooth sailing. He brings a high level of experience to the job, a laid-back demeanor to the occasional dicey situation, and a wicked sense of humor I probably appreciate more than I should.
We cross the reception area and go through the front door. “I heard about those bones out on Gellerman Road,” he says as we unload the generator. “You guys figure out who they belong to?”
“Not yet.” I tell him about the six missing person cases in Holmes County. “The forensic anthropologist, Doc Coblentz, and another coroner from Lucas County are going to take a look at the remains first thing in the morning. If we’re lucky, they’ll get DNA.”
I hold the door while he rolls the generator inside. “How’s your shift going?”
“There’re still a lot of people without power, but everyone’s behaving themselves. Red Cross is going to be handing out hot meals and water again tomorrow.” He grimaces. “I heard you had some trouble out there today with Paula Kester.”
“Not my best moment.” I let the door close behind us and motion toward the hall. “Let’s roll it down to the basement.”
He nods. “I had a run-in with her husband a couple of years back, and let me tell you, Nick
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