White Night

Chapter 44

As her partner entered the ambulance and closed the door, she found herself checking for her gun with the inside of her arm.

"What...the...hell was that, Connors?" he shouted. "You pull a gun on me? What the hell did you think I was going to do?"

Suddenly it was hard to breathe again, but oxygen was useless. Guilt and fear had closed her airways and only her partner's understanding could open them again.

"I, I thought." She'd never stammered under pressure before—-not in the alley with Redgrave or during the IAB investigation that followed—but this was different.

"What? I was going to kill you?" he snapped, his bloodshot eyes wild with anger.

She looked away. It was ridiculous now that he'd said it out loud. Her colleagues, the captain, they were all right: her judgment was gone, she had a screw loose. Trying so hard to get back to what she was before the accident, she'd lost focus. But then he'd given her plenty of reasons to doubt him.

"You thought I was going to kill you?"

"Yes," she said calmly.

Ross' mouth fell open. "That's bullshit."

"Yes. It is," she said firmly.

His brow twisted as he searched for words, but she responded first.

"You disappear all the time, making phone calls at all hours, lost your shit after that night with Marco, and never fire your weapon even when we're under heavy fire. What was I supposed to think? Michael's terrified of you. You're holding back leads. Taking Risperidone...What the hell's going on?"

His head dropped low. His hands went to his hips and he shook his head slowly, the anger leaving his body as his shoulders sagged.

"It's still bullshit," he said quietly.

"Tell me about it," she snapped.

He turned away from her.

"What kind of bullshit?" she said softly.

"PTSD."

She barely heard it.

"What?"

"PTSD," he repeated, turning to her again, his eyes watering.

"You serious?"

Ross nodded and stared at the floor.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked gently.

"Because cops don't get PTSD, especially when you're already a freak in the department."

He was right. Cops had "seen things," but no one admitted PTSD until they were already on their way out. It was career-limiting at best and career-ending at worst. For a cop like Ross, who was already a pariah in the department, it was worse than being dirty.

"But you charged around the corner after Nikolai like you knew what was on the other side."

"PTSD isn't always fear; it makes you reckless too."

"The calls?"

"To a shrink, he has me on pills for it."

"Risperidone?"

"Yeah, they've just started using it for PTSD. Wait, how did you know about that?"

"It fell out of your jacket that night you put it over me."

"Serves me right for being a gentleman." He smiled sarcastically and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"They haven't pulled you for fitness?"

"It's a private shrink," he said despondently. "The night Marco was attacked, the first time around gunfire again."

She nodded slowly.

"And don't bother testing the vomit outside the building at the construction site. It's mine."

She stared at him and smiled sympathetically, but he couldn't look back at her.

Only two other cops she'd known had killed in the line of duty. One never returned and the other was still limping through the job worse than she was.

The brain was cruel—even if it was your life or theirs, replays and "what ifs" plagued your dreams and waking nightmares.

"I just about made it through seeing Weston's body, but the blood on the ground as well..." He shook his head and looked back at the floor.

"Are you sure you still want to do this job?" she asked gently.

He nodded firmly. "It's all I want to do."

They shared a long silence. She'd pulled a gun on her partner, and he'd covered up his PTSD. Both of them would be written up and suspended for this, or worse.

"You fired at Nikolai," she said reassuringly.

"Intentionally wide." He sighed. "About to kill us and I still couldn't take him out." He shook his head, closing his eyes tightly. "What happens now?"

He sat at the end of the gurney. With his hands on his knees and his shoulders hunched over, he looked smaller, defeated. A business-card-sized burn of angry red and black glistened on the back of his neck.

The question was loaded with decisions. She had to report Ross' PTSD—it could get her killed...but it hadn't. Ross was scared, but every cop was at some point if they were honest, which you never were. He wasn't incompetent and he'd had her back with Jay and Mateo, even if she hadn't needed it. But PTSD was a dangerous problem for a cop. Could she say for sure that the trauma of the Argon case and thoughts of her own nephew living in Colorado hadn't led to her standing in front of Redgrave's car emptying her weapon when she should've sought shelter?

Ross had to be prepared to use deadly force to stop a threat to their lives. Firing wide could get them both killed. Perps didn't fire warning shots. You had to shoot to end the threat if it was needed. Fear could make a cop over- or underreact to a situation, and both were fatal.

Ross' shoulders rose and sank rhythmically at the end of the gurney. He was expecting the worst, and she had to give him her answer.

"Ross, you can do this job. Just keep working through it, and let me take the lead when you can't."

He spun round and stared at her suspiciously with red-rimmed eyes.

"And don't tell the captain I almost shot you." She gave him a wry smile.

His eyes narrowed as he returned an uncertain smile.

It wasn't her smartest decision and she might not live to regret it, but her leg was aching, the egg on the back of her head had upgraded from quail to chicken-sized, and she doubted she herself was fit for duty anymore.

"Back to work?" she said.

Ross nodded and offered his hand as she stepped off the gurney.

With a dirty cop to track down, a murderer to convict, and the deadly White Night to stop, there was no shortage of work left to do.