"I know you're in there, Pat! Open the door!"

 

For a second, I considered ignoring him. What the hell was he going to do, anyway? Kick down the door? I'd press charges for destruction of property and we both knew he wouldn't risk going to jail. But in the end, I pushed to my feet and stalked to the door, opening it to reveal an all-too-familiar face: SSA Andrew Garcia, one of my coworkers from the unit. Once upon a time, he'd been like a brother to me but ever since…that night, when I'd receded from the world, he and everyone else had become blobs in the haze of my periphery.

 

"You've been drinking, Pat," Andrew said.

 

My face settled into a grimace. It was an astute observation but a true one at that. But who wouldn't be, in my place? I'd come home a year ago to find my family slaughtered. "What the hell do you want?" What do you want? What do you want? "And stop calling me Pat."

 

He tried to step past me, into my apartment, but I blocked his path. This was my sanctuary, no one was allowed inside. I didn't give a f*** who they were. "Erica sent me," he said, straightening up from the refusal of entry. He met my eyes and his gaze softened. I looked away, to the spot of dirt on his shoe. "We've got a case. We've had a case. And we're running on fumes, we've got nothing."

 

"And what the f*** do you want me to do about it?"

 

"We really think you could break it," he pressed. "I know you're been watching the damn news, Pat…rick. Four men. Dead. We've got four f***ing dead bodies and nothing to show for it. We need you back. We need your help."

 

I took a deep breath. This would happen sooner or later. "I'll think about it," I finally said, and then I slammed the door in his face.