Her tone and the way she looked up at him were overwhelmingly familiar to Mike. He felt just like he did when he was fourteen and his mother had heard that he and Bucky Rogers had drunk the flask of whiskey that everyone knew Father Richard kept in the back pew to lure the drunks in for Sunday Mass. Only this was worse: Ms. Somerville wasn’t his mother and he wasn’t a kid any more. And this time he had done nothing wrong. Nothing.
“Right,” Mike said, sitting down in the chair. “I took the call for a man on a balcony threatening to commit suicide and—”
“Had you been drinking before that?” Shannon asked, glancing from her computer screen to one of the forms in front of her.
“No.”
“Okay. Good. Continue.” She looked up, acknowledging Mike briefly before looking back down at the form and pu
