Down in Holding, Arnie paced his cell. They'd arrested him, booked him. Goddamn useless lawyer.

Goddamn bitches screwed it all up. Assault, battery, sexual molestation. Railroading him, that's what they were doing, all because that cunt couldn't handle a few bruises she'd damn well earned.

It wouldn't stick. No possible way they could make it stick. He whipped around when the door slid open, and bit back the words that wanted to spew out only because his father shook his head when he came in.

So Arnie held them in until the guard stepped away.

"They can't make this bullshit stick," Arnie began. "She's not going to get away with locking me up like this, with embarrassing me in front of my fellow officers. That bitch-"

"Sit down. Shut up."

Arnie sat, but he couldn't shut up. "You see how they put a girl

ADA on it? Circle the fucking wagons. What's Chuck thinking, for God's sake?" Arnie demanded, speaking of the DA. "Why didn't he just kick this in the first place?"

"He's getting the arraignment pushed up, and he's going to recommend ROR."

"Well, Jesus, that's just great." In disgust Arnie threw his hands up. "I get charged for this bullshit, but released on my own recogni zance, and that makes it okay? Fuck that, Pa. I could lose my badge. You need to reach out to IAB, get an investigation on MacNamara. You know McVee's dipping his wick in that. You know that's why I'm in here."

Mouth tight, Sergeant Meeks stared down at his son. "You're in here because you couldn't keep your mouth shut, just like now. I'm going to ask you one time. Just you and me. I'm going to ask this one time, and I want the truth. You lie, I'll see it. I see it, and I walk out of here, and that's the last I'll do for you."

Anger faded away into shock, and the first trickle of fear. "Christ, Pa."

"Did you do this thing? You look at me, Arnie. Did you do this?"

"Don't you lucking lie."

"She suspended me. She used me as a goat. You taught me to stand up for myself, not to take shit off anyone. If you got to kick an ass, you kick it."

Meeks stared. "Did I teach you to use your fists on a woman, boy? Did I teach you that?"

"She wouldn't get off my back. She-" He broke off, eyes watering, burning, when his father's hand slapped across his face.

"Did I teach you to jump a superior officer from behind, like a coward? I taught you to be a man, goddamn it, not to hide in some stairwell and beat on a woman. You're a disgrace to me, to the family name, to the job."

"They come at you, you come back harder. That's what you taught me. That's what I did."

"You don't see the difference, there's nothing I can say." Wearily, Meeks got to his feet. "I'll use what I've got to fix this for you, the best

I can. You're my son, so I'll do it for you, for your mother, for my grandson. But you're done on the job, Arnie. If I could fix that, I wouldn't.

You're done."

"Then how are you going to hold your head up, if you don't have your son following you on the job?"

"I don't know. I'll get you out of this, the best I can. After that, I don't know."

"I only did what I thought you'd do."

"If I believed that, I'd feel sicker than I do now." Meeks walked over to the cell door, set his jaw. "On the gate!" he called, then left his son.

By Sunday, Phoebe decided to ditch the sling. She was tired of it, tired of the meds, tired of the bruises.

And she had to admit she was tired of having to fight back the need to whine and complain so that she could ease her family back into routine.

Still, she felt better when she stepped out of the shower, especially if she avoided any glimpse of herself in the mirror. She managed to get her robe on without too much of a struggle, and decided she'd probably not only last through Sunday dinner, but maybe even make it until the crazy hour of ten o'clock that night before her energy just drained out like water from a sieve.

She walked into her bedroom just as her sister-in-law walked through the door. "Knock, knock," Josie said with a big smile. "How's the patient today?"

"I've crossed myself off the disabled list, thanks."

"I'll be the judge of that. Let her drop."

"Come on, Josie."

Josie's smile only widened. She was barely five-two, weighed in at maybe one-ten fully dressed, and behind that angelic smile was a hardass that would make Nurse Ratched tremble.

"Drop the robe, sweets, or I'll tell your mother."

"That's mean."

"I am mean."

"Don't I know. I'm going to run away to Atlanta, get myself an apartment and leave no forwarding address." But Phoebe dropped the robe.

Sympathy shone in Josie's big brown eyes, but her voice was brisk. "Bruising's fading. The hip looks a lot better. That shoulder has to be painful yet."

"It's coming along."

"How's the range of motion?"

"I'm still grateful I've got some front-hook bras, but it's improving." Josie took Phoebe's hands, turned them over. If truth be told, those injuries hurt her heart more than the rest. "Wrist lacerations look pretty good."

"Bitching sore if you want the truth. Can I regain my modesty now?" Josie picked up the robe, helped Phoebe into it. "Any trouble with your vision in that eye?"

"No, it's clear. And before you ask, the headaches are fewer and less intense. I can poke at my jaw without feeling like I've drilled a spike through it and into my brain. All in all, not too bad."

"You're healing well. Helps that you're young and in excellent physical shape."

"I knew those damn Pilates were good for something. You didn't have to come by to check on me, Jo."

"You get the bonus round because I came early so Ava can teach me to bake lemon meringue pie. Which you know she's making because it's Dave's favorite. Why doesn't she just jump that man and get the ball rolling?"

"I wish I knew." Phoebe moved to her dresser for underwear. "In all these years it's the first time they've both been free at the same time. His divorce has been final for almost two years now. But they're both still playing just friends."

"We could set them up on a blind date. You know, you tell him you've got somebody, and I tell her, and we don't tell either the somebodies are each other. And then-"

"We both get our butts burned for meddling."

Josie pouted. "That's what Carter said when I tried the idea out on him. Well, I'm giving them six months more, then I'm risking my butt. Want me to help you get dressed?"

"I can handle it."

"Just between us now?" Josie watched Phoebe's range of motion as Phoebe eased into a shirt, and judged it improved. "How are you doing otherwise?"

"Okay. I know the symptoms of posttraumatic stress. I've had some unpleasant dreams. It's natural."

"It's also natural for stress to bottle up when you feel obligated to keep it inside and not upset the family."

"If I need to spew, I have my ways. Don't worry. I'm back on the job full-time next week. That helps me."

"Okay. Call if you need me."

To prove to herself as well as her family that things were approaching normal, Phoebe dressed with some care. The bold blue color of the shirt cheered her up enough to nudge her into taking some time with makeup. Then more time as she realized if she just kept blending, the bruises went from a shout to a murmur.

By the time she got downstairs, the kitchen was full of women cooking. It didn't hurt her feelings at all to be banished out to the courtyard and the sunshine with Carter and Carly.

"Mama!" Carly flew across the bricks. "I kicked Uncle Carter's butt at jacks."

"That's my girl."

"It's a sissy game."

"He says that when he loses," Carly announced. "Do you want to play the champ?"

"I don't think I'm up to sitting on the ground yet, baby. Give me another week, and we'll see whose butt gets kicked. You better practice."