He's hardly sat down in the chair—Doc is not a fan of couches, but has taken the couch and is holding a bag of peas to his eye—before his psychologist asks: "How long was it between the house fire and the helicopter crash?"
Doc knows this, so he doesn't know why he's asking, but he answers anyway: "Three-ish weeks."
"And when did you find out that Linda's death wasn't an accident?"
"About eighteen months later."
"So within eighteen months, you lost your house, you lost your wife, and then you found out that her death wasn't an accident. Do you remember the first few months of sessions after you found out she was murdered?"
He shrugs.
"You talked about anything and everything except Linda—and every time I mentioned Linda or Delgado, you stormed out."
"Guilty as charged," he whispers. "Why didn't you force me to talk about it?"
"Because I was worried that forcing you to talk about it before you were ready, would lead to you eating your gun."
He scoffs quietly. "And now, since I'm on modified for perpetuity, is a good time?"
"No. Now is a good time because now you're ready to talk about it."
"How do you know that?"
Doc smiles. "This is the first time you have sat with the concept that Linda was murdered and not gotten angry, stormed off, or tried to put a hole in my wall. That…"
"I tried to put a hole in you," he whispers. "Sorry about that."
"Apology accepted, Danny. I made the mistake of touching you when I didn't know where your head was at. Amateur mistake when dealing with a veteran with PTSD. You didn't mean it."
He stares at his feet, plays with his wedding band.
"I want you to think back and tell me how you felt when Delgado told you, over the video feed, that the crash wasn't an accident. And tell me what was underneath all the anger."
Doc is always on him—has been since those anger management sessions years ago—to look below the surface. Calls it the f-g "anger iceberg." He hates this exercise.
"Can I get my cheat-sheet?" he asks. He has the diagram printed, stuck in a drawer. It's a drawing of an iceberg, with like thirty emotions under the surface. Doc insists he isn't the one who came up with the idea, but sometimes Danny isn't sure.
"Go ahead."
He goes through three kitchen drawers before remembering it's in the drawer of the coffee-table. He pulls it out, sighs.
"Grief, shame, overwhelmed, frustrated, depressed, guilty, helpless," he reads them off quietly, counting them in his head, glad it's not like twenty different stupid f-g emotions. Just seven. Only seven stupid feelings Doc is going to ask him about.
"Why guilt and shame, Danny?"
He shrugs, feeling his face get hot. He hates this part of therapy.
"Because I should have kept her safe. I should have known the cartel wasn't done after they torched the house. I should have…kept Linda and the boys under house arrest. Like Dad tried to do with me—he wouldn't let me work the case, said I needed to be home with Linda and the boys."
"And you were, you stayed with them."
"It didn't do any good, Doc!" he whispers. "Less than…less than a month later, she was gone."
"Was staying at your dad's with Linda and the boys—was that about keeping them safe, or about being there for them, being together as a family in a time of crisis?"
He shrugs. "I should have been on the streets trying to find those bastards. Maybe…maybe if I'd…if we'd found them, Linda wouldn't…"
"Don't go down that road, Danny. The cartel didn't plan all this in a day; you couldn't have taken them down single-handedly in less than a month."
He shakes his head.
"Tell me about feeling helpless, Danny."
He looks up from contemplating his shoes, glares at Doc. "Nothing to say."
"Yes, there is."
"Dammit, Doc!"
"If you feel helpless—like you know you couldn't have done anything to change the outcome—then what does that mean about that guilt and shame?"
He wants to throw something at Doc. "I'm tired, Doc. Can we finish this tomorrow?"
"In a minute. Work through this with me, then we'll call it a day. Is that an accurate assessment—that you couldn't have done anything to keep your house from getting torched or Linda from getting murdered?"
He shrugs, nods.
"And if you couldn't have done anything, what does that mean about that guilt you're feeling?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "Look, I know what you want me to say, Doc. It's not gonna change anything."
"Then it won't hurt to say it. What do I want you to say, Danny?"
"That it wasn't my fault," he sighs, yawning and wishing he could sleep for a year.
"That's right. Linda's murder wasn't your fault."
"I still should have kept her safe," he says, and stands up, walks toward the stairs. Doc knows where the lockbox is—he'll lock the door.
He collapses on top of the covers and hopes he can sleep without nightmares.