I drove wordlessly back to Rangeman. Ranger had a private physical therapy appointment scheduled at the building's gym, leaving me with an extended lunch break. That was fine by me. I needed to run home to feed my hamster, Rex, and take some time to process everything that had happened today.

I dropped Ranger at the underground garage elevator, politely declining his offer to have Ella make me lunch.

I drove on autopilot back to my apartment and parked in the lot behind the building. I live in a utilitarian, three-story brick apartment building filled with the newly-wed and the nearly-dead. And, of course, there was Rex and me. The building wasn't fancy and it lacked many of the amenities newer buildings had to offer, but it suited me and the price was right. Don't get me wrong, my bathroom could stand a makeover, but it got the job done.

The parking lot was quiet around lunch time, with most of the seniors out to lunch, visiting their cardiologists, or playing parcheesi at the senior center. The real bedlam would begin around two o'clock, when they returned to fight for the limited number of handicapped parking spots at the front of the lot.

Me? I was fine parking at the back of the lot. Especially today in my brand-spankin' new Jeep. Less of a chance old Mr. Earling would door-ding me with his 1989 Buick Le Sabre.

I walked through the lobby to the elevator and cursed at the 'out of order' sign, opting instead to take the stairs. I let myself into my apartment, dumped my messenger bag on the floor by the door, and shouted hello to Rex.

Rex had been my constant companion ever since my marriage went down the toilet. He was a really great listener, he didn't talk back, he liked a lot of the same foods as me, and he made very small poop. I'd had a number of scares for Rex's life between fire bombs and apartment ransackings, but Rex had managed to emerge unscathed every time. Thank god, because if ever someone had to dig a hole for his three-ounce deceased body, they'd have to make sure I'd fit in, too.

I found Rex running on his wheel. He paused just long enough to squint and wriggle his whiskers, then he went back to running. This was about as complex as our relationship got, and that was perfect for me. I refreshed his water, gave him some hamster crunchies, and tossed in a few Lucky Charms for good measure.

I opened the bag of chocolate gem donuts I'd bought the night before and began unceremoniously shoving them in my mouth. As I ate, I told Rex about the happenings of the day in an effort to mentally process it.

"This all happened too fast," I said to Rex. "Suddenly I'm working for Ranger at Rangeman AND at the bonds office. He's got me sleeping in his bed, driving his cars, wearing black clothes, and working in an office in his building. He's got me in a committed relationship AND on his insurance plan. Doesn't it seem a little controlling to you?"

Rex didn't seem too concerned. He just kept running on the damn wheel.

I reached into the bag for another donut and realized I had eaten the entire bag while story-telling. The giant helping of donuts had done nothing for my already-upset stomach, but stress-eating seemed like the right thing to do. I checked my phone, seeing I had no missed calls or texts.

To kill some time, I called my parents' house.

"Hi mom. Just checking in."

"Well, your father is at the lodge. Your grandmother is at the salon getting her hair fixed for bingo," my mom said. "I'm dusting. Do you think Ranger would prefer Italian cookies or chocolate cake for dessert tonight?"

Good news. My mom wasn't ironing. All must be right with the world.

I selfishly told my mother that Ranger would prefer chocolate cake, knowing deep down that he wouldn't touch any type of a dessert. His body was a temple, and he fed it whole-grain, high-protein, low-fat everything all the time. Cake and cookies couldn't cross into the sacred temple.

It occurred to me that I hadn't told my family about my employment change, but that news seemed better shared in person. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, ending with my promise to be there on time so the pot roast wouldn't be 'ruined.'

I had another hour before I needed to be back at Rangeman, so I spent some time sorting through the remaining FTA files at the dining room table that also functioned as my home office. I pulled out another six that I'd be more than content to pass off to someone else and used a binder clip to fasten them together. I did some research using my background search programs on my laptop and printed off some information for my remaining files. I fixed my ponytail, brushed my teeth, put on an extra coat of mascara, slathered on some lip gloss, and was back out the door.

I rolled out of the lot and headed for Rangeman. While I drove, my mind wandered back to Joe. I knew I was trying to pretend his demeanor hadn't bothered me, but deep down, something was wrong. My gut told me he was depressed, but we grew up in the Burg. People in the Burg were mental illness deniers. Maybe you were a bit sad, sure, but it could easily be fixed with booze, a heaping portion of lasagna, a ricotta cake, a pint of Ben and Jerry's, or a pack of smokes. And who was I kidding? Morelli had every right to feel depressed. He'd been shot three times. He'd lost his job, his girlfriend, and, temporarily, his dog. In a lot of ways, he'd lost his identity. If he couldn't be a cop, I didn't know what Morelli would be. I couldn't see him scooping macaroni salad at Gioviccini's or handing out dry-cleaning at Randy's Cleaners. He didn't have a degree to teach or work in finance.

Having a conversation with Joe about his feelings seemed necessary but uncomfortable. As I drove down State Street, I noticed Janis's Pet Foods and Aquatics and whipped the Jeep into the lot. Dropping food off for Bob seemed like a good excuse for a quick welfare check without much time or energy commitment on my part. I ran inside, grabbed a giant bag of Bob food, picked out a few rawhide dog treats, grabbed a bag of Rex's food, paid, and was back in the Jeep in three minutes flat. I cruised the half-mile to Joe's house and parked on the street, hefting the dog food onto my shoulder and to the front door.

I knocked, but there was no response. I rang the bell. Same thing. I opened the screen and tried the door. Locked. I set the dog food down, pulled out my cell phone, and called Morelli. No answer. I texted him, "Where are you? You home?" but received no response.

I sighed, stooped, and lifted the mat. Hide-a-key in place. Perfect. I inserted it in the door and let myself in, dragging the enormous bag behind me.

Without warning, I was knocked to the floor onto my back, the wind knocked out of my lungs. I raised my arms to protect myself, and was greeted with a hundred wet Bob kisses.

"Jeez," I said to Bob, trying to get my heart rate back under control. "I guess you missed me. You caught me off guard."

I gave Bob lots of love and kisses, telling him he was a good boy. I got to my feet and attempted to brush off the overwhelming quantity of golden hairs off my black clothes without success.

"Joe?" I called, peeking into the living room, dining room, and kitchen. No Joe. I ran upstairs, calling his name and checking the rooms. Nobody, just a disaster of epic proportions. Dirty laundry was everywhere. I ran back downstairs and checked the garage. His SUV was present and accounted for. I figured Joe still was allowed to drive, so it didn't mean much that it was home.

I let Bob outside to tinkle. We went back in the house, and I gave Bob a rawhide chew joy. He did his happy dog dance and scurried into the living room and onto the couch. I put the dog food in the Bob-proof bin Joe kept in the kitchen and freshened Bob's empty water bowl. I loaded the dishes in the sink into the dishwasher and headed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, I was parked in the Rangeman garage. I took the elevator to the second floor, lugging my messenger bag and files to my new office. I let myself in with my key fob and flopped into my leather executive desk chair. Using the login credentials given to me by Lester, I logged into my desktop computer and set-up my e-mail account. Once completed, I began studying Dickie Orr's file.

I heard "Babe" from the doorway ten minutes later.

"Hey. How was your appointment?" I asked, sweeping the paperwork back into the file and neatly placing it in my new inbox.

Ranger responded with a single nod, which I interpreted as, "Fine, thanks."

"What's the plan?" I asked, getting to my feet and stretching.

"You've got personal training in fifteen minutes."

My eyes bugged out of my head.

"What? Now? Why?" I mumbled, my body longing to lay down and play dead. If I played opossum, he couldn't make me do it—right?

"Monday-Wednesday-Friday at 1:30," Ranger said. "It's your job."

"Crap," I whined. "What are you going to do while I suffer?"

"Watch."

Fifteen minutes later, I was on the mats in the Rangeman gym surrounded by a variety of weights and workout equipment. I'd swapped out my work clothes for a black t-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes, and I'd tugged my hair into a sloppy bun to keep it out of my face. If I was being honest, I didn't have a clue what most the workout equipment was. I didn't do the exercise thing. Sure, occasionally I decided my pants didn't fit and I jogged a mile, but that was about the extent of it.

"Stephanie, you know Rodriguez," Ranger said, gesturing to the small Latino pock-marked guy walking towards us. "He'll be your trainer." Ranger nodded to him in greeting, and Rodriguez did the same.

I'd only had one brief encounter with Rodriguez last year when Ranger and I were trying to find a guy named Vlatko, a one-eyed Russian operative seeking revenge from Ranger's Black Ops days. All I knew about him was that he was a "heart specialist," having identified the heart left for me on Morelli's counter as human. Other than that, I had no idea what the guy did.

"You ready?" he asked, his face expressionless.

"Sure?" I asked, knowing I didn't have a choice.

Ranger took his seat near the door on a weight bench, and Rodriguez began showing me how to stretch out. It actually felt good to stretch, finding that I enjoyed it.

We started our training on the weight bench.

"You ever lifted before?"

"No."

It looked like he was thinking about rolling his eyes.

"You'll lay with your back flat against the bench. Be sure your feet are planted on the ground, like this," he said, demonstrating.

"You'll raise your arms above your head and grab on to the bar. If it hurts your hands, let me know. I can get you a pair of lifting gloves since your hands aren't used to it. Keep the weight in the middle of the palm of your hand, cupping it like this. I'll spot you and help you get the weight off the rack. You'll bring it down to your chest…. Like this," he said, dropping the bar to his chest, "then lift it back up like this. We'll try for ten reps today, increasing weight and reps over time. You ready?"

He made lifting seem REALLY easy. Too easy. I gnawed on my bottom lip.

"Isn't there supposed to be some weight thingies on there? It's just a bar."

Rodriguez elicited a dry laugh.

"The bar weighs 45 pounds. You want me to add some plates?"

I swallowed hard.

"I'm good, no… thanks."

I laid down like he had demonstrated and grabbed onto the bar.

"Ready?" Rodriguez asked, looking down at me.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I said, pushing up on the bar.

Rodriguez grabbed onto the bar above me and assisted on the lift.

This isn't so bad, I thought as I extended my arms.

Rodriguez let go, and I could feel my arms start to wobble. I gritted my teeth, slowly dropping the weight bar down to my chest. I braced my feet and pressed back up on the bar.

Nothing. I couldn't lift it off my chest. It just sat there.

"You good, Plum?" Rodriguez asked, furrowing his brow.

"Yep," I said, giving the bar another push.

It wobbled, but didn't move.

"Damn it!" I exhaled, letting the bar rest on my chest. "I can't do this."

Rodriguez took the bar in his hands and raised it up onto the rack, making it look like a toy.

"No problem," he said in his thick Latino accent, jotting down something on a clipboard. "Today will help me get your baseline so I can develop a more appropriate training regimen.

Next, we did some basic aerobic exercise. I was decent with the jump rope and the jumping jacks were reasonable enough. I did some crunches and some squats.

"Drop to the mat and give me fifteen pushups," Rodriguez asked next.

I used a few choice words under my breath and did as I was told. I got through two before he stopped me.

"Plum, you gotta keep your back straight."

"Isn't it?"

"No, your ass is in the air and your knees are bent. Your body should be straight like a board."

"Ugh!" I said, collapsing to the floor. I put my forehead on the floor and breathed hard.

"Today, Plum."

I got back on my palms and toes, dropping for another pushup.

Rodriguez dropped down to his knees next to me, placing his hand on my butt.

"Flat," he said, trying to fix my form.

Sweat was beginning to drip down my shaking arms and onto the floor from my forehead. I tried to straighten and lengthen my body, and sunk into another push-up.

"Your arms should be out to your sides and with your hands on both sides of your head. Not like that," he said, readjusting my arms.

The next eleven pushups continued in much the same way until I'd finally (painfully, I might add) completed the required fifteen.

I sucked air and guzzled water, drying my face and arms off with a towel.

Rodriguez herded me to a treadmill.

"You run?"

I couldn't muster an answer. I just kept sucking air and stared at him.

"I'll take that as a no," he said, adjusting the settings on the touch screen and gesturing me on. "We'll take it slow to start, then we'll do a ladder run."

I hadn't a clue what he was talking about, so I just nodded and climbed on.

He started me at a brisk walking pace, which I managed without any trouble. Then he took me up to a five-minute jog, which was horrible… but I could handle.

"We're going to talk in terms or RPEs here, or your rate of perceived exertion," Rodriguez said over the hum of the treadmill. "The RPE is on a scale of one to ten, with one being the least exertion and ten being the most. The brisk walk you did before was probably RPE three, because you could carry on a conversation but were slightly winded. Now that you're jogging, you're probably at RPE five. You can utter some words, but you can't speak in sentences because your body is working harder. A full-out run should be somewhere from RPE eight to ten. For the ladder drill, we're going to run at RPE 8-9 for a set amount of time—one minute, two minutes, three minutes, four minutes, then back down—three, two, one. You got that?"

I didn't understand much of what he was saying, so I just nodded and continued to gasp for air.

"Alright, Stephanie. RPE eight. Ready? Let's go."

He adjusted the settings on the treadmill, and suddenly I was running a full-tilt sprint, my arms pumping at my sides.

"Keep pace, Plum," Rodriguez said.

I pounded my feet on the belt, giving it an earnest effort but struggling like hell. What seemed like fifteen hours later, but was apparently only sixty seconds later, Rodriguez put the settings back down to a brisk walk.

I gasped for air, holding my arms above my head. I had a painful stitch in my side that I clutched at with a hand, and I felt queasy.

"Blow out harder, it helps with that," Rodriguez said.

I did as he said, blowing hard and trying to catch my breath.

"You ready for ladder two?" he asked, adjusting the settings again.

"No!" I gasped, shaking my head fervently.

"You can do it, Plum. Don't think about it, just run."

With that, he turned the speed back up, and my feet were flying on the belt again. It felt like my lungs were being ripped out of my chest. My throat was raw, my stomach was churning, and my eyes were painfully burning from all the sweat that had dripped into my eyes.

I ran as hard as I could for as long as I could, my arms pumping to keep time with my feet, until I couldn't do it anymore. I leapt off the side of the treadmill, trying to land on my feet but falling onto my knees and hands instead. My stomach heaved, and I threw up chocolate-covered gem donuts onto the gym floor.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and gasped for air, my vision swimming. I heaved again, and emptied the remaining contents of my stomach onto the floor.

Rodriguez walked over and set my water bottle and a fresh towel beside me. I rocked back onto my knees and wiped my face and mouth, taking a drink of water to rinse out my mouth.

"That's enough for today, Plum. Mop is in the supply closet. I'll see you back here Wednesday. Same time."

With that, he was gone, leaving me alone with my vomit and Ranger, who remained silent and still.

I put my forehead back down on the cool floor and worked to steady my breathing. Once my legs and arms stopped shaking, I pulled myself to my feet and shuffled over to the closet, tears welling in my eyes but refusing to let them fall. I cleaned up my mess and threw my dirty towels into the hamper.

"You good?" Ranger asked me as I walked toward him at the exit.

I nodded yes.

"Hit the shower. There's no women's locker room in this building, so you'll have to use mine until I can remedy that."

Once I was alone in the shower, I began to sob as the hot water cascaded over my body. I slid down the shower wall and sat on the floor holding my face in my hands. Friday, I had felt totally in-control of my relationship with Ranger. I thought he was supporting my career and my autonomy. Now, he had inserted himself in every facet of my work—and my identity. Now it seemed that everything in my life had spun totally out of control. Not to mention, I was embarrassed by my gym performance. Barfing up donuts was the cherry on top of this train wreck. I'd accomplished nothing today, and my pile of open FTA files continued to grow.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Babe, you okay?" sounded through the door.

"Fine," I sniffled, wiping my nose on my arm.

I stood and quickly soaped up my body and hair. I rinsed off, towel dried my hair, and wrapped myself up in the towel. I checked myself out in the mirror, finding my eyes were red from crying. I splashed some cold water on my face and brushed my teeth. I swiped on some mascara and chapstick.

"You can do this," I quietly coached myself in the mirror. "A few more hours at work, then dinner with the family."

I hustled out of the bathroom and into the walk-in closet, where I debated my clothing options since I figured I may not have time to change clothes before dinner at my parents' house. I dressed in all black—black undergarments, black pencil skirt, black flats, and black blouse.

"Pretty."

"Thanks," I said, smoothing the skirt with my hands.

"But you've been crying."

I stared at Ranger, unable to muster a response.

He crossed the room and wrapped me in his strong arms. The smell of his shower gel was absolutely intoxicating. I debated letting myself fall victim to his forcefield, but my brain won and I pulled away.

Ranger sighed. "Babe." He let the silence sit between us.

"What is your plan for the rest of the day?" he asked.

"I'm going to go down to the office and look at the files Ximena gave me."

"I'll collect you at 5:30," Ranger said, inching closer to me.

I nodded and headed for the door, avoiding his touch.

"Babe, you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lied. "It's just been an overwhelming day."

"In what way?" Ranger responded.

"All of it. I started a new job. I've started a new fitness program. I'm carrying around a gun and wearing new clothes. I'm driving new cars. The bonds office has changed hands. It's just… too much," I sighed.

Ranger was quiet, lost in his thoughts.

"Are you unhappy?" he finally asked.

"I don't know. I haven't had time to figure it out yet."

"With me?"

I thought about it.

"I'll get back to you on that."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I need you to communicate with me," I urged. "You blindsided me this morning with the bonds office stunt. I don't like your surprises."

With that, I stormed out of the apartment.