A bushel of tomatoes. Rossi imagines the sturdy basket, the skins that are the perfect sunset color, connected to one another by tough threads of dark withered green. He walks down a hallway, smelling them in his mind, sweet-skinned fruits redolent of the strong sunshine on a southern slope and the sticky ardor of the mustard-colored flowers that birthed them. The hallway is high-end cold white institutional. After tomatoes comes basil. A loose bunch with stems warmed by the hand and leaves torn until the sharp cool scent of stony shade and bruised green leaks everywhere. This memory fills his nose and he opens his mouth to breathe.

Left turn. Right turn. Long rectangles of white light. Rhiannon strides ahead of him with Emily at her side because he wants to see her and not see her at the same time. He thinks about the onions, the god-awful stink of breaching the crinkled skin, as though the flesh beneath were full of stinging pent-up outrage. Tomatoes, basil, onions, garlic. He imagines, filling his mind with each ingredient, using the details to cleanse his observational palate.

He knows this is Carl’s room. Emily knows it too but Rhiannon doesn’t, and so Rossi thinks about the burgundy, the smooth weight of the bottle in his hand, the sighing vinegar release of the cork. Rhiannon slows, hesitation fluttering into the line of her body, and Emily opens the door. Rossi imagines the tomatoes again, finds them easy to fall into, the bland sweet scent that wants to be stronger, that will be stronger with the crushing and the boiling, that will toughen up; the tomatoes in the basket brought home from a farmer’s market, the flesh a scorching summer sunset flayed out of the sky, so delicate and so sly. The tension in Rhiannon’s body burns through his thoughts. She approaches the bed, making a wide spiraling circle, all of her movement concentrated into to something a cat might own.

Rossi watches Rhiannon pick up the chart. Emily watches him watching her, retreating into an invisible corner. He watches Rhiannon bring the chart close to her face, her long-fingered hands flipping through the pages, the scan of her eyes on the paper. He takes in the flutter of her blue-tipped ivory eyelashes, the minute tightening of her forearms. Rhiannon’s collarbones spread as she takes a deep breath, the wings of the hummingbird beneath them rising and falling, animated by the unconscious pull of her lungs. Emily catches the change before he does; the texture of bell pepper is lingering in the corners of his mind as Rhiannon takes hold of his lapels. The sudden nervous force of her body snaps him into the moment. The chart is on the bed and Emily’s pulling her weapon and Rhiannon is in his space, the seconds falling all over one another like snowflakes and clinging to one another until he isn’t sure which is which. Is he on the bed? Is the chart against the wall? Rhiannon’s skin is white as the walls. Her eyes are the color of water. His back meets the doorframe. Her elbows bend to take the shock. The dull pain comes after, knocking his vertebrae together, and then Rhiannon really is in his face; her nose is inches away from his and her fists are all knotted up in his coat. She is snarling. Her breath smells like tomatoes.

“Let him go,” says Emily.

Rossi sees her gun hovering in the corner of his eye.

Rhiannon loosens her grip but doesn’t move. “I’m going to enunciate this, because I want to be sure you get it.” She leans in. “Fuck you.”

Her breath is steamy. A fleck of spittle lands on his upper lip.

Emily’s voice gets sharp. “Step away.”

Rhiannon lets go of him. She does it with a little push. Rossi exhales long and slow and shuddery, coming down off the balls of his feet. Emily lowers the gun.

“And fuck you, too,” Rhiannon says to her.

Emily holsters her weapon. “Rhiannon Heath, you are under arrest for assaulting a federal officer.” She reaches for handcuffs. “You…”

Rossi holds up a hand. “No.”

“No?” Emily’s eyebrows go up.

Rossi keeps his eyes on Rhiannon, who is circling out into the hallway. He’s calm, almost conversational. “No blood, no foul.”

“Fuck this noise, man.” She folds her arms and peers over Rossi’s shoulder, at the bed. “Fuck it right to hell and back.”

“Rhiannon,” says Emily, her voice tender. “Did Carl hurt you?”

Rhiannon’s eyes narrow and her mouth twitches along with her right arm.

“I see that hand.” Rossi touches her wrist, turning his head to stare into her eyes. His tone hardens. “You don’t want to go there.”

“Fuck you.” She wrenches her arm away. “And fuck your Jedi mind crap, too.”

“There’s a conference room on the second floor, if you want to talk.” Rossi draws the words out low and slow. Rhiannon’s eyes keep darting around the perimeter of his face and he keeps looking into them. “We can go up there right now. We can have some coffee. You want some coffee?”

She turns her body so she doesn’t have to look at him. “No.”

“Dave, maybe we should leave her alone for a little while.” Emily puts a hand on Rossi’s shoulder. She turns her attention to Rhiannon. “We’ll be out in the hallway, right around that corner, if you need anything.” She pats Rossi’s shoulder and lowers her voice. “Come on. Let’s go.”