Chapter 60: Tim's Intervention
[Mid-Wilshire Station Parking Lot — August 18, 2019, 6:43 PM]
Tim was leaning against my car when I emerged from the station.
Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. The posture of someone who'd decided something and wasn't interested in negotiating.
"We need to talk." His voice carried no room for argument. "Not asking."
"Tim, I'm fine—"
"Get in the car."
He pointed at his truck. I considered refusing, calculated the odds of him letting me leave, and got in the car.
He drove us to a coffee shop three blocks away. Parked. Killed the engine. Sat in silence for a long moment.
"I know what you're doing," he finally said.
"What's that?"
"Pretending you're fine while drowning." His eyes met mine. "I wrote that playbook, Mercer. It ends badly."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit." No heat in the word. Just certainty. "The drinking. The obsessive exercise. The deflection with humor. The perfect professional performance while everything inside is falling apart." He shook his head. "I've watched you for five days. You're not hiding it as well as you think."
I wanted to deny it. Wanted to give him the same reassurances I'd given everyone else.
But Tim wasn't everyone else.
"Isabel," he said quietly.
The name hung in the air between us. His ex-wife. The undercover officer who'd gotten lost in her cover and never fully came back.
"When she was spiraling, I thought I could handle it alone. Thought I could fix it, or at least contain it. Control the damage through pure force of will." His jaw tightened. "I couldn't. And by the time I admitted that, it was too late."
"Tim—"
"I'm not comparing your situation to hers. But I recognize the patterns. The isolation. The self-medication. The walls going up while you pretend everything's normal." He turned to face me directly. "You're not alone, Mercer. Don't make my mistakes."
The words cracked something I'd been holding together through sheer stubbornness.
"The job is getting to me," I admitted. The first honest thing I'd said in days. "The things I see—I can't unsee them. Ever."
"No one can."
"It's different for me."
"How?"
Because I remember everything with perfect clarity. Because every trauma is preserved in flawless detail. Because my powers don't just help me—they hurt me in ways I can never explain.
But I couldn't say that.
"I just... I remember too much. Details other people forget. Faces, evidence, the way victims look when they're scared." I stared at my hands. "That girl we found. I can close my eyes and see every bruise, every mark, every piece of what happened to her. It won't fade. It won't blur. It's just... there. Forever."
Tim was quiet for a long moment.
"Department therapist," he said finally. "Not optional. I'm recommending it."
"Tim—"
"Not asking, Mercer. You can fight me on this, but you won't win. You need help that I can't provide." His voice softened. "There's no shame in it. I've been there. Half the station's been there. The difference between the cops who burn out and the cops who survive is knowing when to ask for help."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist I could handle it alone.
But I remembered the girl's eyes. The whiskey. The 2 AM certainty that nothing I did mattered.
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"I'll go. The therapist. I'll make an appointment."
Tim nodded. For the first time in the conversation, something like relief crossed his face.
"Good."
We sat in silence for another five minutes. His hand landed on my shoulder, squeezed once, then withdrew.
More meaningful than any words.
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