If I squinted and held my head at a certain angle, I could tell myself that everything was getting back to normal. Almost two months after the trip to Montana and I was managing. It looked like I was managing, anyway. From the outside not much had changed. I got up in the mornings, went to work, went grocery shopping, paid bills, visited the farmer's market on Sundays with friends, made sure Lulu had adequate time at the dog park to burn off her crazy energy etc. To an observer it was same old, same old. What I was really managing, however, was simply to make it look like I wasn't holding onto a cliff's edge by my fingertips.

Dr. Haines referred me to a psychologist a week after first prescribing the Xanax, when I ended up back in his office after another series of increasingly severe panic attacks. I was taking medication at least three, sometimes up to five or six days a week, and increasingly terrified that someone was going to notice how tenuous my grip on my own sanity seemed to be getting.

The most frustrating part of it, to me, was that nothing about my daily life was different. I still followed all the same routines (with the additional one of making sure Lulu was properly taken care of), I still saw the same people, talked about the same things with them. Work got even better when Pender and I thoroughly nailed our first investigation after my return from Montana. And yet I still felt like I was walking through quicksand most of the time, like the color had been drained out of my world.

Therapy just seemed to add to the frustration by making me talk incessantly about my feelings without actually doing anything to improve them.

One day, after staying late at the office to finish up some reading for my latest case and arranging for Jessica to take Lulu for a sleepover at her house, I found myself in front of my computer, looking at a list of all the current active investigations. At first, it didn't even dawn on me what I was doing. Looking for the case I was working on, right? Freeley was the last name on that one. I scrolled down through the A's, B's, C's and right past the F's. Past the L's and right into the M's until there it was, staring me in the face.

'McMurtry, Jack III'

Don't click on it. It's not your case anymore. It doesn't matter, and your name will be logged.

I clicked. There was no rule against looking at other cases. Of course, that assumed you had a reason to look at them. A reason beyond snooping, or checking up on a man you felt something for – in spite of all your protests to the contrary.

There was a lot more information than the last time I'd looked at the file. I skimmed it until I got to the 'Current Status Summary' at the bottom of the page and a pit formed in my stomach as I read it through.

'Property (including dwelling) has been listed for sale. Re-zoning rejected by town and land cannot be broken up or used for non-agricultural or multi-residential purposes by current or future owner. Property is expected to sell for significantly less than funds owed.'

I read that last sentence again, and then again. 'Property is expected to sell for significantly less than funds owed.' Such bloodless words – words I'd seen multiple times before, pertaining to other cases. But that time, I knew the property – and the house, and the person – they pertained to. Sweetgrass Ranch. Jack McMurtry. Jack McMurtry who risked his own life to save me, a stranger, from a flash flood. Jack McMurtry who didn't know anything else except life in Little Falls, Montana.

Those words meant that there would be no clean break for Jack. There would be debt – probably a lot of debt – and it would follow him wherever he went – as would our investigators and, if it came to that, lawyers and debt collectors.

I clicked off the active investigations page and entered the address for Sweetgrass Ranch into Google. It had already been listed, for 1.1 million dollars. The short write-up mentioned that the house needed 'extensive work' and, buried in the fine print at the very end, that there was a tax lien against the property. So any interested buyer was obviously going to ask the amount of that lien as a first step, find out it was almost double the sale price, and immediately lose interest. No one was going to buy Sweetgrass Ranch. Jack had probably been given a set amount of time to try and sell it, after which, if it didn't sell, the IRS would seize it outright.

There was no way around it – Jack's life was ruined. A 28 year old man with no actual responsibility for the situation was about to be saddled with the kind of debt you don't escape for decades, if ever. I felt sick. I clicked back to the open investigations page and found the name of the lead investigator. David McMillan. I entered it into my phone so I wouldn't forget and, aware that I was poking my nose where I really shouldn't, turned the computer off and made my way home.

Without Lulu's irrepressible presence that night, I found it even easier to brood. I spent most of the evening on my phone. David McMillan. Who was he? I e-mailed Pender to ask if he knew him. And then I e-mailed David McMillan directly, telling myself it was all perfectly fine and above board, just simple interest in an investigation I had once been assigned to.

I had trouble falling asleep afterwards, too. Maybe it was Lulu's absence. Maybe it was something more. I thought about Jack. About where he would go and what he would do. About the kind of life he might have, with that kind of debt hanging over him. It wasn't my fault, was it? If it hadn't been me in Montana it would have been someone else from the IRS. Hell, if I'd decided to get that English degree I toyed with during my first year of college – and never joined the IRS in the first place – Jack McMurtry would still owe two million dollars in taxes.

Was it that easy, though? I wanted it to be. I wanted it to be cut and dried, legal versus illegal. But the thing is, life isn't like that – and I was only just starting to see it. Legal doesn't always mean fair. It doesn't always mean morally right. Sometimes, it even means destroying a young man's life for a situation he had no fault in.

I tossed and turned, trying to come up with some way to justify it all to myself. When I couldn't, I rolled over and grabbed my phone, logging into the investigations section of the IRS website and finding Jack's case again. That time, I clicked on the 'Documentation' link. Just what had David McMillan found? Not much. We had our own records, of the money owed and not paid. We had Jack's grandfather's bank records and a copy of the death certificate. We had Jack's own banking records. But we didn't have anything on the rest of the family. Had David even contacted the other siblings? Had they been informed of the situation? Had their own financials been looked at? Not that they could be compelled to pay anything, as they weren't the owners of Sweetgrass Ranch, but sometimes in these cases involving a single person other family members can be convinced to contribute. Had David McMillan even tried that route before going straight to a threatened seizure?

I only realized how angry I was when I jabbed my finger at my phone so hard I dropped it. When I picked it back up I looked at the time and sighed. Just past three in the morning. Oh my God, what was I doing? I forced myself to turn it off at that point, because I could feel that if I didn't, it was going to be dawn soon and I wouldn't have had a wink of sleep.

The next day, there was an e-mail from David McMillan in my inbox. I was in the middle of reading it when there was a knock at my office door. I told whoever it was to come in.

It was Pender. "Hey," he said, sipping a cup of the disgusting coffee from the vending machine. "What's up?"

"Uh, not much," I responded, looking up. Pender and I don't stop by each other's offices to chit-chat – not during work hours, anyway, so I knew he must have something to say. "How about you?"

"Oh," Pender shrugged. "Not too much here, either. Melissa's got me working on that Netwide case – you know, those two tech bros who tried to hide all their assets offshore and then picked the wrong Caribbean island to do it? What a couple of chucklefucks."

I smiled politely, eager to get back to David McMillan's e-mail. What did Pender want? I waited for him to say something else.

"So I got your e-mail last night," he said, finally. "About David McMillan. Did you send that from home?"

"No," I lied. "I worked late last night. So – do you know him?"

Pender shook his head. "No, not really. I mean, I know his face, I've said hi to him, but I don't know the guy. Why are you asking?"

"Oh," I said, waving my hand as if it was all extremely inconsequential. "Just wondering about that McMurtry case – you know, the one in Montana?"

Pender gave me a strange look. "Yeah, Blaze, the one in Montana. I definitely remember that one – the whole office does after what happened to you."

"Well, OK," I said. "Yeah, that one. Anyway I was just, uh – David McMillan took over that case and I was just curious about how it's going."

Pender was still looking at me strangely. I didn't like it. "Why are you so worried about the McMurtry case?" He asked, finishing his coffee and throwing the crumpled cup in the trashcan by the door, where it would then go on to stink up my whole office.

"I'm not worried," I lied. "Just, uh, interested."

"Is that all it is?"

"What else would it be?" I asked, a little snappishly. "I'm just curious about a freakin' case, Pender, I don't know why you're looking at me like that."

He made a face. "I dunno, Blaze. I remember you sounded kinda funny when you called me from Montana that first night, after your first meeting with Jack McMurtry. Are you sure nothing happened?"

I immediately straightened up in my chair, causing Pender to hold his hands up in a 'slow down' gesture. "I don't mean anything like that! I just – Blaze, I just wondered if, uh, if everything's OK there. You're not the type to go back and rehash a case you're not even on anymore. I'm just concerned about you, is all. I –"

"Well thank you for your concern, Pender. I appreciate it. I am fine, though. No need to worry. It was just curiosity – wondering how it gets handled when so much of the paperwork just can't be found, you know?"

I don't think Pender believed me. Smart man. But he could see I definitely wasn't going to tell him what the real problem was – if there was one – so he left soon after that. I turned right back to my computer screen. David McMillan's e-mail was polite and brief. No, they hadn't checked out any of the other family members because Jack McMurtry himself had assured them they wouldn't be interested in helping to pay the debt. And although more information would have been useful, it wasn't necessary – Jack McMurtry owed the money, he was the owner of Sweetgrass Ranch, and it would have been a waste of our own resources to pursue any other avenues without a good reason.

I leaned back in my chair, not satisfied. So Jack McMurtry's siblings didn't want to help. Or Jack McMurtry himself was just too proud to ask. He seemed like to type to put pride before practicality, based on what little I could glean from our brief time together. What about others, though? Jack's parents, aunts and uncles? From the very basic research I did at the beginning of the case it appeared to be a very large family. And what about the grandmother, the one he was so close to? Did she leave anything for her favorite grandson?

It took only a couple of minutes to compose another e-mail to David and send it off. No harm in asking, right? Then I got down to work on the actual case I was handling at the time, stopping every fifteen minutes or so to check my e-mails for a response from David. It was almost the end of the work day before one showed up, and if I wasn't mistaken, the tone was slightly curt. He repeated that he hadn't tried to contact any of those other people because Jack had reassured him that the living McMurtrys weren't interested in helping, and the dead ones couldn't. He ended the message with the following sentence:

"I thought you requested to be transferred off this case?"

That was irritating. He was basically telling me to mind my own business, and my own cases. But I wasn't convinced it was my problem if David McMillan was being less than thorough in his investigation. And even as I told myself that was the sole reason for my annoyance, I somehow still managed not to go to Melissa with my concerns about my colleague. No, it was too early for that. She would just do what Pender had done and assume it was some weird personal thing. Which it definitely wasn't.

That night, on the laptop I only use at home, I Googled Jack McMurtry. Not my Jack, but the grandfather. There didn't appear to be much information about him online, but there was a Wikipedia entry for Little Falls, which included a short paragraph on Sweetgrass Ranch and the McMurtrys as the town founders. That led me to a piece in the Little Falls Gazette, published shortly after the grandfather's death. He was predeceased by a wife, Dorothy McMurtry. Dorothy McMurtry, Jack's grandmother. Hmm. I Googled her but there was nothing beyond that story in the gazette and a record of her death in the online records for the county Sweetgrass Ranch was located in.

It wasn't enough information. Damnit, why did I let myself get talked into transferring the case? Now I didn't have access to any of the resources that would allow me to check out members of Jack's extended family, to verify that they really couldn't do anything to help save the ranch – and help their brother or nephew avoid falling into massive debt before he'd even hit 30.

I traipsed into the kitchen, followed closely by Lulu, and grabbed an apple for myself and a dried liver treat for her.

"You know who would know all this?" I asked my pup as she collapsed happily to the floor to chew on her treat. "Jack would know."

That was correct. Jack would know. A man like that, loathe to take help from anyone else – what were the odds that he'd been honest with David McMillan about no one in his family being able to help? What were the odds David McMillan, who already seemed a little unpleasant just based on our very brief e-mail interactions so far, had managed to avoid being pushy and confrontational? I should call Jack. That was the solution.

No. That was not the solution. That was crazy.

Was it crazy? He saved my life. I was no longer investigating him – well, not in any official capacity, anyway. There were no rules preventing me from talking to the man. I could call him. It was all perfectly kosher.

Except it wasn't, and I knew it. Official rules or no, calling Jack McMurtry would have been crossing a line. So I didn't call him. I took Lulu out for her bedtime pee break, had a shower and went to bed.

In all, I managed three full days without calling him. It was that fourth day, after David McMillan e-mailed me and told me he didn't appreciate my nitpicking a case I was no longer involved with, and that if I kept it up he would have to involve my boss, that I gave in.

I waited until I got home after work, after Lulu had been walked and was sleeping peacefully by my side on the couch. Jack McMurtry's number was still in my contacts list. It's work. It's just work. You're just trying to help a man who helped you. That's all.

"Hello?"

I squeezed my eyes closed at the sound of Jack's voice. Why was my stomach suddenly awash with butterflies? Get a grip, Blaze.

"Is this Jack McMurtry?"

A pause. "I think you know damn well who it is, Blaze Wilson."

I smiled. I couldn't help it. There was a note of playfully stern teasing in his voice that made me feel like I was fifteen, talking to the boy I was crushing on. Looking back on that phone call it makes me want to laugh out loud that I ever thought I was calling Jack for professional reasons. Our powers of self-delusion are epic.

"Er, yeah," I stammered. "I was just – I was being polite."

"Oh that's what you were doing. OK. What's going on, Blaze? Why are you calling me at almost 8 p.m.?"

"It's about, uh, Jack, it's about the case. Your case, I mean. I've been looking into it and –"

"Looking into it? I thought you'd been off it for weeks now?"

"Well, yes. Technically, I have been. Off the case, I mean. It's just that – please don't pass this on to David McMillan – but I have my doubts about how he's handling it. I'm not sure he's being as thorough as he could be."

"Really?" Jack laughed bitterly. "Because I get the distinct impression that Mr. McMillan is about as thorough as they come. I'm pretty sure the IRS is going to squeeze every last drop of blood out of this stone, Blaze."

"Has he – or have you – contacted your living relatives? That can often be a surprisingly fruitful path to –"

"Yes," Jack replied, before I could finish my sentence. "Yes, I've contacted them. No one wants to help – not the ones I could locate, anyway. I can't even say I blame them – it's just my bad luck I got stuck with this place."

"Not the ones you could locate?" I asked, as a strange feeling of something like desperation crept over me. "What about the other ones? Could they help?"

"Well," Jack said, speaking slowly like he thought I might not understand, "I couldn't locate them. That's what I'm saying. So how would I know whether they could help or not?"

"Oh," I laughed nervously. "Of course. I was just, uh – I was just. Um. Well, never mind. So I was also wondering about any of your family members that have passed. Did anyone leave anything – to you or to your parents or grandparents? That you know of?"

Jack sighed impatiently. "Do you really think the IRS wouldn't have found it by now if I was somehow hiding money someone had left me? I don't have it, Blaze. I don't know what else to say to –"

"No, I don't mean that you're hiding it. I mean maybe you don't even know about it? Maybe someone left you something – or, as I said, left your dad or your grandfather something? Or your grandmother? Your mother? It could have been anyone, really."

"Why are you calling me?" Jack asked suddenly, as I prepared to continue listing relatives who may or may not have left him enough money to cover a debt of two million dollars and failed to tell him about it.

"I told you why," I answered, my skin beginning to tingle in anticipation the way it used to do when I was a kid and I knew my mom or dad was about to bust me for stealing cookies or saying I'd finished my homework when I'd just been chatting online with my friends. "Because I'm not sure David McMillan is doing everything he can to get to the bottom of your financial situation. And –"

"That's not why you're calling. Don't treat me like an imbecile, Blaze. This isn't a professional call. I don't know what this is about, but it isn't about my case with the IRS. Is it guilt?"

"Guilt?!" I exclaimed, my voice rising in pitch even in the space of that one word. I consciously lowered it again, breathing slowly so my words didn't come rushing out. "Guilt about what? What are you talking about, Jack?"

"Jack?" I repeated, when he didn't respond. "I asked you if –"

"I heard you. I haven't responded yet because I'm wondering if you think I'm buying any part of this."

"Any part of what?"

"Oh, Blaze, come on. Guilt about what? The worst part of this is I feel like if anyone's getting fooled here it's you. You're fooling yourself - but let me assure you, you're not fooling me. Guilt about the fact that I saved your life and you didn't do anything to help me out of my situation."

A sensation of sudden, awful heat rose in my chest and moved up to my cheeks. He was right. Of course he was right. And I couldn't accept it.

"No," I whispered. "No, Jack, it's not that –"

"Yes it is. It couldn't be more obvious. That's why you're calling me in the evening, trying to strong-arm me into making you feel better. What a joke! You know I'm not even going to be able to keep a little piece of Sweetgrass Ranch for myself, don't you? I presume you do know that, since you seem to have been snooping on the case."

"I wasn't snoop –"

"I'm moving in with a friend from high school next week, did you know that? Into his unfinished basement, until I can get myself a shitty minimum wage job at one of Little Falls' many thriving businesses."

"Jack, I –" I started, my whole body burning with the shame I still couldn't allow myself to face. "I didn't mean for any of this to –"

"Yeah but it doesn't matter what you meant, does it Blaze? It matters what you did. And what you did is choose a career path that mostly involves ruining people lives. And now you're calling me – one of those people whose lives are getting ruined – and asking me to help you feel better about it?!"

I physically flinched at that comment, at the bitterness and anger in Jack's voice. It was like being slapped in the face.

"No," I started to protest again, but my words were weak and quiet. "That's not –"

"YES IT FUCKING IS!"

He was so angry. I don't say that to condemn him but to condemn myself. How could I not have guessed he would be angry? Especially since he was pretty much entirely right about why I was calling. I did feel guilty. Worse than that, I'd managed to develop and nurture a stupid little crush or high school type obsession over a man I barely knew. No wonder he was angry. I truly was the biggest jerk who had ever lived.

"OK," I said, unable to keep the wobble out of my voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't – Jack, this isn't how I intended this to go. I – can you please keep this to yourself? This call, I mean? I'm sorry, I'm so –"

I dissolved into silent, raging tears before I could get out another incoherent semi-sentence. How could I have been so damned stupid as to call him? You just risked your career over this, Blaze. Over someone who hates you. Nicely done.

An excruciating few moments passed as I gulped and sniffled, struggling to contain my emotions while Jack listened. It was too late, there was going to be no fixing the situation. I just had to end it as soon as possible, and spare myself any further humiliation.

"I'm sorry for calling," I gasped, still trying – and failing – to keep the obvious fact that I was crying out of my voice. "I've been having a difficult – a difficult time. It's not your fault. I know that. I want you to know that I know that. I won't call you again."

"Wait, Blaze –"

I hung up, put my hands over my face and finally broke into the loud, ugly sobs that had been trying to burst out of me for the past five minutes. Lulu immediately woke up and pushed her snout under my hands, licking the tears off my cheeks in a frantic effort to comfort me.

"What would I do without you?" I cried, my voice as halting and uneven as an upset child's. Whatever was happening to me – and something was happening – it wasn't minor. I wasn't going to be able to get over it through sheer force of will. In trying to, I'd just managed to make it worse. Less than two minutes after hanging up with Jack I was already cringing with embarrassment. Now I wasn't just the heartless IRS agent who had thrown him to the wolves after he saved my life. No. Now I was the crazy heartless IRS agent who had thrown him to the wolves after he saved my life.

The utter humiliation was going to have to be lived with. I couldn't take back the call. All I could do now was hope that Jack McMurtry didn't phone the office or tell David McMillan – who was already pissed off at me for interfering in his case – about what I'd just done.