‘I’m not suicidal.’ She stared at the pen as she rolled it between her fingers, over and over.
‘No, but you know, and I know, that you can be fully functioning – hell, over-functioning – and still have PTSD.’
She looked up again. Jed had been there, killed people, but she didn’t see her eyes reflected in his. He could come back, to the States, to his wife, to his children, and carry on like normal. Some people could. Why couldn’t she?
‘You have a daughter, right?’
She spread her hands wide. ‘You know it all.’
‘Does she want you to still be doing this s**t?’ Jed said.
Sonja shrugged. ‘She’s got a boyfriend, a life. She’s an archaeologist. She doesn’t get a vote in my life.’
Jed shook his head. The door to the conference room opened.
Glad of the interruption, Sonja turned. A man with
