Most men would be grateful, even if they would not admit it, to have some time off to spend at home. Tully was not one of them.
Al was ill and there was nothing he could do about it. That was frustrating. Everyone would expect him to stay home with her. He expected it of himself. But he was confused. He was uncomfortable with a situation wherein he was surrounded by a problem, a problem that he could not solve.
For that was the whole kick of homicide. Tully thrived on real-life whodunits. The puzzle, the challenge of solving it, that was the entire enchilada.
Now the only challenge was how to deal with and what to do for Al. And he had no clue as to an answer.
Otherwise, he was on the shelf. And he didn't like it one little bit. But there was nothing he could do about it. And that, as he pulled his shapeless rain hat on, was that. But he didn't like it.