Sometimes he wishes he weren't so damn good. While she was probably an excellent detective, she was a crap actress and it didn't take an Einstein to figure out that he was absolutely correct.
"It was somebody you cared about," he continues, and her face, already wary, completely closes up. "It was someone you loved. And you're probably going to live for the rest of your life knowing the person responsible was never caught."
He's seen crazy woman-tears many times before (but I thought you loved me!) but now it seems like she's going to cry and he's somewhat terrified. "And that, Detective Beckett, is why you are here," he finishes up, quickly, reaching for some random bit of paper to try and make the moment go away.
There's silence, the kind that a lesser writer might deem 'awkward' or 'unbearable.' He knows better; this silence is actually heaven blessed, a chance for her to recover and for him to think of a diversion.
"Cute trick," she finally manages, her voice containing only the barest hint of cracks, "but don't think you know me."
He wishes he didn't have a writer's eye for detail. He hasn't heard her call him 'Rick' since then.