Kim
"Carrie," I called after her, trying to be heard but not to cause a scene. "Carrie, wait. I didn't--"
"Don't," she said firmly, but still level-headedly, walking away from me and towards the door. "I knew coming in here that you wouldn't go for it. It was just fatuous to try."
"Can you just talk to me?" I pleaded.
She turned around then, pausing momentarily to look at me. Her eyes, to match her demeanor, were icy and intimidating. "I believe I just did."
There was little I could do to stop her then; she was gone just as soon as she'd finished her sentence.
"Was that a rejection I just heard?" Clapp wondered as I made my way back towards my desk.
"For all I know, that was a biology lesson. What does fatuous mean?"
"You're asking the wrong guy."
"What wouldn't you go for?" Oliver pried.
"Yeah," Clapp said. "And what did she try?"
"Minds out of the gutter, please, gentlemen? Nothing like that."
"You sure?" Clapp wondered.
"You did pick the interrogation room without a one-way," Bagley noted.
"Yes, I'm sure, and no, don't be stupid. Please, I feel like shit right now, okay?"
"Well what happened?"
"Carrie was being nice and I responded by being a total bitch. That's what happened."
"Don't lie to me," Clapp muttered.
"She didn't try to have sex with me!" I snapped.
"That's not what I meant," he assured me, laughing slightly at my outburst. "I meant, since when is Carrie being nice?"
"You guys are too hard on her," I reprimanded. "You've known her longer than I have, and you know how she is. It's not malice, it's simply reserve."
"So you're defending her, and now you're talking like her," Oliver noted.
I didn't have a good reply, and so I settled on a "Shut up."
"Okay, so what's the rest of the story?" Bagley wondered. "What do you mean she was being nice?"
I didn't really know how to phrase it, so I went for a crude summary. "She was just trying to tell me, you know, how, as a friend, she didn't want me investigating Grace's case because it...isn't safe."
"It isn't," Clapp shrugged. "And I agree. But what does she care?"
"She doesn't want me dead, I guess," I relayed her words.
"I don't know," he said skeptically. "There's nothing else there?"
"What?" I questioned. "What do you mean? What else?"
"I mean, her protesting you going. Don't you think it might be because..."
"Because she misses being in your pants," Oliver finished for him. "She used to be in your pants, and now she's in Jenn Carver's pants, and you're in Grace's pants, and--"
"Oliver, say pants one more time," I warned.
"What they're suggesting is that Carrie doesn't want you to go because she has feelings for you," Bagley stated simply.
"You guys are ridiculous," I asserted. "Carrie doesn't have feelings."
"Everyone has feelings," he posited.
"I don't know," I said in skepticism. "Carver says she watched The Notebook with her, and nothing."
The three of them just stared back at me, blinking absently.
"Yeah, that means nothing to us," Clapp said after a while.
"What I'm trying to say is, Carrie and I had sex. Once. Okay, twice, technically, but once sober. And then we shook hands and went our separate ways, and that's all."
"Except now she doesn't want you dead," Clapp pointed out.
"I hope she's not the only one! What, does not wanting someone dead mean you want to get married to them?"
"When you're Carrie, yes."
"God, I should call her."
"No," they all said, very adamantly, and all at once.
"Just let her cool off," Oliver advised, surprising me by being rational for once. "Trust me, I've had Carrie mad at me, and it's not fun."
Clapp nodded. "For once, he's right," he conceded. "Hell hath no fury like Carrie Everett scorned."
***
Carrie
I let my phone ring about forty eight times that night before finally deciding to give in to it. The truth was, I'd been home from work for about an hour, Kim for at least two, and since then she hadn't stopped calling. I'd ended up taking my office phone off the hook, at which point she redirected her attention to my cell, alternating between calls and text messages of desperation. She'd sent nine of those, somewhat to the effect of:
"Carrie!"
"Care bear!"
"South Carolina!"
"You can't be mad at me forever because we work together."
"Even if you tried, I'd still have your detective virginity."
"Okay that was a joke."
"But you probably took it seriously. Shit."
"Carrie!"
"I'm sorry. Call me."
I'd ignored them all because if there was one thing in this world that I knew how to do, it was hold a grudge. The longest I'd gone with Jennifer was seventy two hours of freezing her out, and given our history together, I extrapolated that I could go even further with Kim if I stuck to my guns. I was a firm believer in the truth that grudge holding was encoded in a woman's DNA. We were all inherently equipped to be a total bitch and make someone pay hard for offending us; whether or not we did so was a matter of how petty we were. Apparently, I was very petty.
But now I'd been home for a full sixty minutes, and I was alone. It was the rare night when I wasn't with Jennifer because she was buried in paperwork left over from a string of homicides, and, well, it was probably better that I wasn't around human life for a while. I didn't put it past myself to take out all my frustration on her, and that just wasn't fair, and so to spare her I'd lied and told her I wasn't feeling well and not to bother stopping by after work.
I was positive, after those sixty minutes, that I'd burned through an irreparable amount of epidermal tissue with the bleach I'd been using in all white corners of my apartment. It was cleaner than usual, which was a profound statement, and my hands literally hurt, and I was tired, and so I sat down and just stared into space. That was when the forty ninth ring came through and I couldn't take it anymore.
"What?" I demanded after jamming my finger onto the button to answer. "After forty nine calls, I will be damned if you don't have something eloquent to say. I could serve you a paper for harassment at this point, and if you've planned anything short of Shakespeare material, I'm hanging up and contacting my lawyer."
"You have a lawyer?"
I sighed. "Goodbye."
"Wait," she urged. "Forty nine calls later, you might as well listen to what I have to say."
"Not if it isn't anything I want to hear."
"I've been chasing you for two hours," she argued. "Don't you think it's important? I don't just spend hours chasing women, you know."
I remained silent for a minute, letting her realize what she'd just said. "Was that supposed to be a joke?"
"Okay, I'll rephrase. I don't just spend hours chasing women to apologize to them."
"Am I supposed to be impressed?"
"Are you?"
"Not slightly."
"Then no, you aren't."
"What a relief."
"Can I apologize now?"
"I'm not promising to listen."
"Carrie," she pleaded. "Forty nine calls."
"How about I give you forty nine words, and if I don't like them, I'm still allowed to be upset."
"Accepted. Okay, here I go. Um, I'm sorry. I was a bitch. I know that what you said...that you only said it because you care, and...Shit, I lost count."
"Twenty five, including 'Shit I lost count.'"
"How do you do that?"
"Thirty."
"Those don't count!"
"Thirty three."
"Fuck!"
"Thirty four."
"Okay, this is so unfair."
"Thirty nine."
"Carrie!"
"Forty."
"You're so vindictive..."
"Kim, I'll remind you you have six words left to impress me and so far I'm colossally underwhelmed."
She sighed, not wanting to say anything else until she'd thought of the right thing. Finally, she settled on, "Let me buy you a drink."
"Impressive," I admitted. "The other forty three words were chosen imprudently, but the last six were well selected."
"...Can I still talk?"
"You can talk until I hang up."
"So you'll let me buy you a drink?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"Getting me drunk isn't going to make me feel better," I said bitterly.
"Really? Usually works for me."
"Really?" I repeated with as much acrimony as I could manage. "Have you ever tried to tell someone that she matters to you and that you want her in your life, only for that person to imply that you don't care if a human being lives or dies? Because somehow I don't think there's enough vodka in Russia to make someone want to forgive and forget after that."
"Look," she sighed. "Carrie..."
"How long have you known me, Kim?"
She paused like she was counting. "Two years," she finally said, playing along.
"In those two years, how many times have I given up on a victim?"
"What am I, on trial?"
"Answer the question."
Yes, I decided, I was definitely acting like it.
"None," she finally answered.
"How many times have I put anything before the job?"
"None."
"How many times have I ever expressed any sort of apathy, disinterest, or torpor towards a case?"
"None. Carrie, we could do this all day. I know how seriously you take your job."
"One more thing."
She said nothing, waiting for me to go on.
"How do I feel about Allison Beckett?"
"Is that a joke?"
"No, it's a question."
"You hate her."
"And how do I feel about Grace?"
"You don't like her either."
"And, when Allison got shot, where was I?"
"You were in the hospital."
"Why?"
"To get my affidavit."
I sighed. "Untrue."
"Why, then?"
"I was there because I know that you care about Beckett, and that you worried about her when she got shot. And I care about you, so I went, for your sake. So why should Grace's case be any different?"
She said nothing, finally seeing where I was going.
"I don't show my feelings a lot," I said unnecessarily, just going on. "And I'm not good at showing affection. But you have to know by now that I'd do a lot for you, because the truth is, I may seem like a bitch ninety nine percent of the time, but I don't take anything lightly, be that a positive trait or a tragic one. Just believe me when I tell you that I plan on putting all my effort into this case, if it turns into one. And if there is a felony, I will prosecute it. Not just because it's my job, but because I care."
She still wasn't saying anything, and I didn't know why, except that maybe I'd laid it on a little too thick. Immediately I regretted having been so open, in my own begrudging way, and wished I could have just taken it back and said "Yes, I want Grace dead." That would have been easier.
"Hello?" I finally demanded, impatiently.
"Yeah, I'm here, sorry," she said. "It's just...I wasn't expecting that."
"Expecting what?"
"To hear that I matter to you that much."
"I didn't say you mattered to me that much," I scoffed.
"No, you can't take it back now," she sang, and I could literally hear the smug smile on her face. "You love me."
"Don't lose perspective here, Hayden," I cut her off from her sudden show of hubris. "I said I care. Let's not exaggerate."
She just laughed. "I'll take it. Carrie, I'm sorry."
"I know," I said, unwavering. "I've heard."
"Are you still mad at me?"
"Would it upset you if I were?"
"Yes."
"Then yes."
"Okay," she said slowly. "Now can I buy you a drink?"
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to," she persisted. "As an apology slash let's-talk-this-over-civilly, slash it's been forever since you and I got together."
"That's because we're both in committed relationships," I reminded her.
"What, so we can't hang out?"
"Not now," I said honestly. "I told Jenn I was sick."
"Are you?"
"Sick of paperwork," I shrugged.
"Let's go out," she pushed one more time. "Carver doesn't have to know."
"She's a detective," I reminded her as if she didn't know. "She'll figure it out, somehow."
"Take a risk," she urged. "Unless you're scared of your girlfriend."
"Is that a challenge?"
"Absolutely."
I thought it over, just considering the fact that she really knew how to get to me. A request was something I could ignore, but Carrie Everett never passed up a challenge.
"Pick me up in an hour."
***
"What are you thinking about so hard?"
"How do you know I'm thinking hard?"
"That's your thinking hard face," I noted. "You make it when you're reading over a witness statement, or trying to piece a case together, or...something."
"Do you always study my face?"
"Only when I have nothing better to do."
"There's never anything better to do," she smiled in self assurance. "And to answer your question, I had my thinking face on because I was trying to gauge how mad you are at me."
"I'll end the mystery. It's a four out of ten."
"I'll take that," she decided, before looking back at the bartender. "I'll do whatever's on tap, she wants Jack."
"No," I interrupted loudly, "I do not. Tempranillo."
"Trying to get another one drunk, Hayden?" the bartender speculated.
"No," she protested, rolling her eyes. "Get her her stupid girly wine."
He shrugged and went to oblige.
"So," I said flatly. "Come here often?"
"He's kidding."
"How many girls do you get drunk each week?"
"One," she said, sounding genuine. "Myself."
"Good one."
"So you can't take hard liquor?"
"You know I can take hard liquor," I said in my own defense. "I just so happen to have work tomorrow."
"Whiskey or fruity Spanish wine, a hangover's a hangover."
"Not if you don't get drunk."
"Yeah," she said, taking our drinks from the bartender. "We'll see about that one."
"Unlike some people, I possess self control."
"So I've been thinking," she began, ignoring my criticism.
"That's exciting."
"Don't be a bitch."
"Continue."
"I've been thinking," she started again. "That you're right."
"God, I love it when you say that."
"Because I so rarely get the chance?"
"As if," I dismissed. "Right about what?"
"God, you're really getting off on this, aren't you?"
"Yes, Kim, you found me out."
"You were right about everything, this morning," she finally answered. "If I go in after Grace and I end up getting killed, what the hell is that going to solve? I'll be dead and we'll be no closer to any answers on the rape homicides because even if they're somehow linked to Grace...well, we wouldn't know how, because the detective we'd sent in to investigate that...would be dead."
"Thank you, for suddenly not being too blind to see the obvious."
"You're not making this easy."
"Do I ever?"
"Nope," she agreed. "So I don't know what we're going to do."
"We're going to send Jennifer," I said, point blank.
"Carver?"
"No, Hudson."
"Your sarcasm has passed the point of annoying, to where it's actually exhausting, you know that?"
"Yes, Carver," I conceded. "Besides you, she's the only one I trust around dangerous criminals."
"We don't know that we're dealing with dangerous criminals."
"But we also don't know that we're not."
"Are you really willing to give up your girlfriend to go find mine?"
"Well I don't want to," I admitted. "And I'd rather not. But I'd rather not have a double rape homicide turn into a cold case, so if I'm looking at a few days of the single life, so be it."
"That's very noble of you," she commented.
"That's what I would have told you this morning, had you not been such a presumptuous ass."
"That doesn't sound like a four," she pointed out.
"I'm back up to a six every time I think about it."
"Then stop thinking about it," she suggested. "I'm sorry."
"Well, while we're apologizing," I muttered sheepishly. "I'm sorry for the past couple of weeks."
"Why?"
"I've been short," I commented. "And argumentative, and terse."
"Oh," she nodded. "So by past couple of weeks you mean past couple of years."
"Can you just shut up and let me say this?"
"You made my apology difficult, so I'm allowed to screw with yours."
"Fine, I just won't apologize then."
"No fair," she whined. "I already did."
"What I'm trying to say is, I've kind of been a bitch lately. Especially to Grace the other day, and, she didn't deserve it. Well, that much of it."
"Yeah, that was pretty...um..."
"I'm on benzos," I interrupted in explanation.
She just looked back at me for a good five seconds.
"Beg pardon?"
"Benzodiazepines," I explained, for the first time to anyone. "My psychiatrist put me on them a couple of weeks ago, and they're making me crazy."
"You have a psychiatrist?"
"You seem surprised."
"Well I knew you were nuts, but I didn't know you knew you were nuts."
"Thanks. I, just...I hadn't been sleeping, like, at all, so I started talking to a therapist because insurance covers it so I figured it couldn't hurt. And my therapist told me that she thinks I'm neurotic," I said as though it were the most ludicrous notion ever verbalized.
"You went to a therapist for that? I could have told you that."
"Anyway," I cut her off, not appreciating her comments. "She says that anxiety and insomnia often exist dually, and that I probably wasn't sleeping because I stressed myself out too much. She said to try to relax, and, well, that's a joke, so when the problem persisted, she referred me to a psychiatrist. I didn't call, at first, because I didn't want drugs, because, well, they're drugs, but she kept badgering me to at least have a consultation, so I did. And he put me on benzos, and now, here I am."
"Are they working?"
"Well, I'm sleeping," I credited. "But I'm still as compulsive as ever, you know, and the most profound effects are the heightened irritability and the very heightened libido. They don't even print these things on the bottle, you know, but it's like I have two moods now, and they're horny and homicidal."
"And this is different how?"
"I really hate you."
"Don't lie to me. Anyway, if you don't like the drugs, get off of them."
"Well, it's not that easy. You can't just kick a prescription cold turkey, and if I get off them, I'm back to being awake for days on end."
"Maybe it's worth it."
"I don't know, maybe it is. I could deal with the side effects if it weren't for what they're doing to my relationships. I feel like I'm lashing out on everyone, all the time. Especially Jennifer."
"Does she know that you're on drugs?"
"Can you not say it like that?" I loudly whispered, looking around at the several bar patrons who had turned around to look at me. Somehow, all dressed for court, I didn't think I looked much like a user. "And no, she doesn't know."
"Well why not?"
"I don't want her to think I'm crazy," I confessed, both to her and to myself.
"Carrie, be serious. We all think you're crazy, but you know how Carver feels about you anyway."
I thought back, to Saturday night, standing out on my balcony and hearing Jennifer tell me, in her own way, that she loved me. And now that she put it like that, I figured Kim was right. Don't they say that loving someone means accepting every part of her?
"I guess you're right," was all I said.
"So, are you going to come clean or get clean?"
I shrugged, not really having an answer. "I don't think I have to decide right now."
"Why not?"
"The way I see it," I considered, "The PD sends her out tomorrow morning."