Jenn
Carrie came home late.
She'd told me she was going to come by after she got off, but not to wait up. She had said that, hadn't she? Maybe it had been yesterday, and the days were just blurring together as they had a tendency to do when you're a detective who's followed all her leads.
Of course Carrie had known that I would wait up for her no matter how tired I was, but she had meant it, too, when she said not to. She wasn't the type of woman who says you don't have to do something but gets mad when you really don't. She meant what she said and she said what she meant. It was me who strayed from that paradigm.
It hit eight, then nine. Before I knew it, it was ten. I got some work done, and then it was twelve. I closed my eyes and when I opened them it was two. I was still alone. I figured she'd just headed home, because it was either that, or she was cheating behind my back and doing an exorbitantly bad job at it. And she didn't do a bad job at anything. If she were cheating, I'd never know it, right? I didn't know if that made me feel better or worse.
But the way my mind tended to run, I'd reduced it to only three options. Home, or cheating, or dead.
At two thirty, I heard a key in the lock. She opened the door quietly, expecting me, I was sure, to be sleeping. Why wouldn't I be, after all? Only a crazy person waits until two thirty in the morning for a woman to come home, a woman who probably wasn't even coming. And yet here she was, and so was I.
She'd changed. Her hair was down. She'd done it in big, sweeping curls. She was wearing a dress, not a suit, and taller heels than she'd left in. Her lipstick was different. So was her eyeliner.
If she's cheating, I reminded myself internally, she's doing a very bad job at it.
And yet, she wasn't home, and she certainly wasn't dead.
"You're awake," she said.
"Where were you?"
She laughed slightly, shaking her head. "Nice to see you."
"Do you know what time it is?"
She just rolled her eyes and shook her head, walking straight past me.
"Carrie?"
She turned around. "Mom?"
I sighed. "You're really just going to walk in here at two thirty in the morning with no explanation."
"Jesus Christ, I'm seventeen again."
"Do you blame me for being worried? If you say you'll come and you don't--"
"I did--"
"Hours late!"
"I told you not to wait up."
"Because you were planning on walking in at two thirty in your best come-and-get-it outfit?"
"Oh my God," she exhaled in disbelief. "You think I'm cheating."
"That wasn't my interpretation."
"Just admit it!" she said sharply. "You don't trust me to be without you. You think I'm cheating."
"I don't know what to think, Carrie, because you still haven't given me an answer as to where you've been for the past eight hours."
"I went out for a drink after work," she said tersely, of course deciding to give the quintessential defense for an affair, as though that would put my mind at ease. "Okay?"
"With who?"
"An attorney," she said angrily, unable to believe that I was interrogating her this way, but I couldn't help it. When she gave a vague story that didn't even use names, how could I not?
"How much did you drink?"
"What the hell does that matter?"
"Well I'd like to know that you still have inhibitions," I argued, before muttering, "If your infallible conscience wasn't enough."
Hearing my words out loud, I couldn't help noticing that I sounded just like her.
She shut her eyes momentarily, silently praying for the strength not to connect a fist or several with my jaw. "Okay, Officer Carver," she said acridly, increasingly upset and not getting any nicer. "Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. A, B, C, D, E, F, G." She punctuated her point by performing a Romberg test, taking several steps in a straight line, and finishing with her arms crossed and her stare cold and hard. "Am I missing anything? Or was that a sufficient field sobriety test for you?"
"I wasn't questioning your sobriety. I was questioning your whereabouts."
"It sounded like you were questioning me, the woman with whom you're supposed to be in a committed relationship, the woman you're supposed to trust. Or was that not your interpretation?"
"You can't put this back on me. You're all shady behavior and vague excuses, and you're really trying to put it back on me."
"I'm all shady behavior?" she repeated. "I'm living my life, as an unmarried woman in her thirties, with a job, and freedom, and things to do. I don't answer to you or to anyone, and I told you that I was going to be late. I came here, exhausted, by the way, to put your mind at ease, even though it was late and I'd prefer to be sleeping right now, rather than standing here arguing with you when I have to be up in three hours. I came, I told you where I'd been, and you're the one who's not satisfied with that. I did nothing illicit, and I don't need the third degree. Not now, not today. I'm not one of your suspects, Jennifer," she reminded me. "So stop treating me like one."
"We were fine, this morning," I observed quietly, to myself and not to her.
"What?" she asked, though I didn't know if she'd asked because she was appalled or because she genuinely hadn't heard.
"This morning," I decided to note more out loud. "You and I were fine this morning, and then hours later we're back to this. I don't know how. But I'm at a loss. It is so, so hard."
"What's so hard?" She quipped, not willing to let her grievances go. "Being in a relationship with someone you don't trust, or trying to helicopter over someone who clearly doesn't want to be controlled?"
"Being in love with someone who doesn't give a damn," I answered, the words just flooding out before I could stop them from reaching the surface and making me look ridiculous. "I love you, Carrie, I love you so much, and I'm sick of having to hide it so that I don't make you uncomfortable. I'm sick of the discretion, and keeping everything on the down low, and not showing my feelings so you don't feel compelled to show yours. I get that you don't want to give me what I want to give you, and I respect that. But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep loving you so much when you can't even care enough to call when you're going to be late."
"I told you--"
"I know," I cut her off, one-upping her volume and physically putting out a hand to stop her. "I know you said you'd be late, but this is just like everything else in our relationship. You're honest about saying that you're going to disappoint me, and I'm dishonest about saying that it won't bother me. You were right all along. You don't have what I'm looking for. I'm looking for stability and just a little bit of concern. That's not your fault. It's mine. So I'm done being mad, I'm done trying to fix it, and I'm done trying to change you. I'm just done. Okay?"
"So that's it, then."
"What's it?"
"This is your way of ending it. Am I wrong?"
"I never said that."
"You said you're done. Done with me, or done with what?"
"I don't know. I don't know what I want right now."
"Well when you figure it out," she said icily, going for the door. "Call my office."
***
Carrie
I took out my rage on the gas pedal on my way home.
With no one on the roads at three in the morning, it's easy to speed. There's no one to slow you down, no one to worry about hitting if you swerve off the road in your post-maybe-breakup fury. No one's life to endanger except your own, and for some reason, I liked that prospect. My decisions were mine alone. If I hurt myself, well, that was just it; I would be hurting me and no one else. No one to rely on, no one relying on me. It was the way I'd always wanted it, and I was getting it on the road at three in the morning.
I parked in front of my building and stormed to the elevator, leaning against the wall once inside and covering my face with my hands. I didn't know what I needed in that moment - a shower, a drink, an angry text message, or maybe just a nap - but I was going crazy in my own mind, trying to decide.
I kept my eyes shut, trying to breathe through it. The door opened sooner than it should have; I was acutely used to the distinct duration of a ride to my floor, and this wasn't it. But who would be getting on the elevator at three in the morning?
I took my hands off my face in case, and inhaled sharply when I realized that I in fact wasn't alone. At my reaction, she just laughed.
"Tough night?"
I sighed, leaning my head back against the wall and catching my breath slightly after the original startle. "You have no idea."
She smiled again. "Can you hit twelve?"
At first I didn't know what she was talking about, until I'd fully comprehended that I was, in fact, in an elevator that hadn't been moving for a good twenty seconds.
"Yeah," I said, realizing just now how long it had been since I'd slept and how stupid and slow I sounded. "That's me."
"Small world," she said.
I made a face. "Small apartment complex."
She laughed again, though I'd meant it completely. "Can't be that small," she noted. "At my old place I was the only one on the elevators at three in the morning. I just moved in this week."
"So this is something you do habitually, then? Come crawling home at three A.M.?"
"You can't judge me," she argued. "You're just crawling home at this hour, too."
"No judgment," I guaranteed. "Rest assured, my life is in no position for me to judge anyone else. And I'm sure you have a perfectly reasonable excuse for crawling home at this hour. I mean, I'm an attorney, I'm supposed to sleep at reasonable hours and not get into a messy breakup at two A.M., and speed home in a fit of rage and get on the elevator and start rambling to a stranger because I haven't slept in days. That's not what attorneys are supposed to do. But you, you probably have an excuse. I mean what are you, a waitress?"
She laughed, modestly, looking at the ground as the elevator hit our floor. "Something like that."
We got off the elevator and began to part ways.
"I guess I'll see you around then," she said, unnecessarily, as though we'd shared an extensive conversation. "Caroline, right?"
"I'm sorry, do I..."
"No," she assured me. "Small apartment complex, remember?"
"Right," I said, slowly. "And you are..."
"Lindsay," she interrupted. "McVale."
"Right," I said again. "Of course."
She laughed, rolled her eyes. "Don't act like you've heard of me."
"Okay, I won't. See you around."
"Count on it," she said.
I opened my door then, only able to think that I really needed to go to bed.
***
Kim
"Because I'm telling you--"
"Nothing's going on. You're just friends. You don't feel that way about her. It's over between you. But then why, Kim? Why can't you break it off with her?"
"Because I need her."
"Well, that's reassuring."
"Not like that."
"You've said it all."
"I mean, I need her to make my cases, Grace. There's no one better out there, and that's just a fact."
"You're making it worse."
"By telling you the truth?"
"How am I supposed to know what the truth is anymore?"
There's nothing worse, I was sure, than that kind of fight. Where it's the middle of the night and it's quiet, and you have nothing but time and pent-up anger. And you're standing in a room, alone with this person, and you're taking turns screaming and nothing gets any better.
I wished I could have just raised the question then and there, the question that I was sure would remedy the whole situation. But somehow it didn't seem like the time. I was physically exhausted from anger, and she had tears in her eyes. The stage, I imagined, wasn't exactly set for the dream proposal she'd always envisioned. I kept my mouth shut.
"Kim."
"I don't know."
"What don't you know?"
"I don't know how you're supposed to know what the truth is anymore."
"Well," she said tersely. "That's great."
"The reason I don't know," I elaborated, "Is because you used to just trust me. You trusted me to tell you the truth because you loved me and you knew I loved you too. I don't know what changed. But it wasn't me."
"Go ahead, blame me," she invited. "Make it seem like it's my fault that I can't trust you."
"Can't, or don't? I've done nothing wrong here, Grace. It's not my fault that you're afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Yes, afraid. Afraid of what I might do, afraid of losing me, so damn afraid of everything that's happened in the past month that you won't even bring yourself to talk about it when there are lives at stake."
"So that's what this all comes back to. You can't be sympathetic for long enough to accept the fact that I'm not ready to talk about it."
"I've been sympathetic, Grace. Damn it, all I've been is sympathetic. I've been patient, so patient, waiting for you to open up on your own terms. I've been passive, and understanding, even though all day every day when we're together I'm hoping that you'll finally come to your senses and agree to testify."
"You don't think I know that?" she snapped back. "You don't think I hear it in your voice, or I see it on your face, every time, every single time you talk about this case? You're right, in that I don't want to talk about it, and you're right in that I'm afraid. But this come-to-your-senses talk, acting like you're better than me? Like you know best all the time, and I'm crazy all the time, that's where you go wrong. I don't want to testify because I believe Victor Saenz is innocent. I believe that strongly, and on my own terms, and that's not me being post-traumatic or institutionalized or any of the other psychiatric bullshit that all three of you keep throwing out. I'm not traumatized, and I'm not crazy just because I have a different opinion than you. And I don't sleep well at night, Kim, knowing that there's an innocent man sitting in a prison cell and I had something to do with it."
The tears had gone from lining her eyes to full blown streams, and I hated watching her cry. I hated that at least in part it was me causing it. I just wanted to make it all better, but I couldn't figure out how.
"Okay," I finally said, throwing the entire fight out the window and wrapping my arms around her, which felt weird and foreign given the situation and the day that we'd had. "Okay. If that's what you really believe, Grace, then I'll prove it. I'll get him acquitted, or the charges dropped. I'll make it right."
"How long?" she asked into my shoulder, allowing me, I noted, to hold her.
"How long what, baby?"
"How long until you can get him out?"
I sighed. The way she phrased it just wasn't right. At this point, there was little I alone could do to stop it, and I knew that. So I told the truth. "He's being arraigned on Tuesday."
"For what?" she asked, stepping back to look at me. "I thought you didn't have enough to charge him yet. Not without me."
"We got him with another charge," I said sheepishly. "Just as an excuse to hold him."
"What charge?" she asked indignantly, dumbfounded that I'd yet to tell her this, or maybe that we'd been so underhanded, or maybe a combination of the two.
"Battery."
"Battery of who?"
I sighed, again. Now we were talking in circles. I just couldn't win. "Carrie."
"That's not a crime, that's a public service."
"Grace..."
"What did he do?"
"He punched her."
Surprising me, she laughed. "Hard?"
"Grace."
"In the face?"
Surprising myself, I began to laugh too. In retrospect, it was a whole lot funnier. "Yeah. Hard, in the face. She bled, and it was....it was hilarious. But that's not the point."
It was wrong, but I was happy just to see her smile for once.
"It is for me," she said pettily.
***
Carrie
If it was possible, I woke up in a worse mood than I'd gone to bed in. I woke up, pounded the alarm, made a noise of frustration that would have certainly frightened my roommate if I had one, or pet if I liked them, and took off for the shower feeling like it was taking forever to get hot. I blew my hair dry and it hurt my arm. Everything is harder, I decided, when you're tired and upset.
And the upset was a strange brand of upset that was only half rage, and the other half was guilt. I was angry that she didn't trust me, but I felt guilty for keeping things from her as well. You can only trust someone so much, I knew, when she doesn't tell you the whole truth.
Of course I couldn't have told her that.
I knew that rule number one of fighting with a lover is to look exponentially hotter than you usually do the next time you see her. For that reason I purposely wore a dress I knew she liked, and went hard with the lipstick that wouldn't touch her until she apologized. And she'd apologize, because she couldn't resist it, and then I'd half-apologize-half-maintain-that-I-was-right. And then it'd be better again. Because it had to be.
I was so vindictive that it physically hurt.
I walked into my kitchen and sighed profoundly upon noticing the one thing out of place: that envelope. That damn envelope that always seemed to find its way back into my line of vision.
Only now I was alone. For what felt like the first time in a long time, I was alone. I could finally face that letter, I realized, tear it open and read it and react however I wanted without worrying about appearances. I could do it. There was finally an opportunity.
As though the chance would go away if I hesitated too long, I picked it up, tore it open. But surprising me, there was no letter inside as I'd anticipated. I didn't know if I was relieved or concerned. At least there was no heartfelt message, I decided. It was just a check.
Just a check, I considered. A check face down on the counter. He'd said it was a birthday gift. So he'd likely thrown a hundred dollars my way as to not show up to a party - if you could have called it that - empty-handed. I laughed slightly, to myself, at how worked up I'd gotten over nothing. I picked it up and turned it over, prepared to tear it and never cash it.
But when I read it, that was suddenly a different prospect; it was no hundred dollar check.
It was that amount, thirteen thousand times over, with nothing in the memo but the words, "I'm sorry."
As though it held horrible powers, I immediately shoved the check in a drawer. I couldn't look at it, not right now, maybe not ever. I wanted to forget I'd ever seen it, but now it was in my head: 1.3 million dollars and 1.3 million questions. Was this what he wanted? The way I saw it, he wanted me indebted to him. He wanted me to, in some way, need him, the way I hadn't for at least ten years. He wanted to make it so that I had to call. He wanted to smooth things over in the only way he knew how: with giant sums of money.
I didn't even know he had that kind of money to give away. I knew, obviously, that he was wealthy, as I'd grown up in his home, and I knew he'd gotten more involved with corporate endeavors since after I'd moved out. But of the specifics I'd never known, as I'd never cared to ask.
Maybe this was why my brother and sister still kept in touch.
I picked up my things and walked out the door. In all honesty, I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
In the elevator, I heard someone ask me to hold the door, and most of me was in the mood to hit the close button and give the finger as I watched it shut. But I didn't, and mentally awarded myself a self-control gold star.
"Thanks," she said, walking in, then realizing that it was me, and dear Lord, I was becoming a small-time celebrity in my apartment building. "Caroline, it's you."
Lindsay McVale, I placed. Moved in this week. Met in the elevator last night. Maybe an escort, maybe a stripper, maybe a bartender, maybe - benefit of the doubt - a waitress, as I'd been generous enough to speculate.
"Are you stalking me?" I asked, only slightly in jest, as I pressed the button for the ground floor and watched the door shut.
She laughed, as she seemed to laugh at everything I said, though I hadn't known her for long and didn't plan to know her any more intimately than this. "I might be."
"Most people would say no," I considered.
"Most people don't have my sense of humor," she said in her own defense.
"Is that right," I said flatly, looking at the opposite wall because I didn't want to look her in the eye.
Because she was attractive, and in more ways than one it felt as though she was coming on to me, and even if she wasn't, that had never been a deal breaker for me in the past, and we were alone, in an elevator, and I was emotionally compromised, and usually when I was upset that resulted in me doing things I regretted with people who ended up regretting it too.
And I was on my way to work and didn't have time to entertain such thoughts, anyway.
"What's the matter with you today?" she asked as though she knew me.
"What?"
"You seem, like, grumpy. Or something."
"Oh," I laughed slightly. "No, I'm always like this."
"Always?"
"Okay, I'll admit it doesn't help that I didn't sleep much last night."
"Aw," she said sympathetically. "You didn't?"
"No, I didn't," I said, somewhat confused. "And if I recall correctly, neither did you. Did we not share an elevator, what, three hours ago?"
"No, we did," she said. "Don't think I'd forget that. But I can get by on a couple hours."
"Oh," I said again. "Amphetamines?"
She laughed and made a confused expression. "What?"
"Never mind," I said. "You're just naturally like this. I get it."
The door opened then and I began walking toward my car, falling into step next to my unsolicited new companion who, I prayed, had parked near me - or else I truly was being stalked and needed a lot more than a coffee and more sleep.
"So, the suit?" I inquired because I was genuinely curious, as it was nothing like the slutty dress she'd been wearing the previous night.
"I'm going to work, silly. Oh, and by the way, you should probably know that I'm not as dumb as you thought, and I don't skate by on my looks like you assume I do."
I stopped walking, tilted my head and just looked at her, discerningly. That was unexpected, albeit not untrue.
"Who said I thought that?"
She laughed. "I read people well. And you, you don't."
"Right," I said slowly, wondering how badly I'd misjudged her and, better yet, how she knew that I had. "What do you do again?"
"I'm a corporate strategy advisor."
***
Jenn
"So here's what I'm thinking," I said, throwing my jacket over a chair and diving right in, because work meant distraction and quiet meant thinking. "If Shaw's ex-wife is an accomplice, she's not going to speak unless she's charged. If we can somehow--"
I looked around me, having expected to be the last one at the precinct, and realizing too late that I wasn't. "Where's Kim?"
Clapp merely shrugged. "Late. She called and said she'd be here in ten minutes. She sounded really pissed off."
"Marital problems," Oliver suggested.
I laughed. "Pre-marital problems."
"What?"
I froze. "Nothing."
The door opened then, thank God. "Hey," Kim said. "Sorry."
"It's alright," I said. "You okay?"
"Fine," she said. She was lying, clearly.
"You look tired."
"Thanks, Carver, you're looking like a million yourself."
"I didn't quite get to bed last night," I explained, quietly.
"Yeah, well," she exhaled, sitting down. "That makes two of us."
"Everything okay with Grace?"
"Boy, we like to pry today."
"I'm just making sure you're doing okay."
"Well fine," she relented. "No, things aren't okay. We fought all night. She hates me. I'm exhausted. She doesn't trust me. She always thinks I'm cheating. Are we done with the heart-to-heart now?"
I bit my own lip, feeling altogether guilty and awkward. "I'm sorry to hear that," was all I said.
"Where are we with Saenz?" she asked to the community, mercifully for both of us, changing the subject.
"Arraignment's tomorrow and right now it's looking like all we have is the battery," Griffin lamented. "Unless we can find more in the next twenty four hours, he's looking at probation, or maybe thirty days. Carrie wants to drop the charge. It's not doing us any good."
Kim sighed something that sounded like relief. "So we're in agreement that Saenz is innocent, then."
"What?" I questioned, not meaning to sound so hostile. "When did we agree on that?"
"Well, the only victim of his crime won't testify against him," Griffin reminded us all. "And we've yet to find any linkage to those homicides. DNA wasn't a match. Neither were the prints."
"So we believe the duress defense," I tried to piece together.
"Believe what you want," Clapp decided. "Only the evidence will tell. Meanwhile, we have to look at his aggressors under a microscope. If that's what we're going to go off of, we need to check it out."
"You mean bleed Shaw for all he has," Oliver interpreted.
"Yeah," he said. "And the wife."
"About the wife," Kim interjected. "She's denying any and all contact with Shaw. Says they haven't spoken since the divorce."
"Of course she'd say that," Clapp dismissed. "If she's an accomplice. But the letter was addressed to her."
"Addressed to her," I repeated. "But not necessarily sent to her. The address she gave you, Kim, did it match the one on the envelope?"
"I don't remember," she said, not getting me.
"For all we know," I considered. "That letter could have been sent to anyone, and written with Anneliese's name to lower suspicion. Maybe that was his way of arranging hits, all in some kind of a code, written some way that wouldn't get a second glance when they read it at the prison."
"Well, let's find out," Griffin said decisively, and just like that we were going with my intuition. "Someone call Carrie, have her get a warrant for all of Shaw's outgoing mail."
At that, there were five pairs of eyes on me. I stared back.
"What?" I challenged. "You all have phones."
"Trouble in paradise, Carver?" Clapp pried.
"That's none of your business," I said bitterly.
"Did you break up?" Bagley asked regardless.
"And that is definitely none of your business."
"Ooh," Kim said like she was feeling the sympathy pain. "They did."
"We didn't," I argued. And don't get any ideas. "I just told her I need some space. Okay?"
"You told her you needed space?" Oliver had no problem noting. "You called the shots?"
"Well," I considered. "I yelled, she yelled, I yelled some more, she asked if we were breaking up, I said I didn't know, and she told me to call her when I did. That's the truth. Okay?"
"What'd you fight about?" Kim wondered.
"Damn it," I said, standing up. "Six educated detectives with multiple open cases and we're sitting around talking about women?"
"We're just worried about you, Carver," Bagley tried defending.
"Well don't," I said. "I can handle it."
"Okay," Kim said decisively, actually picking up on the fact that I didn't want to talk about it. "Then I'll call Carrie. I have some choice words for Collin Shaw anyhow."
***
Carrie
A female voice answered the phone. I didn't know why I'd expected otherwise.
"Landon Everett's office," she said.
"Can I speak with him?" I asked flatly, wondering why I physically couldn't bring myself to be nicer. "I'm his daughter."
Kind of, I thought.
"Oh, Jacqueline," she said. "Nice to hear from you again."
"No, not Jacqueline," I sighed. Not that daughter. The estranged one with the insomnia and the trust issues and the less impressive apartment. The one that sleeps with women.
"Oh, I'm sorry...who?"
"Caroline," I said frustratedly. "Can you put him on?"
"I'll see if he's in."
"Thank you."
I breathed steadily for several moments that felt like several hours. This was uncomfortable. It was really, really awkward and I really, really didn't want to...
"Landon Everett speaking."
"Dad," I exhaled, wishing I hadn't said that. "It's Carrie."
"Carrie," he repeated. Yes, that's what I said. Imbecile. "It's so great to hear from you."
"I didn't want to call," I said, guardedly. "But you made it so that I had to."
"I don't..."
"The check," I filled in. "Why?"
"Well," he laughed. "I know I've missed a few birthdays."
"A few? I'm thirty three."
He paused. "I know."
"So, writing me a check for thirteen hundred thousand dollars, I...I don't know..."
"Carrie," he interrupted. "It was a gift. Don't get torn up."
"No," I protested. "Don't tell me not to get torn up. You did this to get into my head, and it worked. Because I've spent the past nine years trying not to think about you, and now you're in my head and I don't like it. I don't know why you're doing this, and doing it now, and I...I appreciate the gesture. Okay? Thank you. But you have to know that I can't accept it."
"Why can't you?"
"Because I don't need it," I reminded him. "No one needs 1.3 million dollars, I -- Where do you even get 1.3 million dollars? You know what, never mind. I don't want to know. I don't want to be asked to testify when you're slapped with white collar felony charges."
To that, he just laughed. "That same sense of humor, Caroline. It doesn't change."
"I wasn't kidding."
"Anyway," he said. "Think of what you could do with that money, Caroline. You could really use it. You're an ADA."
"That same condescension," I muttered. "It doesn't change."
"Carrie--"
"I have someone at my office," I said suddenly, as the knock at my door told me that I actually did. "Thank you for understanding."
"Think about cashing the check, Carrie," he urged me. "Just consider it."
"Okay," I said. "I will. Goodbye."
I knew that I never would, but it was the only way he'd let me hang up. In nearly a decade, his stubbornness hadn't seemed to change.
***
Kim
"It's shaky," Carrie informed me when I came to her office spouting ideas like a crazy person. "A warrant on the word of an apprehended criminal?"
"But we need it," I argued. "You have to see the connection."
"I do," she agreed. "But that doesn't mean a judge will."
"But it's possible, isn't it?"
"The law requires a reasonable basis that the party in question has committed the act in question, and that the items to be seized actually exist."
"Well of course they exist--"
"But do they contain what we're looking for?"
"We won't know if we don't try."
"We could try if we came back later, with more."
"Please, Carbear," I pouted. "For me."
She rolled her eyes. "I'll call in a favor from a judge who happens to owe me one," she conceded, picking up her office phone and dialing. "But not for you."
I shrugged. "I can live with that."
I listened attentively to her on the phone for several moments, trying to gauge how the conversation was going from only hearing half of it. She used her nice voice, which was altogether very amusing, but I refrained from commenting, at least until she'd hung up.
"So?" I asked at the call's conclusion.
She stood up, gathering her things. "Field trip."
***
"So," I decided to bring up as we got into her car. "Why the fight with Carver?"
"How did you know about that?"
"Because whenever someone says your name she makes a face like she's going to knock their teeth out. So, did you fight because you told her where you were last night? Or did you fight because you didn't?"
"You're a smug little shit, you know that?"
"I do," I agreed. "Answer the question."
"The latter," she finally admitted. "I came home at 2:30 A.M. and I looked hot and that was apparently a red flag."
"Well," I considered. "If you're going to lie about your whereabouts, it's probably not the smartest idea to come home in a different, sexier outfit than you left in."
"I didn't know I'd have to explain myself," she argued. "I thought she'd be asleep when I got in. What kind of psychopath stays awake until three in the morning for no reason at all?"
"A psychopath that's in love with you," I said in answer before wondering just when I'd become so involved in her romantic life. "Not that I don't think she's overprotective, and not that I don't think you guys were headed for trouble to begin with. A psychopath infatuated with a sociopath. It's actually really funny."
"Okay, don't give me a lecture about how my relationship was DOA," she warned. "Trust me, you don't want to go down that road."
"No," I agreed. "I really don't. Anyway, you know it's going to come out eventually."
"I know," she admitted. "And it will. As soon as I'm ready to tell her. But it pisses me off to no end that she didn't trust me to begin with."
"Oh, come on," I dismissed. "Do you blame her?"
She looked blankly at me. "Yes."
"You're bad news," I put simply. "You're unromantic, unfeeling bad news. You always have been."
"I'm hurt," she said in sarcasm.
"No," I pointed out. "You're not. Exactly my point."
"Whatever," she said finally. "So I'm bad news. That's not my fault."
"Did you ever warn her?" I wondered.
"Yes."
"And what did she do?"
She stared into space, like she was thinking about it.
"She kissed me," she recalled. "For the first time."
"And the rest is history?"
"If you could call it that."
I laughed. "Apparently," I considered, "Some of us like bad news."