Broken Pieces – Part 5 Author: Sarah E. Grauvogl Email: grauvose@muohio.edu Rating: PG Note: This is (finally) a continuation of the fic, “Daddy Nick and Mommy Lulu” started by Rosiiii and I toward the end of TG Season 2 in May of 2003. Taking into consideration what happened in the show’s season finale “All the Rage”, some events are still included (the parking lot beating, James’ demise, Lulu’s job offer in Berkeley) but the original story thread from “Daddy Nick…” stays the same in regards to the very much unplanned pregnancy and the nature of the Nick/Lulu relationship, with Lulu saying “I love you” first and Nick’s uncertainty over anything being able to last. The characters and TG are not mine, but the story as it unfolds from this point on are. The parking lot dialogue is almost entirely taken from “All the Rage.” What I intend to do is spin the story in a different direction, taking TG into an ‘alternate universe’ from what we saw in the arc of episodes preceding “All the Rage” and Season Three. ** N. Fallin Residence, 6:17 AM Once. Twice. Maybe only three times did he actually hear it – but in his head, the ringing was incessant. The goddamn phone would not stop ringing. Nick thought about taking it off the hook, to try and make it stop, but that would require getting up. Admittedly, he was in no condition to do that. Clenching his jaw, he willed himself to open his eyes. It took a moment to focus. Ring. Ring. There was no point. The machine would pick up soon enough. At this hour, there were only two people who might call him. One that he didn’t want to speak to, and the other that he had no idea what to say to. Maybe he should have stopped by, maybe he wanted to. /The lights were off. It was late. He knew that she was okay. She wouldn’t want to see him, not after what he did, how he acted. /Nick came up with every excuse he could think of. It was only after he came home that he realized how lonely he was. How lonely it was going to be if she left him, if she took the job, if she went away. If. It was no longer a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when.’ This was her choice, Caroline made that very clear. Crystal clear. His choice had been made as well. His choice was to beat the shit out of the sorry bastard in the parking lot. His choice was to piss off the officer. His choice was to get fucked up and make the world go away. Had he succeeded? No. The ringing phone was proof. The powder hadn’t done its magic. This stuff wasn’t quality, not like what he was used to. The answering machine picked up. An all too familiar voice invaded his privacy, threatening to interrupt his thoughts. Nick had reasoned, recalling his decision to go to see someone he had heard about through an associate instead of his old, faithful friend. he considered, Staring up at the ceiling, Nick took a deep breath. His body seemed to be rebelling against him, not handling the stuff like it should. It ached, every muscle was tired and tight. He hadn’t moved off the couch since he, well, he didn’t want to. “Nicholas, its me. Please pick up… we really need to talk about this, about what happened. It’s been on the news, in the papers. People are gonna talk, and I…” It was then that he quit listening; he already knew what his father was going to say. Nick willed himself to sit up, and grimaced in pain as he tried to open up his hand. It was swollen, the knuckles still bloodied. There were several small cuts. His mind kept running. That was the excuse he used, the one he made to himself – it was about making the hurt stop, he took what he did to stop the hurt. The hurt he felt in his hand. The hurt he felt in his head. The hurt he felt in his heart. In spite of the throbbing, Nick pried his fingers apart and inspected the damage, it would need to be cleaned and bandaged. As he reached down to the floor for his shirt, he saw the residue of his respite on the coffee table. The $50 he had rolled for the powdery delivery had since come undone. he thought to himself. Wincing, he wrapped the t-shirt tightly around his hand and looked around the room. The trousers he had been wearing were in a pile near the coffee table near his shoes. His jacket was folded over a chair. His blood stained shirt… Nick couldn’t remember where he left it. It was after he took the first hit that he felt warm, that he felt that inexplicable tingling sensation that seemed to overtake him. He vaguely remembered going to the kitchen, to the sink. That’s when he saw his reflection in the window. That disgusting shade of red. It made him sick to his stomach. He had to get rid of it, to make it go away. Nick decided. He could feel his heart pounding. Given the pressure he was already under, it was a side effect he would prefer to live without. Blank. He drew a blank. Something didn’t make sense. Nick looked at his hand again. He remembered throwing a punch, delivering a sharp kick to the ribs once he had fallen to the ground. Just the thought of that lifeless man sent a chill down his spine. Nick could see himself bending over him, when he coughed up the blood as he tried to speak. All that blood. The man’s mouth was bleeding too, from where his father had hit him. He had wanted to help, he tried to. He felt sorry for what he had done, he really did. Burton stopped him. He pulled him away. Just like he did before. When he was little. He wondered if it was even worth stirring those memories. Closing his eyes tightly, Nick allowed himself to wander back to another painful time… Well, he wasn’t so little. He was nearly a man, at least in his own mind. He was plenty old enough to know the difference between right and wrong, but it was instinct that drove him to act as he did. That’s what he told himself, it was that protective instinct that only a son can feel. A young man told him and his father that his mother was a whore. That’s when she was sick. That’s when she was dying. He wouldn’t have it. He wouldn’t hear anyone speak about her like that. This man had no right to say that about her. When his father didn’t react, he did. He threw that first punch. He hit him so hard that it knocked him to the ground. The man didn’t even see it coming. Burton kicked him, and hit him again. Again. And again. By the time his father swung his last hook, Nick remembered being in tears. He sat there, looking over their victim as his father walked away. He felt like he should whisper that he was sorry. The young man took that opportunity away from him. He spoke first. “I… I…” he sputtered, “I loved her…” Those three words. He hadn’t heard his father throw those three words in her direction for years. It angered him, it hurt him, it confused him. “What?” he demanded. There were answers he wanted, there were answers he felt he had a right to have. Before the young man could speak again, his father had grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away. They got into the car and drove off. He remembered sitting silently in the back seat, staring down at his blood-stained shirt. When they got home, he felt humiliated as he saw his reflection in the kitchen window. Everything had to be washed, his father made him strip down in the kitchen. Burton had a cigarette in his mouth and a drink on the counter as he stood over the sink, scrubbing. It wasn’t long before he sent him upstairs to change. He offered to help, but Burton told him to go outside. From the yard, he watched his father from the window. He knew better than to ask his father about the tears in his eyes. Not another word was spoken about it. Not even to this day… Years had passed and he tried to keep it at the back of his mind. Yet, it was a scene he would never forget – he wouldn’t let himself. He couldn’t recall a time when he didn’t wish that he knew what happened to that young man. He wondered if the man had met the same fate as his own mother, the woman that he claimed to love. Now this. This time things were different. There was no one’s honor to defend, just their own wounded pride getting the best of them. Nick reasoned. He opened his eyes and looked down at his hand as he unwrapped it. There were cuts, a lot of them. Fresh cuts. It didn’t add up. A punch. A kick. Not this. He didn’t…he wouldn’t… Nick asked himself again, trying to visually estimate the number of cuts. Unnerved, he got up from the couch and walked slowly toward the kitchen. Crimson drops marked his pathway. The sunlight was pouring in through the opened blinds, illuminating the pinkish-hue that the bottom of the porcelain sink had taken. It was normally white, a pristine white. The nausea returned. Nick stepped carefully toward the counter and looked upward. His eyes fell upon the jagged hole and shattered glass. ** Evans’ Residence, 7:02 AM The alarm had been set for eight, but his internal clock went off just before seven. Sleep was a luxury he could no longer afford, as the early hours of the morning offered him some time alone. It was his chance to get things done. Articles covered the coffee table, from various papers and magazines, from different topics and different years. He wasn’t sure how many he had, he never bothered to count. It was a collection of sorts that he started a few years ago, not long after Declan was born. It seemed only natural that the birth of his son would make him question his own paternity. And question he did, as the details his mother gave him were few and far between. She swore that the biggest mistake she made was giving him a name. That, according to her, was what started this madness. Each time he read over a piece, he hoped to find something new. Some type of insight. Some type of knowledge that might buy him a ticket into their world. This humble search was carried out on the belief that he might groom himself to one day be accepted, to be recognized as one of their own. Maybe it was foolish, as Kelly told him when she heard of his plan. John desperately wanted to believe that it wasn’t. The articles helped fill in some of the blanks his mother had left, luckily for him – their antics and good business gave the press plenty to write about. They were certainly popular in this town. He wondered if when people saw him on the streets, the similarities could be seen. It was obvious to him from a very young age that he looked nothing like his mother, so he assumed he took after his father’s side. Only when he threatened to come and find his real dad was he shown a picture, in hopes of satisfying his curiosity. The eyes, that’s what his mother admitted to, he had his father’s eyes. One day, in a fit of anger, he remembered asking her what she saw in his eyes. He asked her if she saw the man she wasn’t good enough to hold onto, the man who chose his wife, the man who saw forever in someone else’s stormy eyes. That was the first, and only time, he remembered his mother slapping him. He was almost 21. It hurt, but not as much as not speaking to her for nearly two years after. When he finally broke his silence to tell her that Kelly, his wife, was pregnant, his mother told him that his father had given her three things: a son, a broken heart and a claddagh ring. It was then that she took the ring off and told him to give it to the one that he loved. The ring never left the box that he put it in. In his mind, no one had deserved it as much as she did. He felt as if he was as bad as his father, stealing away what little she had left. Maybe in asking her to come along, to come back to Pittsburgh, he thought he could finally give her something back. There was a particular article that caught his eye; a more recent one entitled “Old Friends, New Funds”. It was about how high society connections had much to do with the corporate worlds. The high point was about the old man snagging a killer deal with an up and coming business, recently relocated from Philly and with great prospects for the future. Although the owner had some financial problems in the past, it seemed as if it would be a profitable endeavor for them both. So far, it had been. John tracked TravelMaster’s progress as well. Before leaving California, he made it a point to find out all that he could about the company and its owner. Her connections to his father intrigued him, he thought she could one day be a valuable asset. He glanced at her picture again; it was in with a write-up from the Society page. John repeated, as if to commit the name to memory. He stared at the face before him, questioning the familiarity. There was something he recognized. With his blanket trailing behind him, Declan made his way quietly into the living room. The mess of papers surrounding his father told him that he was working, just as he normally was. He sat down on the floor in front of the TV, not wanting to disturb him. Hearing the soft thump, John looked up and smiled, “hey bud, you’re up early…” “Whatcha watchin’?” Declan tried to make out the images on the screen. They weren’t the characters that he was used to. The TV had been turned on to drown out the silence. He wasn’t sure what he left on. “I think it’s the news…” Local news was next, or so the commercial said. Then the channel could be changed, just as it always was when Declan entered the room on Saturday morning. He didn’t like him to watch the news, it was too serious for a child so young. Seizing the remote from the coffee table, Declan was a bit surprised, “no cartoons?” “Not yet…” John started to gather up the articles, placing them in their respective folders. he told himself. Saturday mornings were meant to be theirs. “Just a few more minutes.” The look of disappointment was clearly apparent in his son’s face. His own mother said he was much the same when he didn’t get his way. “Daddy, look!” Declan pointed to the screen, at a woman. “We saw her last night!” It took only a brief glance to recognize her. The footage was from the night before, she was in the office, surrounded by cops. Behind her was the yellow tape. There she was, in her pretty dress, standing in that garish crime scene. John found himself asking. The voice of the newscaster filled him in on the details she had been unable to give at the time. “Last night, a place of hope for many in Pittsburgh turned into a place of tragedy…Here at the Legal Services of Pittsburgh, started by Alvin Masterson, two staff lawyers were killed around 8:30 PM…” John reached to turn it up, but quickly realized that his son had already taken control. “The remote, please?” “Okay…” Declan handed it over to his father, unable to understand what was going on. “Victims James’ Mooney and Larry Flood were declared dead on the scene…” the newscaster continued. All he could do was stare at the screen as their pictures were flashed. He had been there just hours, mere hours before. Maybe this was a sign. John swallowed hard, “Jesus.” Declan threw his hand over his mouth in shame, as if he himself had said the forbidden word. It took but a moment for him to regain his composure. “Daddy!” “Sorry, sorry…” John offered his son a small, repentant smile, reminding himself that he needed to be more careful. Though they weren’t a particularly religious family, his mother did have her limits as all good, God-fearing Irish Catholic women do. There were no ‘Jesus’ ‘Jesus Christs’ or ‘goddamn its’ to be heard in her presence. But, he always took pride in rebelling against her that way, especially whenever he could send a “Jesus Christ, Mother, it didn’t have to be like this” in her direction. It was a double whammy, by her standards. Sometimes he felt bad afterwards, sometimes he didn’t. It wasn’t as if she needed a reminder as to why things were the way they were. He knew that. Being there now, in Pittsburgh, was reminder enough. John really didn’t think that she’d come, that she’d want to. He believed that it was more about looking toward the future than reconciling the past. Too much time had gone by. Initially she had told him that she was doing it for Declan, but he was certain it was partly for herself. If anything, she deserved the closure that she had been denied so many years ago. Closure. It was a funny thing. John often wondered. Maybe it was more like a deep, bottomless pit than a wound. As Declan crawled onto the couch and snuggled in beside him, he tried to shake the thought of the emptiness he still felt. Since the day that boy was born, he promised himself that he would be the father that his own Dad was not. He refused to be stopped by the past – a past he didn’t know, much less, understand. There were so many questions he had, so many answers that he wanted to hear from himself. It was the way his mind worked, to believe that the things his mother told him could not possibly be true. While she never said anything bad, there wasn’t much good either. All she would admit was that there was a choice to be made, and they both thought they were doing what was best. he remembered asking on more than one occasion. It was then that she’d look at him, usually with tears in her eyes and just shake her head before walking away. A lot more time had to pass before he would realize that it wasn’t the ‘best’ for her either. Distracted, John glanced at his son, whose head was now in his lap. His eyelids were heavy, he was sure he would probably fall back asleep. John reached behind him and pulled down the blanket, spreading it carefully over his child. He envied the peace he knew Declan could find when sleep took him over. Just as he was about to turn off the TV, a picture of Heinz Hall flashed across the screen. He had heard his mother on the phone earlier before her shift, chatting with one of the nurses. Apparently there had been an assault. The man was pretty bad off, not expected to make it. John turned up the volume just enough. The newscaster confirmed the story. “In other local news, police arrested two men last night for a brutal assault after Heinz Hall Security Cameras caught them violently attacking a man inside the garage. Pittsburgh Police Department Detective Darger identified the assailants as Nicholas Fallin and Burton Fallin, both of Shadyside. They were released early this morning on bail. The victim, Ralph Trillo, also of Shadyside, is in the intensive care unit at Alleghany County Hospital after emergency surgery last night to repair his punctured lung….” “Oh my God…” John stared at the screen in shock. There they were. Right there before him. Assault charges, violence and all. A wave of panic hit him. Their pictures were still up on the screen. It was humiliating. Startled, Declan raised his tousled blonde head and turned to his father, “what is it?” “Nothing, nothing at all…” John swallowed hard. How would he explain this to a child? There were no words. He wanted to protect him; he believed it was his responsibility as a father. It was hard enough to keep Declan safe from his mother’s shenanigans, but this… this was different. This was something he didn’t have to be exposed to; this was something he was being brought into. John remembered her threats and hated her even more for making them. He would’ve liked to believe that she said what she did because she was high, or drunk, not because she had any reason to think she might be right. She told him that ‘his people’ would be no good, that he was gonna get their boy hurt. He responded that the only one hurting their son was her, that he was trying to give him a family. A family, a family. John looked down again at Declan and his heart sank. The day he told Declan that they were leaving California; he said that they were going on a mission, a mission for treasure nonetheless. His son looked at him in awe, or maybe it was disbelief. It didn’t matter, at the moment; it was as if that boy put all his faith into him to find this ‘treasure’. In John’s mind, it seemed logical; family was something that he always treasured. For now, it would be best, John decided, if Declan knew nothing, nothing at all. ** Pittsburgh Police Department, 8:29 AM It was at times like this when he hated his profession. He hated that he knew the law so well that he could read between the lines. He knew the tricks, he knew the traps. He knew that Darger calling Clay into his office, alone, could not be good. Nothing about this situation was. Nothing at all. Burton asked himself again. He glimpsed towards Darger’s window and then back toward the clock. The clock on the wall had taunted him since he arrived. It had been well over two hours since he called. Burton swallowed hard, his heart was racing. He could feel the sweat beading on his brow. Anxious, he sat back against the hard wooden bench and loosened his tie. It would figure that Burton and that ‘prodigy’ son of his would find themselves in a mess like this. In fact, it didn’t surprise Clay at all when he got the panicked call. He didn’t expect that it would be an easy case, but taking it alone would give him leverage. That was his motivation. He’d have something to hold over the old man’s head. Maybe a partnership wouldn’t be so far off after all. It was brilliant. Sheer brilliance. Nick’s name would go after his, that’s what he decided when he hung up the phone after speaking to Burton. In the back of his mind, he knew it would be Nick that posed the problem, not the old man. Apart from having the blood of an ex-lover on his hands, he seemed to have a clean record. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for his son. The probationer. The druggie. The waste. A crude expression crossed his mind. One that Jake the Snake had used in reference to the prodigy himself. . Just the idea made him smile. After adjusting his tie, Clay flashed a cocky smile,“ so what kind of charges are we looking at here?” Darger wondered as he glanced up at the slick slimeball in a suit, trying not to roll his eyes. “I guess that depends on what happens with Mr. Trillo…” he started plainly, “and right now… it doesn’t look to good.” “His family wants to proceed?” Clay knew they would, he could only hope they wouldn’t. It was standard procedure. Always the same. Something happened. Someone was dying. When the chances of survival are slim and emotions are high, charges are filed. Unless, of course, a better offer could be made. The thought had already crossed his mind. He knew it had crossed Burton’s too. Although the old man would never come out and say it, he knew that he wasn’t above making a pay off. It would not be the first and it certainly would not be the last. Clay concluded, contemplating the latest Fallin fodder he had heard, that Nicholas had gone and knocked someone up. Maybe he’d be asked to handle that too, Mommy the Advocate versus Grandpa the Abortion Mongrel, who’d be fighting to pick off his first born grandchild just like he did his own first child, with Daddy the Addict sitting in a drugged out daze in the middle not knowing what the hell was going on. Clay wanted to chuckle, he could already envision the pitiful scene in his head. He wasn’t the type that chuckled often. Darger looked at the character in front of him as if he were as crazy as the print on his obnoxious tie, “wouldn’t you?” The question abruptly jolted Clay back into reality. “My clients, they have careers, a firm to run…” he stated, as if these facts weren’t already known. Detective Darger was clearly not impressed. “And Mr. Trillo has a career too, a wife, his children…” “What I am saying is that…” Clay took a moment to think, “my clients…” “No, no, no… you listen to me…” Darger stammered, his breath tainted by a hint of tabacco, “what I am saying, Mr….” Name. Name. “Simms…” Clay answered with a scowl. “Mr. Simms, a man is on life support because your clients put him there… the law firm should be the least of their worries” Darger slid to the front of his seat, “don’t believe me? Call the hospital yourself. Ask them how Ralph Trillo is doing. Maybe you can hear his wife struggling to explain it to their young son, or Ralph’s mother crying in the background…” Clay thought to himself. It was at that moment that he considered that the future of the Fallins was intricately linked to his own, at least as far as the firm was concerned. He would have to try a different approach, a different way to get through. Clay would throw him a bone. “Understood, but…” he began slowly, stopping himself as he watched the detective. Annoyed, Darger closed the Fallin case file and returned it to the growing stack on his desk. He got up from his chair and walked toward the door, opening it. “But nothing, we’ll be in touch…” Without another word, Clay grabbed his briefcase and stood up. The diligent detective made it clear that he had overstayed his welcome. Not to be outdone, he shot Darger a glare and headed for the bench were he left Burton when they came in. Selecting a cigarette from his pack, Darger watched for a moment as Clay approached Burton. It was almost comical, he thought, seeing a man as powerful as Burton Fallin so dependent upon someone else. he decided, Right. Left. Right. Left. He didn’t have to look up to know he was coming, he could hear his heavy footsteps just like he could at the firm. Burton reminded himself, all too well aware of the debt he incurred the moment he hung up the phone the night before. It was a moment of desperation. Really, of that he was convinced. “What? What did he say?” Burton swallowed hard, unable to read the look on Clay’s face when he finally looked up. Reaching into his pocket for his keys, Clay shook his head, “this isn’t just going to go away, Burton…” “There must be something, something we can do…” Burton whispered softly as pulled himself to his feet, still sore from the previous evening, “I know a lot of people that…” “You want to get off?” Clay snapped, staring into the old man’s cold, steely eyes. he asked himself, It made no sense. Clay looked back at Darger’s office, the door was again shut. Lucky them. Still. He knew better. This wasn’t the place nor the time for the type of discussion that Burton wanted to have. Sensing his hesitation, Burton rested his tensed hand on Clay’s shoulder and moved in closer, “Clay…I was just thinking that…” “Let me handle this, okay? You’ve caused enough trouble…” Clay took a deep breath, confident that it was he who now held all the cards, “you’re playing by my rules now, old man…” It was like a slap in the face. It stung. Burton wasn’t sure which was worse, the words or the reality he was now forced to deal with. For the first time in a long time, Burton had to consider that money might be enough. He might not be able to buy his way out of this. he repeated quietly, Burton could only dare himself what he already suspected, that his son would fail him again. As they walked toward the front exit, Burton looked at the clock again. Two and a half hours and nothing. Not a word. This was his fate too. Burton looked at the screen of his cell phone and shoved it back into his pocket. Another thought crossed his mind. A twinge of guilt passed through him. He thought he might be sick. ** Archer Residence, 8:46 AM If a watched pot never boils, the same can be said for a phone – it never rings. Once, twice, maybe three times. She wasn’t sure how many times she had called since she woke up. The only thing she knew was that the calls were unanswered. Perhaps because he didn’t want to. Perhaps because he felt there was nothing left to say. But still. Part of her wanted to go to him. Part of her wanted him to come to her. With each passing hour, the later seemed less and less likely to happen. It didn’t make sense, this wasn’t like him at all. Against her better judgment, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. She wanted to believe that there was some explanation for his absence, for the distance he was desperate to create. The door to the guest room was closed when she came downstairs; she assumed Barbara would come down when she was ready. Sitting alone in the kitchen, she had time to think, even if it hurt. It had started with the sound of the sirens and the pressure increased with the cops interrogation and her futile attempts to reach Nick. And then the images followed, the same grisly scene. She attributed her inability to sleep to the pain that was numbing her mind and the painful memories that haunted her. Her new yoga instructor had recommended a physician in San Francisco who specialized in natural therapies for pregnant women. She saw the name mentioned again in a pregnancy magazine. A call would have to be made later on, she decided. It wasn’t that these happened often, only a few times since the accident. The second opinion she sought said it was to be expected, and the stress she was under wasn’t quite making for an easy recovery. Last time it happened, she found comfort in Nick’s arms as they laid bare under a blanket on her living room floor. This time, she found herself staring into an empty coffee cup – wondering if she should bother to make another pot. It was half full, but still… Nobody else drank decaf. She could understand why. Lulu looked again at the doorway, as if he might come through. “Thanks again for letting me stay with you, I just… I didn’t want to go home alone last night….” Barbara said as she entered the kitchen, forcing herself to smile. The night had not been kind to her, and she was certain her looks would reflect as much. She hadn’t been able to sleep, the events of the evening ran continuously through her mind. The warm water of the shower hadn’t done its trick, and she felt no better now than when she first came in. Shock. That was the only way to describe it. Something told her that this feeling wasn’t going to end any time soon. “It’s okay, I didn’t mind the company.” Lulu said quietly as Barbara sat down beside her at the breakfast counter. “Any word from Nick yet?” Barbara asked, almost surprised that she had not found him there in the spot she had taken. In her mind, she could see it as she was coming down the stairs. She thought he’d have come over, having snuck in during the early hours of the morning and slipped into Lulu’s bedroom. She could picture them together in the kitchen, having just come down after making love, again. Nick would be turned on the stool to face Lulu, tenderly stroking her cheek as she looked into his eyes, and he’d tell her everything would be fine. He only got that way with her, that Barbara knew for a fact. she asked herself, desperate to believe she hadn’t been wrong yet again – as she was about her own relationship. She was sure about the way he felt about Lulu, she could see it in his eyes, she could hear it in his voice. It didn’t make sense. But then again, now… nothing did. “No… he hasn’t called…” Lulu reluctantly admitted after a deep sigh. Barbara glanced at her, baffled. This wasn’t like Nick, this wasn’t him at all. Something didn’t add up. “Oh, I thought I heard the phone?” Lulu shook her head, “That was the police – they’d like you to come down to the station this afternoon, answer a few more questions…” Barbara knew why they wanted to talk to her, because she was the one who was there, she was the one who had found them. But still. She stared down at the counter, hearing only the hollow echo of her heart beating in her chest. One by one, the horrific images repeated over and over in her mind. It was as if she never left the bullpen. She clenched her jaws and closed her eyes, praying that some merciful God would put her out of her misery. It didn’t take but a moment for Barbara’s eyes to fill with tears after she opened them. She quickly tried to wipe them away as she looked back at Lulu. “I already told them everything I know…” “Right now, you’re the only hope we have to find who did this…” Lulu realized only after she spoke the immense pressure that she was putting on Barbara. she thought to herself. Lulu had no idea what to do, how she could help, or at least try to. Experience had told her that there was no way to make those images go away, to stop seeing that sight over and over again every time you close your eyes. Was that what Barbara wanted to hear? Certainly not. What she herself had seen years before was different and now was not the time to compare stories, she knew better – and quite honestly, as she decided long ago, she’d prefer if this story was something that no one else ever knew. Not even Brian. Most definitely not Nick, at least not now. As she lie in bed awake hours earlier, she contemplated if she might have told him, if he had been there at LSP with them. If he had seen what they saw, if he showed any interest in knowing why things were the way they were with her. “I don’t know, Lulu…I … I don’t know if I can do it…” Barbara sobbed, her head now in her hands “I can’t shake the way he looked at me…” Distracted by her thoughts, Lulu tried to follow the story that she had been told the night before. “Downstairs?” “When he came off that elevator, he ran RIGHT into me…” she stopped herself, trying to catch her breath as she mimicked the action by pounding her left fist into her other trembling hand, “RIGHT INTO ME!” “Did he say anything?” Lulu was sure someone would have told her if he did, but she wanted to give Barbara a chance to get it out herself. That was a privilege her own mother had denied her. They didn’t talk about what happened. She said it was over and done, they had to move on and they were better off without him, she even said it was for the best. It didn’t change what he had done, what she had seen. Her mother may have silenced her, but she couldn’t make her forget. Even now, after all this time, she was sure she never would. There had to be something better for Barbara, there just had to be – she certainly didn’t deserve to be in the hell she found herself in. Lulu would not wish it on anyone. Its been said that time helps. she often wondered. Lulu tried not to think about it when she was there, staring at the blood stained floor. It was all too familiar. There were just some images that you couldn’t shake. Some images that would never go away. “I want to help them – I do, but what if he comes after me?” Barbara’s lips were quivering as she spoke, her whole body now shaking, “I’m not so easy to forget…” “Barbara, come on – don’t even think like that…” Lulu gently squeezed Barbara’s hand, trying to comfort her. She could remember her grandmother doing the same, when she first showed up at her door. “You can’t let yourself think like that…” she said softly, “its not worth it, “don’t let him do that you…” That’s what the psychiatrist had told her, the one she periodically saw. The psychiatrist told her not to let herself live in fear, not to let him continue to control her life through the images she saw in her mind. Last night had done her no good. Today, going back there, she was sure it would be no better. she thought to herself. That’s all that was running through her mind, separating the broken pieces of the crime scene that filled her mind. Barbara bit nervously on her lower lip, ** To be continued…