Company
"She told me you were the only one she'd ever loved."
Detective Goren never knew whether or not he could trust those words, spoken by the deranged man who had once been his mentor, now in an institution for the criminally insane. For some reason he was more worried about it being true than it being a lie—the idea that the only warmth of love she could produce was toward him, a man who reviled as much as pitied her.
But time heals all wounds, though the scars were still there, still showed. And some wounds don't go away by themselves. After many a sleepless night in his new apartment, he had decided he would need to do some corrective internal surgery. Eames warned him that these things were always painful. He would come to think on these words later.
First was a visit to Declan, in his little cell dressed in neat white clothing. He tried coaxing some sense out of the man, but failed. Declan was too far gone.
Then the visits to the graves of those he had once called brother, boss, nemesis. Ross's grave was immaculate and well-kept; Donny's was weeded and barren bar the flowers Bobby had brought.
Finally, Nichole Wallace. He felt he owed her at least that much, if she had really loved him. He brought flowers, purple hyacinths which meant forgiveness. It was the best he could do, the furthest he could go.
He laid the flowers down before the blunt tombstone marking her life and death. No epitaph, no words of wisdom or rebuke underneath the dates.
There was a spider web near the bottom, swaying between the marble and a wayward daffodil. Idly Bobby reached down to brush it away.
So suddenly he did not register it, or react, a hand, a familiar hand which had gained unimaginable strength, broke through the sod and grass, unerringly reaching for his hand, twining its own shriveled fingers through his own.
Bobby Goren had company.