You hear the news almost by accident, as you check in on the headlines of the city that you're beginning to suspect will always feel the most like home.
"Funeral for Inspector William Rutherford Peck, dedicated member of the Toronto Police force, set for Saturday at eleven."
And there, staring back at you from the screen, are Gail's blue eyes. Older, kinder than the last time you saw them as you walked away from his daughter. Dressed in his blues and looking straight into the camera, the red and white of the flag partially obscuring the official TPD seal in the background.
There's nothing listed for cause of death, and you hope, whatever it was, that it was painless and quiet. He deserved that. They all did.
The obituary inside is long, and highlights all of Bill's many achievements. All of the professional associations he belonged to, all of his prestigious awards and highlights from his long and celebrated career.
But what's most important, as it should be, is listed first.
Loving husband of Elaine, Toronto Police Superintendent. Proud father of Steven (Traci), and Gail, both officers of the Toronto Police department. Beloved grandfather to Leo and Sadie. To the man who spent a lifetime serving and protecting, you will be missed.
You open a new tab and start searching for flights.
It's been almost four years.
But no matter how you left things, no matter how long it's been since you've seen her, how wide the silence between the two of you is … you'll be there for her if she needs you.
You enter the last digits of your credit card in and hit submit.
You leave tomorrow.
It starts to rain the night before the funeral, and doesn't stop until just an hour or so before the service is supposed to start at the cathedral.
You didn't go to the visitation beforehand–it was private, and though you probably could have found out where and when it was from your contacts still working in the administration building, you don't. Instead you show up at St. Michael's just as the sun comes peeking out from behind the grey clouds, and find a seat in one of the final pews.
The church is packed, dress blues standing shoulder to shoulder in neat rows, and up in the very front, sitting in the first row, you can see flashes of blonde and red.
The service is kind, warmer than you expected Elaine would allow, but still dignified as the city and its most powerful join the Peck family in saying goodbye to one of its most dedicated civil servants. After the priest's homily a line forms for the eulogies. The mayor, a couple of city politicians, the Chief of Police and officers who'd worked alongside Bill throughout his career.
But it's the one from Steve that causes the tears in your eyes to fall. He speaks so kindly, so gently, of his father. How he'd always looked up to Bill, how his earliest memories are of wanting to be a police officer, just like his dad. How he didn't truly understand Bill until he became a father himself, until he had a son to teach how to be a man, a daughter to soothe to sleep.
You don't wonder if Gail will rise to speak, to say goodbye.
You know she won't.
It's at the cemetery that someone from the past finally spots you. Not Oliver or Traci or Steve. Not Gail.
But Nick.
He slips to the back to stand next to you as you watch everyone return to their vehicles from the far, far back of the gathering.
"Hey, Dr. Stewart," he says, and startles you out of your thoughts, "it was kind of you to come."
When you and Gail were dating you'd never been able to look at Officer Collins and wonder just how he could have walked away from Gail. Not just once, but twice.
Now, though, now you're a kind of kindred spirit.
Now you're no better.
"I heard about the funeral and wanted to pay my respects." Your answer is politic, and true, even if incomplete. "Bill was always sweet to me when I was dating Gail," you continue, still honest and still not telling the whole truth.
But he just looks at you in understanding, hearing the words you can't bring yourself to say.
"You should come to the reception," Nick leans in and whispers to you. "She might not show it, but I'm sure it would be a comfort to have you there."
You shake your head and watch as Gail continues to shake the hands of funeral attendees, her jaw hard and her eyes dull and unblinking as she stares off at some invisible point in the distance.
"No," you tell him, "no."
And you can't. You really can't.
It strikes you now that you're not here for Bill, not to pay your respects or support Gail in her grief. You're here for you, because you wanted to see her, because you needed to see her.
You'd just needed an excuse, and stumbling across Bill's obituary in the paper had given you the perfect one.
You're capitalizing on her father's death, you're taking advantage of her mourning and her grief because you're still in love with her. Because you never stopped. Because you were afraid and because you ran and because you left her and pretended to never look back.
You're here for yourself and you're disgusted at the realization, at the person you'd let yourself become. How close you'd gotten to betraying her again, Gail, the woman you love.
Once upon a time you thought leaving her was the worst thing you could ever do.
Just another lesson you had to learn.
"I have to go," you tell Nick, and pull him into an awkward hug.
"What should I tell Gail," he asks, his eyes gentle and concerned, and you know that Gail loved him once for his sweetness, for his heart.
But there's nothing to tell.
"Nothing," is your reply.
It's the first honest answer you've given him, you realize as you walk away.
It's been three weeks since you got back from Toronto, and you feel like the world is punishing you for your transgressions.
Every day you wake up forgetting that she's not yours.
Every day you dream of her and reach for the empty space where she could have been.
Every day the sky is the particular blue of her eyes and the bay beats against the shore in the exact rhythm as the beat of her heart as she sleeps.
If you thought you missed her before, it's nothing compared to now. To today. To the vision of her stoic face in your mind, dress blues and red-rimmed eyes. The spirit you carry with you everywhere, the memory that haunts you day and night.
Finally, it rains.
Finally, it pours.
The skies go dark and silver-steel. The clouds part and release a torrent of wet misery on the city, and finally, finally, you feel like maybe you can learn to forgive yourself.
You've left the windows open so that the sound of the rain fills your apartment while you pour yourself a glass of wine. Something flashes in the distance and you hear the rolling rumble of thunder following slowly behind.
You've invited a tempest into your city, just like the demon you invited into your heart.
There's a sound at the door that you almost miss, but then it comes again. And again. And again, until you pull the heavy door open with a yank, almost spilling the wine in your other hand.
A police officer stands there, dripping with rain, and behind him, a larger one, holding a crumpled body in his arms.
"Officers?" you start to question, before the one in front shifts and you see a familiar shade of blonde in his partner's arms. "Gail–is she–"
"–she's fine," the first one interrupts, "just a little drunk. Ran her license and saw she was an officer up in Toronto. Kept telling us she needed to get to this address so we brought her over rather than dumping her in the drunk tank, professional courtesy."
"Do you mind," the larger one asks, and nods to indicate your apartment.
"Oh," you open the door wider and let them enter, "do you mind bringing her …" You trail off and let him follow you into your bedroom, where the officer gently places Gail onto the covers.
Out in the living area, the other officer is still standing by the door, making a note in his notebook.
"Here," he says when he sees that you and his partner have returned, and hands you a cell phone and wallet and a watch that you figure are Gail's. "These were all she had on her," he confirms and looks up at you, "she going to be okay here?"
You just nod, and then after a minute or two of taking down your information, and leaving their number for Gail to call in the morning, you're throwing the deadbolt on your door once again.
The cell phone in your hand buzzes once, twice, and you see that there's a whole list of ignored alerts: Steve, Elaine, Steve, Oliver, Traci, Steve, Nick, Elaine … the list goes on.
You swipe to answer when it starts to buzz again–Oliver this time.
"Hey, kid," he starts, "you've got a lot of people confused and concerned right–"
But you cut in. "Oliver, it's Holly."
"Oh, thank god," he says, and the relief in his voice is plain, "she's okay?"
"I think so," you answer, "couple of uniforms picked her up. They were probably going to charge her with public drunkenness until they ran her license. Brought her here and dropped her off just a few minutes ago. She's passed out on my bed right now, smelling of tequila."
If it were anyone else you probably would have left that last bit out, but it's Oliver. You know he's always had a soft spot for Gail.
"What happened, Oliver," you ask, though you aren't certain you want to hear the answer.
"You know about Bill, right? Thought I saw you at the funeral but then you were gone the next time I looked. She hasn't been the same since. Walked into my office and slapped her resignation down on my desk earlier this week. Hasn't talked to anyone since."
"Fuck," you whistle, and look toward the dark entrance to your bedroom.
"Yeah," he sighs back, "listen, Holly. I haven't processed it. Officially, she's on administrative leave right now and I'll try to keep it that way as long as possible. If she wants to leave, okay, but if she's just lost in grief right now, well, I don't want her to burn any bridges."
You agree, and you thank him for it. He takes your new cell number down, and you promise to keep him updated. He promises, in turn, to pass along the word that Gail is okay and not tell anyone where she is right now.
And then the apartment is silent once again, all but for the heavy breathing of the passed out woman on your bed.
You stand over her as she sleeps, watch as her chest rises and falls.
"Oh, Gail," you whisper sadly.