Title: Evidence of Absence
Rating: G
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Neither 'Without a Trace' nor the characters who bring
it alive belong to me; I write about them for love, not money.

Summary: The absence of evidence cannot be taken for evidence of
absence - can it? (M/S pairing, Jack POV)

-

The absence of evidence cannot always be taken as evidence of
absence.

One of his trainers at the Academy taught him that. Just because a
suspect's prints aren't on the murder weapon doesn't mean he didn't
touch it. Just because a witness lacks a credible alibi doesn't mean
she was doing anything other than what she claimed. Proof needs
something more positive: a suspect's alibi for the time of the
murder, someone who saw the witness at the scene instead of wherever
she said she was. Absence of evidence may be thought provoking, but
it is not evidence of absence.

Except in this case. However he looked at it, the absence of
evidence was damning. Even when they tried to be discrete, Samantha
had always left inadvertent traces of herself in his life. A half-
eaten danish in his car. Marks on his back, his arms, his shoulders.
Messages on his cell-phone. Scraps of evidence that soothed his
investigator's heart and proved that she was really there. Really
his.

Now her unconscious traces were left for someone else, with
someone else. He'd stopped at Martin's apartment yesterday with a
manufactured excuse and seen it for himself. His own apartment was
empty of her and her things, but Martin's home was full of her.

Two mugs, two plates, two bowls, sitting side by side on the
draining rack.

A woman's running shoes, kicked carelessly under the sofa.

The faint smell of orange peel in the air. Samantha loved oranges.

He made his excuses and bolted to his own home. His empty home. He
had a picture of her, taken years ago, but that was all. Nothing
else. She'd never even set foot here, though he could imagine her
around every corner. His coffee mug sat alone in the sink. There
were shoes under the sofa, but they were his shoes. The only thing
he could smell was the lingering scent of charcoal from last night's
burned potatoes.

He wanted to believe that she still wanted him, but there was no
real evidence to support it. A few sympathetic looks, a little
tension, a little strain around the eyes when he was in the room.
That was all. At the end of the day, she still went home with
Martin, while he came here.

Alone.

Empty.

Absence of evidence. Evidence of absence.

Jack sat alone in the darkness and stared blankly into space.

THE END