A/N - an AU story, where Claire does not die, but she does escape her life in NY. She returns to the city out of necessity and makes contact with Jack, and thus a story of redemption and reconciliation unfolds. I always swore I'd never write such a story, but here you go….with many thanks to Elisabeth Carmichael.

A Broken Hallelujah

Part One

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Jack McCoy's day was done. He locked his files away, then opened his favorite drawer, which hid a bottle of scotch, two glasses, and a framed photograph. The picture was at the bottom, under the bottle. He couldn't avoid seeing it when he wanted a drink, and that became bothersome. He'd turned it face down a couple of years ago rather than be reminded on a daily basis, in this place, of what he'd lost. His sleeve caught on the back of the frame as his fingers closed around the bottle, and he irritably shook it free. Then he stopped. He looked at the bottle, then the cardboard backing on the picture, then at a glass. Sighing, he grabbed a glass, poured, and reached for the picture.

Five years, he thought, looking at the face of Claire Kincaid. She was seated on the circular staircase on the exterior of a lighthouse. Her hair was windblown, eyes lit with laughter, one hand gripping the wrought-iron stair rail, the other buried in her jacket's pocket. His finger traced her red and black parka, then moved to her face. Claire. He couldn't hear her name, think it, without pain. Claire's been gone for five years, five long, terrible years, he thought. And in that time, he'd yet to learn how to fill the emptiness, block the loneliness, deal with his guilt.

He heard laughter and he looked up. He recognized the voice behind the laughter, and he tossed the picture in the drawer, closing it with his foot. As expected, Abbie walked in, pausing just inside the doorway, leaning back against the frame. She smiled. "We're going for a drink, Jack, want to come?"

There was a time when he would have jumped on the invitation with both feet, when he desperately wanted to bury the loneliness and guilt, but not now. He'd found the easiest way to cope with life was to avoid it as much as possible. "I don't think so, Abbie." He smiled, without warmth or humor. "But thanks."

She pushed off the doorframe and approached. She wasn't smiling now. She leaned on his desk, both hands on the calendar blotter, and looked down at him. "Jack," she said, "I think you should." Her right hand moved, her index finger on a calendar square. Her nail made an irritating noise tapping the date. "I know what today is."

"It's Thursday," he said, not wanting to go there. He never wanted to go there, but sometimes he was dragged anyway. He would see the overly bright hospital corridor, see Lennie Briscoe sitting by himself, staring into his personal abyss, see Mr. and Mrs. Gellar clinging to each other in the corner. No, he did not want to go there. He met Abbie's patient gaze with one of his own and sighed. "All right," he said, surrendering to the sheer force of her personality. "One drink."

"One drink," she agreed. He got up and changed into his jeans, while Abbie turned to stare out the door, her arms crossed and her foot tapping.

He buckled his belt, then draped his tie over the hanger with his suit coat, and sat to put his shoes on. He glanced at Abbie's narrow back, her dark suit and long black hair, and remembered. Claire turned away the first time, as he changed from his suit into jeans and a sweater in front of her, a door providing partial cover. Claire rolled her eyes, he remembered, as if his wardrobe change was a test of her patience and tolerance. Claire was tall and slender, like Abbie, but any resemblance ended there. Refined, delicate, vulnerable Claire was miles ahead of coarse, direct, tough Abbie Carmichael. Jack stood, ready to go.

He walked beside Abbie to the elevator, at odds with himself, nothing new. He hadn't been comfortable in his skin for a long time, not since he bailed out on Claire, and she died. Not immediately, he remembered, it had taken her weeks to slip away, weeks in a center for the brain-damaged in upstate New York. No hope, they'd been told, and Mrs. Gellar refused to believe that, refused to take her daughter off life support. He realized Abbie was frowning at him, and he jerked to the present. "What."

"The elevator, Jack?" She gestured to the open door and waiting car. He shrugged and stepped in ahead of her, as she wanted.

The bar was loud, smoky, crowded. Abbie grinned and waved, but he made no effort to identify the person she saw. He allowed her to drag him with her, through the crowd, to a large table in the back. A half dozen of their colleagues sat around, drinks in hand or on the table, and Jack smiled mechanically at each of them. When Abbie pulled a chair away and pressed on his shoulder he sat.

He ordered a double scotch. His eyes found the Knicks' game, and he followed the action while his comrades talked around him. Constant motion, he thought, is the key, move fast enough and you'll outrun the pain. He looked at Abbie when she elbowed his ribs. "What."

"You're talkative tonight," she chided. "We asked your opinion on Barnett."

He frowned as he raised the glass to his lips. "I have no opinion," he said, "outside of the office. Never mix work and drinking, Abbie, it's bad form." He carefully set the glass on the table, nudging it with his finger to align with a wet napkin. This was a bad idea, he thought, I know better than to be around well-meaning people on this day. I don't need a babysitter.

Abbie frowned, her head cocked, and she opened her mouth. Before she spoke, he pushed away from the table. She immediately stood, too. "We just got here, Jack."

"And you can stay," he said. "I'm not feeling well, I have a headache. I'll see you in the morning."

As he wove through the crowd he saw a young woman at the front of the bar, pushing her way past people, making for the door. His heart stopped. She looked just like Claire. Without thinking, he accelerated his forward progress, realizing, when he got to the front door, that every young woman with black hair was going to look like Claire on this night. He sighed as he stepped out into fresh air, looking from side to side. Whoever she was, she was gone.

He walked to the corner and hailed a cab. Settling into the backseat, he gave the driver his address, then stared sightlessly out the side window. She did look like Claire, he thought, he wasn't imagining it. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, hard. Claire was gone. There were probably a hundred women in the city who could pass for her at first glance, but Claire, his Claire, was gone.

They'd been arguing for weeks prior to that terrible day, the day Mickey Scott was executed, but Jack never thought an argument would lead to the end of all he loved. Their last conversation, over the phone, was brief but held the promise of reconciliation - she would meet him at the bar, take him home, put him to bed. And he, drunk, grew tired of waiting, so he told Lennie Briscoe "the hell with her." He walked out. He caught a cab, went home, passed out, only to have a ringing phone bring him back to consciousness a few hours later.

The cab stopped in front of his building, and Jack paid the driver, then got out. He stood on the sidewalk for a minute, pressing his lower back, acknowledging his doorman with a curt nod. When the muscles loosened under the practiced pressure of his fingers, he walked to his door. "Hello, Tom," he said to the doorman.

"Mr. McCoy," Tom said, with a gentle nod. "How are you tonight?"

He hesitated. Was Tom just being courteous, or did he remember the significance of the date? Tom's face was the usual bland mask all doormen wore, and Jack shrugged a shoulder. "Fine, thank you," he said. He walked into the small lobby, pausing by the mailboxes.

In his apartment, he undressed, content to sit in his shorts and drink himself into oblivion. He poured scotch into a tumbler and took it to the couch. He turned off the lamp, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, watching shadows created by the streetlights. Claire. He drank, wanting to drown that melancholy voice, which wouldn't hesitate to remind him of what he'd lost, of his guilt. He knew how it worked, he had years of experience with that taunting voice that brought her fully into focus. He knew he'd have a vicious hangover come morning.

--II--

The anticipated hangover was present and accounted for when the alarm cut into his sleep. It was nasty, all right, his head felt like someone buried a cleaver in it, his mouth as if his tissues were made of cotton. His stomach promised to return anything he sent its way. Jack rolled on his stomach and pushed up on his elbows, looking at the clock. Five-thirty. He dropped to the pillow and mattress, closing his eyes, negotiating with the man in charge of God's past due accounts, lapsed Catholic division. The headache grew worse, and Jack groaned. He smelled coffee, as the timer switched the power on, and he thought even that was too much for his stomach. He could not go to work, not feeling like this. He couldn't recall a worse hangover. And then he did.

The morning after he got the call telling him Claire died at Fairhaven, that morning had truly been the hangover from hell. This ran a close second. He pulled the other pillow over his head, trying to shut out the street noises, faint as they were. If he could just go back to sleep…

Fifteen minutes later, he gave up. He sat up, slowly, holding the mattress. He sat on the edge of the bed for another five minutes, then he lunged to his feet, staggering, as he walked into the bathroom. He leaned over the sink, hands gripping its sides, fighting the urge to vomit. When that passed, he brushed his teeth. The toothbrush triggered his gag reflex, and that was it. Dry heaves wracked his body as his stomach punished him with the cruelty of a Jesuit priest for the night's excesses. When the heaves stopped, he dropped on his bottom, leaning against the wall, his bare feet flanking the toilet. He covered his face with his hands. This shit has got to stop, Jack, he thought.

He dragged himself back to bed and burrowed under the covers. He drifted for a little while, lost in memories, and then it was time to call Adam. He supposed Adam was used to it. This anniversary, if one could call it that, was the one day of the year when Jack McCoy would call in sick. Adam never hinted at the word hangover, and Jack certainly didn't say it, but it stood between them, an issue that would divide them if it surfaced. When Jack told Adam he had the flu, the old man said, "Take care of yourself, I'll see you on Monday," and hung up. Jack fumbled with the receiver, finally got it in its cradle, and rolled over on his other side. He wondered if sleep would ever come.

--III--

By nightfall, Jack felt better. He wanted a hot meal, so he dressed in jeans and a sweater and went out. He walked toward a small restaurant and bar a few blocks away. Mealtimes were when the loneliness really hit. People were not meant to eat alone, he thought, but he could not find it in himself to invite someone to dinner. He'd eat quickly, he thought, and go back home.

He saw the man walk out of the alley. In the seconds that Jack had him in focus, he thought the man was familiar. Average height, sandy hair, a hooked nose. And then Jack's eyes were on the pistol the man raised, on the enormous barrel. Claire, he thought, please be waiting for me.

The first impact, in his shoulder, staggered him. The next one, less than a second later, hit him in the upper chest and everything went black. The sound of a scream echoing over the lingering noise of a gunshot and the smell of cordite drew people out of the bar and from around the corner. The man stood over Jack McCoy for a second, prepared to fire a third time, then, satisfied Jack was dead, he looked at the witnesses. He swung his pistol in a quick outward arc, then he turned and ran up the alley. No one bothered peeking in the alley. As the sound of a siren grew closer, they scattered. Jack McCoy bled on the sidewalk.

--xx--

He woke at some point, aware of agonizing pain and dim light. He tried to focus on his surroundings, but his eyes wouldn't work properly. He saw a woman in blue scrubs walk by and he tried to call her. His voice didn't seem to function, either. He remained still, letting his eyes slowly adjust. Details emerged. Hospital, he thought, and then the intensity of his pain overrode any further thought. He jerked his head from side to side, tried to raise his arms, formed words that emerged as whispers. Something near his head beeped furiously.

The nurse he'd seen a few minutes earlier came to his bedside, the stethoscope around her neck falling away from her chest as she leaned over him. "Mr. McCoy?" She stopped in the insistent beeping. "Are you in pain?"

"Yes," he whispered, "yes."

She reached up and behind his head to adjust something, then put a button control in his hand.

"Morphine pump," she said. "Press the red button on top and it will give you another dose." She smiled. "Glad you're back with us."

The medicine helped almost immediately, and he relaxed. "How long?"

"Three days," she said.

Three days, he thought, as the drugs pulled him back into the blackness. He slept.

The young woman was getting coffee from the vending machine in the family room when Maggie Smith, RN, walked in. Maggie tugged on the ends of her stethoscope, took a deep breath, and approached the younger woman. Her tennis shoes squeaked on the linoleum and the woman looked up. She held the coffee cup and waited, her shoulders squaring, as Maggie stopped in front of her. Early thirties, Maggie thought again, she'd assessed this slender young woman, with her delicate beauty, as being too vulnerable for a place like this. Too easily wounded by the suffering of others. Appearances, Maggie Smith thought, really are deceiving.

"Mr. McCoy was awake, briefly," she said. "He was in a lot of pain, the morphine put him back under, but he should be able to hear you, if you want to talk to him."

The younger woman sipped coffee and made a face, then cleared her throat. "I haven't talked to him in a long time," she said. Then she drew a deep breath and nodded, as if agreeing with some internal decision. "I do want to see him," she said.

"Follow me," Maggie said, unnecessarily. Young Ms. Kincaid knew the layout of the intensive care ward by now. She'd arrived yesterday morning, escorted by a much older man. Maggie nailed him as a cop, her wounded patient's protector. The man stood with Ms. Kincaid at Mr. McCoy's bedside for a few minutes, then patted her shoulder and left without a word. From that moment, Ms. Kincaid stayed in the hospital, at Mr. McCoy's bedside for every allotted minute, leaving without argument when Maggie gently reminded her that the visiting window for this half hour was over. She'd once found two men, the familiar cop and another, disparate in age and dress, flanking her in the family waiting room, but they did not accompany her to the patient's side. Maggie wondered who Ms. Kincaid was, she didn't think she was the patient's daughter, not with the way she'd touch Mr. McCoy as he lingered under consciousness. She's struggling with some inner conflict, Maggie thought, accustomed to reading in the faces of her patients' loved ones all their varying emotions. She's not his daughter, not his wife. Girlfriend? Maggie discounted that label, too, she'd taken too long to arrive at the hospital for that status.

Ms. Kincaid peeled away from Maggie at Mr. McCoy's cubicle; Maggie continued on to the nursing station. She glanced up once as she opened a chart, seeing Ms. Kincaid stroke Mr. McCoy's face, observing her bowed shoulders, the movement of her pants' legs. Chair, she thought, the woman is shaking. Quickly arriving in the small space dedicated to keeping the man alive, Maggie scooted a hard, straight chair behind Ms. Kincaid's long legs and pushed her shoulder. Ms. Kincaid obediently sat, but her hand snaked through the bedrails for Jack's hand. Lover, Maggie thought, as she returned to the big desk and her observation post, she's his lover but they broke up a long time ago, and she isn't over him yet. Triumphantly smiling, Maggie busied herself with charts. She loved solving these little mysteries of the human heart.

--xx--

Lennie Briscoe sat in the family room, one of three on the intensive care floor. It was deserted, as usual. He got coffee, then settled himself again on an uncomfortable plastic chair and waited. She was in with Jack, she'd be back when the nurse ran her off. Lennie could wait, he'd waited years to see her again, what was another few minutes? In all this time, he thought, I'm the only one, other than her parents, who knew. I played my shameful part in this cloak and dagger scenario. Claire saw her way out and she took it, he reflected, she was broken in body and heart and all she thought about was escaping. He'd tried to tell her about the broken lives left in her absence, but she didn't want to hear it. And that, he thought, was the last time I saw her, when I left her, in tears, in the living room of her small apartment in Vermont.

"Lennie."

He looked up. She stood, leaning against the doorframe, hands jammed in her jeans' pockets. Her hair was long now, curly, but her face was the same. She didn't look any more like a motel manager than he did, he thought, but it was a great choice for anonymous occupations. "Claire," he answered, rising, spilling coffee on his hand. He wiped it on his pants.

Claire walked in and sat next to him. She put her hand on his knee. Licking her lips, she cleared her throat, then said, "You were right. I acted like a selfish, self-absorbed, drama queen high school student." Her left hand came up and rubbed the scar on her forehead. "I was.." her lips moved, but words didn't come. She appealed to Lennie with her eyes.

"Coward?" he suggested. "Afraid? I don't know where you're going with this, sorry."

She still struggled with the after-effects of the accident and coma, he knew that, she didn't feel self-conscious with him. "Afraid," she said. "And I was a coward, too." Her left leg jiggled, and her hand came down to clamp on her knee, hard. "And now I'm facing all the people I hurt." She twisted, reaching for her purse. She took a pill bottle out of it, uncapped it, and tipped two pills into her palm. Dry-swallowing them, she put the bottle back and dropped her purse to the floor by her feet. "They don't seem to hate me."

"No, they don't hate you, Claire. They don't understand, but they don't hate you." He finished his bitter coffee and leaned over to toss the cup in the trash.

"Hate me he'll." She stopped, biting her lower lip. She took a deep breath, then tried again. "He'll hate me." She looked at the vending machine and reached down for her purse.

Lennie stopped her hand. "Got it," he said, and he stood. He got a fresh cup of coffee for Claire, then sat down and took her right hand in his. He studied her palm for a few seconds, then met her intense gaze. "Jack isn't going to hate you, Claire. He's going to be hurt and bewildered, like everyone else, but I don't think he could ever hate you."

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she said, easing her hand from Lennie's. "I don't belong here. No more." She scratched her head with her freed hand, then looked at it, as if expecting to see blood on her nails. "I left him. I.." She sighed. "It gets worse under stress," she said. "The word disconnects. My leg." She met his kind gaze.

"Take your time, Claire." Lennie smiled.

"My mother would choke if she knew I was here. But I couldn't stay away. Couldn't let him die without knowing…" Irony cut her short this time, and tears filled her soft brown eyes. "Karma, huh, Lennie?"

"Karma," he agreed. He looked at his watch. "Van Buren said she was coming by this evening, when she got out of the office."

"Warning?" she asked, a flash of humor lighting her eyes. "Should I run? Now?" She bit her lip again, then sighed. "Or face what's rightfully coming?"

"She loved you, Claire. Like a mother, almost." He turned to put his hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing it. "Like everybody else, she's in a state of shock, and she's angry, too, no doubt, but she wants to see you."

Claire nodded. "I want to see her." She drank her rapidly cooling coffee. "I have to face everyone eventually. Can't explain, I know, it was wrong." She gave up on the coffee and gave the cup to Lennie. He got up and put it in the trash, watching the liquid spill and spread, like the word about Claire did around the precinct and Hogan Place. Lennie eased back into his seat, his knees cracking.

They leaned against each other, silently. Lennie was replaying fresh memories, dreading the arrival of his lieutenant. Telling her Claire Kincaid was still alive was second only to telling Adam Schiff in difficulty, he reflected, it was harder than telling parents their teenage kid was dead. He'd gone to Adam's office, the morning after Jack was shot, making an appointment. That surprised the DA, Lennie Briscoe making an appointment to see him. Mr. Schiff paled, his knuckles white on the armrests of his desk chair, his eyes boring holes in Lennie.

"You knew?" he asked. "You knew all along?"

Lennie squirmed, but he did not try to evade the questions. "Yes. She was like my own kid, Mr. Schiff, she trusted me with that kind of faith. She felt trapped, depressed, lost. I told her, her parents told her, that her solution was not a solution, it was cruel and unnecessary, but she insisted. Her doctors said there was brain damage, not to aggravate her condition, to go along with her. So Mrs. Gellar had her moved to a nursing home for the brain damaged, in Vermont, and told everyone she died. Had a memorial service."

"Yes, I know, I was there!" Adam loosened his grip on the armrests. "She wanted to get away from Jack, from the prosecutor's office, that badly? That she'd do something so terrible?"

Lennie nodded. "She and Jack were constantly arguing. She felt like her life was slipping away from her control. And that was before her brain was scrambled by a drunk driver."

"And she's recovered?"

"She has trouble with words sometimes, with putting a sentence together. And her left knee and hip had to be reconstructed, it gives her constant pain. She lives on Percocet, sometimes walks with a cane. She has coordination problems occasionally. Scars on her forehead." He gestured with his hands, a 'you know' movement. "But she's essentially Claire. She'll arrive tomorrow morning. She's going straight to the hospital."

Claire's bump against his shoulder brought Lennie back to the present. He glanced at her. She'd slumped in the chair, her legs out straight and apart, staring at the far wall. He looked at the clock on the wall over a row of identical hard chairs. It was almost six. Another visiting window would open, and he hoped Van Buren arrived after Claire left for her few minutes with Jack. If she was going to rip Claire's head off, he wanted to know ahead of time.

"Claire Kincaid." The voice was pleasant enough, but Lennie's years of experience told him anger was dangerously close to the surface. Claire stood and faced Anita Van Buren for the first time in five years. She'd felt so close to Anita the last time she saw her, confiding her fears and doubts to the older woman. And now she felt the distance, the mistrust and anger she so rightfully deserved.

"Anita." Claire waited.

Anita walked up to her, her eyes bright. "You look good," she said, her gaze running up and down Claire's tall, slender frame. "For a corpse."

Claire shut her eyes momentarily, then focused on her shorter friend. "I'm sorry, Anita," she said. "I scared." Her fists clenched and she tried again. "I was scared. Confused. Made a terrible choice."

"Yes, you did." Anita took her arm and led her to the chairs. "I shed a lot of tears for you, and Jack was shattered." She looked up at Lennie. "I always wondered why you seemed so calm, so accepting." She looked at Claire again. "And now you're back. Why."

"Jack," she said. "I have to be here for Jack."

"Does he know you're here?"

She shrugged. "I've talked to him, but he hasn't regained consciousness. The nurse said he woke a little while ago, but he was out again when I went in. I'm not sure he'll want to see me. Terrible I did that thing." She bit her bottom lip and tears spilled from her eyes. "I did a terrible thing," she said, slowly, enunciating each word. She faced Anita. "Can you forgive me?"

Anita's face softened, and then she put her arms around the fragile younger woman. "I don't know," she whispered. "I loved you, and that hasn't changed. Maybe I can forgive the pain and grief, Claire, but I'm not sure Jack can." Claire trembled under Anita's arms, and Anita released her, stepped back, staring at her with a lingering disbelief. They'd all felt such shock and pain when she died, Anita thought, and it was all a lie. Still, looking at the now older, damaged woman she'd once thought of as a daughter, love is the one thing that doesn't die, I don't think I can hate her, can be unforgiving. Something drove Claire to make the decision to disappear, to die, and Anita wanted to believe it was her injured brain. She couldn't have pulled it off without help, without her parents, and Anita shifted gears, blaming them more than this fragile woman-child standing in front of her. They'd made it work, played the grieving parents, distancing themselves from anyone who'd known Claire, especially Jack. Claire's mother really disliked Jack, Anita remembered, perhaps she took some sadistic glee in watching him dissolve into a shell of the man he'd been before that night.

An ICU nurse stepped into the waiting room. "You may visit him, Ms. Kincaid," she said.

"I'm back in a few," Claire said, touching Anita's shoulder. Then she walked after the nurse and into the mysterious room barred to all but medical personnel and close loved ones.

Anita stared at Lennie as she sat next to him, crossing her legs. "You really need to talk to me, Lennie. We've reached the time and place," she added, alluding to his hasty 'not now, this is not the time or place' when he'd told her Claire lived.

He sighed. How many times had he repeated this story over the past couple of days? "She felt her life was disintegrating and she didn't know how to save it. Then her brain was scrambled, and her thought processes were anything but the cool, logical Claire we all knew. She wanted that Claire to die, and the doctors kept telling her parents that the extent of her brain damage was unknown, not to upset her, to go along with whatever future she tried to plan. They obviously didn't know she wanted people to think she'd died." He shrugged. "So she was moved upstate, very discreetly. As you recall, it was a memorial service, not a funeral. And while everyone here tried to adjust to life without Claire, she tried to adjust to life itself. To heal."

"You stayed in touch all these years?"

"Christmas cards, mostly. She knew I'd keep my mouth shut. Guilt." He met Anita's penetrating gaze. "If I hadn't fallen off the wagon, the accident wouldn't have happened. She relied on that guilt, and my affection, for complicity. Loo, you have to believe she wasn't thinking, she wasn't the same person who came by the bar for Jack and left with me. She was broken, frightened, and she wanted to start over. Where no one would pity her, treat her like a fragile doll, compare the old Claire with the new, inferior version."

"She didn't believe we'd make allowances for her injuries?"

"That's exactly what she believed, and she didn't want it. She knew Jack would stick to her like glue, smother her, and that Adam would treat her gingerly, assign her less important cases." He rubbed his jaw. "It made sense to her, Loo, and that's what we have to remember. Killing herself, in a way, made sense in that crossed wiring in her brain. Look at her, she still has trouble articulating thoughts, putting sentences together. Her career as a trial lawyer was over. And you can imagine how Jack would have been."

Anita nodded. "I can." She sighed, a terribly weary sound. "She was such a sweet girl."

"She still is, maybe even more so. It breaks my heart sometimes, watching her walk with a cane, listening to her try to talk about complex things. It took a lot of courage to come here, Loo. Please try to find a way to forgive her."

"It should be that easy?"

"Yes. The Claire we knew and loved did die that night. She was never going to be the same, and she knew it. And she wanted to forge a new life, on her terms, without pity and excuses."

Claire was back, leaning on the doorframe, watching them. A half-smile was on her face. "I don't expect forgiveness, Anita. I'd like it, yes, but I stopped believing in redemption and grace a long time ago." She pushed off the frame and walked up to them. "He's waking up, they're going to let me stay with him longer, what I wanted to tell you." She frowned, sighed, tried again. "That's what I wanted to tell you. I don't know what will happen." She looked at Lennie. "Will you wait for me?"

"Of course."

She looked at Anita. "I know I can never justify it, Anita. It was what I thought I had to do."

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