Of course, nothing belongs to me.

Prologue

It's hard not to spin into the cycle of why me. The mind games sit out there, dormant, just waiting to be gripped with two hands and thrown to the sky in a kaleidoscope of self pity.

I want so much to go there, to dissolve into tears and voice the emotion that I tentatively control. I want the world to know that I'm not strong enough for this.

Never was; never will be.

And the fear that knots my stomach and steals my breath away when I need it most; I want it out there so that you all know that I'm trembling inside.

Jumping at shadows; hiding from the storm.

I've spent a lifetime determined to be strong, to be better than I was destined to be. And the irony – my strength merely hides my vulnerability.

I'm weaker than I ever was.

I feel like a child; unstable and anxious. My eyes dart and my expression changes with each thought - thoughts that race through my mind too quickly for any meagre effort at distraction.

Helpless; my façade defeats me.

Part 1

He stood at her office door, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. She was oblivious to his presence, staring absentmindedly to the left of her computer screen, her hands frozen mid-type. He couldn't quite make out her expression; it flitted and changed so quickly. If he was forced to interpret, he would suggest she was feeling chaotic; confused and lost in the whirlwind of thoughts.

He coughed softly, but the sound caught in his throat and didn't emit. He scuffed his feet and loosely knocked at the doorframe that he leant against. She didn't startle, just glanced up as if not fully separated from her day dream.

She blinked twice before offering an attempt at a smile; just the right side of her mouth twitching and extending to emphasise her cheek bone. It didn't meet her eye.

"You almost finished?" Cal asked quietly, nodding his head towards the monitor that he knew she had forgotten about minutes earlier.

"Ah, yes. No, actually," Gillian fumbled for an accurate and coherent answer. She grappled to remember what it was she had been working on.

Stepping in to her office and easing himself on to the arm of a chair opposite her desk, Cal shrugged his shoulders and tossed a used coffee mug on top of a pile of out-of-date filing. "It's ten o'clock, it can wait for tomorrow."

Gillian's eyes narrowed, attempting distraction rather than a direct excuse. "There's a new appliance in the kitchen, I think it's called a dishwasher."

He smiled and called her bluff. "Nah, that's what Loker is for these days." He waited a few seconds in silence, hoping she would fill in the blank before challenging her. "Seriously, whatever it is, it can wait."

She shook her head slowly before answering, "No, this report needs to be done by the end of the week. And it could mean a big contract – you never know, it might end up being enough that we feel guilty for not paying Eli."

Call emulated the shake of her head and slid into the chair, his legs slipping over the arm before reaching the floor. "What are you hiding from tonight?" he asked directly.

Nostrils flaring briefly, Gillian ground her teeth together. "Don't read me Cal," she muttered, diverting her eyes and dipping her chin to her chest.

"In truth, I'm not," he replied, keeping his voice even and controlled. "I was just asking you a question. You seem…distracted."

She sighed heavily, leaning back in her chair but keeping her eyes focussed on her lap. Her hair was uncharacteristically out of place, tied back roughly with strands of hair shadowing her face and tucked loosely behind her ears. The curls which had been styled that morning were now knotted and simply pushed out of the way; Cal could guess that she had been indulging her nervous habit – raking her fingers through her hair and resting her forehead frustratingly in her palms. "Talk," he stated simply, though his voice was gentle and as encouraging as he could be whilst maintaining an aura of authority.

Gillian shook her head slowly, biting at her lower lip and closing her eyes in a prolonged blink. "I'm okay," she insisted, "Really."

"Then go home or better yet, join me for yum cha," Cal stated with a smile, though his concern was clear. Gillian had yet to meet his eyes or engage at all and it was rare for her. She would always talk to him, although often in a round-a-bout way, but she certainly wasn't one for theatrics with dramatised scenes of information being elicited. She would be more stoic than he wanted her to be, but she would keep him updated and accept his supportive hugs or tender hand that squeezed her own. "So," he prompted again after being met only with silence. "What will it be?"

She drew in a long, deep breath and exhaled noisily. "Cal, I just…I just want to work. Is that okay?" It was defeat that he could sense in her voice, an exasperation that was void of passion. In everything they did, in all the years that he had known her, she was seldom detached and emotionless.

"Sure," he said finally, dismissing the wave of relief that crossed her face. He moved out of the chair but made no effort to leave, walking only to the sofa against her office wall and settled into it. He removed his jacket and bundled it up, placing it under his head as he lay down. He caught a glimpse of a smile from Gillian as he kicked his shoes off, one falling directly to the ground but the other flying two metres across the room before dropping with a thud. "Just wake me when you're ready to go."

"I know what you're doing, you know; how many times do I have to tell you that I'm fine."

"Oh at least five more and with conviction. None of this amateur lying stuff."

"I thought you weren't reading me?"

"You left me no choice – all this talk of being fine, you can't blame my ego for advocating my id..."

She laughed and finally allowed their eyes to meet. "You've resorted to Freudian theories of the mind? You turned desperate Cal."

"Go home Gillian."

She sighed and raised a hand to her mouth. Her fingers trembled and Cal suddenly shifted his weight on the sofa and leant forward. "I can't," she whispered, the words lingering, barely audible but thick with fear.

"Can't?" His thoughts reeled, suddenly torn between emulating her fear and a overwhelming desire to fix whatever she was eluding to.

Gillian shook her head slowly, attempting twice to swallow an invisible lump in her throat. "He's looking for me. Knows where I am – live. There are security cameras here, at least."

"I'm not following. Who? Alec?"

Again, she moved her head left to right. "No. He has debts and he's gone. Left them behind. Now they're looking for payment." Her words were slightly disjointed and were vocalised in either a rush of exhaled air or whispered through a strangled voice.

"His dealer?" Cal asked confidently, the pieces finally falling into place. "We'll sort it out, we can pay them off. That's not a problem – tomorrow we can organise a draw. You should have come to me earlier, you know that." It was the only part of the equation that was confusing him; although he hadn't been privy to the details of Gillian and Alec's divorce settlement, he knew that the finances and property had all been divided and reconciled. The debt couldn't be that out of control and if it was, she would have come to him. She always found a way to communicate with him, even if using words was too hard.

"If only," Gillian muttered, the defeated tone returning. She shifted in her chair, pulling her knees to her chest and bowing her forehead. "That's not the kind of payment they're after."

TBC