A year passes quickly when you're a social butterfly. All right, I'm exaggerating, but I found out that if you leave your options open you wind up being faced with a lot of them. I hadn't formed any deep and serious friendships, and there were definitely no dates, but I would call my social calendar healthy. I made my way to quite a few Red Sox games.

I found myself better equipped to deal with people and relationships, and everything else life decided to throw at me. My hair had grown in its natural brow,and I just let it grow, and the gnawing emptiness that I'd had for the first six months or so had gone from a daily occurrence to an occasional one.

As much as Maurice had prepared me for this…. this, in turn, prepared me for the next step.

I spent so much time analyzing and over-analyzing my emotions. Did I find myself thinking about him all the time because what I felt was real, or was it just because the end was so abrupt – there had been no 'closure' ? At the time, I thought the issue was pretty damn well closed.

Either way, it was a Sunday night and it was a year to the day after I'd been hauled in to the 55th precinct and been forced to go home with Maurice.

Everything was cloudy in my memory. Was I remembering things as they were, or as I decided they had been? That night everything had been real. It was the next day that I'd had to start living a lie.

Over the last year, I'd gone over it in my head a thousand times.

Did I think he'd had malicious intent? No.

Was he dishonest? Yes.

Would I have walked out the door on Saturday if I'd known I could? Yes.

If I knew then what I know now, would I? Can't say. Some days yes, some days no.

I'd bought a bottle of Stoli to commemorate, and fully intended to drink myself to sleep as I had that night. I'd thought I was pretty focused on my goal, but after four shots, my mind started wandering and I began to wonder what he was doing tonight. Working? If not, was he with someone? Did he even remember? Care?

I hadn't felt this alone since that first night after I'd walked out. They'd taken me to the airport right away and I'd spent the first night right in my new apartment in Boston. With Agent Garrity. His hands had gotten away from his brain just a little bit and I'd had to blacken his eye. I hadn't meant to, exactly, but the insult compounded with the trauma of the day had overwhelmed me. He'd acted like an abused puppy the rest of the night, and the look on Durand's face when he returned in the morning with Dunkin' Donuts coffee and bagels had been priceless.

Anyway, a year down the road and the FBI and US Marshalls were stingy with the updates. They gave me nothing concrete and nothing satisfying, and the whole ordeal was starting to wear thin.

Evan's father had been indicted for something that had nothing to do with my evidence or my testimony. It felt like it had all been for nothing. My frustration level was sky-high. They kept telling me that once things went to trial I'd be able to get on with my life, but it never seemed to be about to actually happen. I began to plan to get on with my life without them. I knew it could be done. I'd done it. Evan Benedict II's empire had been dismantled, so I had little fear for my life. Some, but not much.

I was ready to jump.

Decided to, planned for it.

Until the day that newspaper came.

I'd been following things.

Sully's step-son and wife murdered. Faith shot. I'd wanted to respond in some way, but anything I could think of could be traced back to me. Even if I used cash to send flowers, the order would be shown to have come from Boston. My concern for that was about to go out the window.

When I'd subscribed the papers claimed they'd be delivered in the morning, but they never were. My job was predictable and dull and there was hardly ever a late night, so I sat at the table with my dinner and read through them after work.

It had been a ho-hum day, so I came home and tossed the papers and mail on the table without a glance. I'd stopped and gotten takeout. North End Italian.

Carrying my plate over to the table, I was about to set it down when the black-bordered headline of the Post leaped out at me. I brushed the mail off the top.

NYPD Officer Shot! Fighting for Life.

That was heart-stopping enough, but the photo just about killed me. My plate shattered on the floor and I left it there as I frantically read the papers then checked the internet. No updates. I called the precinct asking for Faith, but of course she wasn't there and they couldn't tell me anything. I called Mercy hospital, but they wouldn't tell me anything. I assumed Faith was there, but they wouldn't page her for me.

I didn't sleep at all that night. And very little each night after. I was a zombie at work.

It was five long days before I could get in touch with Faith at the precinct. I didn't dare call her home. The operator, the receptionist, the phone cop, whatever, asked me to hold a moment for Faith, by the time she got on the phone I was nearly hysterical. I just kept saying "Tell me he's going to be OK."

"Who is this?" she'd asked.

"You know who this is. Tell me he's going to be OK!" I demanded.

She informed me that things didn't look good and I must have said something about I have to see him because she reminded me that I shouldn't even be calling her and I needed to stay where I was, and her voice was so matter-of-fact and so reasonable at that point I realized that this had to be the absolute worst for her.

I asked how she was doing, if there was anything I could do. It sounds like a hollow offer, but I really would have done anything she'd asked.

But there was nothing to be done.

So, I sat in Boston, feeling helpless. And she sat in New York, feeling helpless.

I called her once a week for updates. It was as often as I dared. Always at the precinct, usually on a Wednesday.

Sometimes we'd talk about things other than how he was doing. I told her how the FBI investigation had very little to do with me and I felt a little like a garnish. At one point I even told her I was thinking of just getting out and going it alone, and she told me not to. Just stay put.

I wish I'd listened.

She never told me anything about his life over the past year and I never asked. We talked about a lot of things, none of them very personal until one week she asked me why I was so concerned when I'd clearly felt so betrayed. I'd completely forgotten she had been there.

I'd thought it through and I realized why he did what he did, and I really couldn't hold it against him.

"He's easy to forgive." I finally said.

"You think so?"

"When the only other option is walking away and living without him, yeah." I said. "Yeah." How had she gotten me to admit to that?

She was silent for a moment. It felt like there was a subtle shift in her thinking.

"Was it that hard?"

"No. I was angry. It was really easy. It was hard a month later. It's really hard now." I admitted.

"He's going to be all right."

"I'm praying for that."

"No. We talked to the doctors yesterday. He's going to be all right."

I continued to call until Faith told me he was going to be released from the hospital within the week. I couldn't imagine the anguish she'd gone through for all those months. I wished I could have been there, at least for her. Who knew if he'd have even wanted me around. He was about to get on with his life, and I needed to do the same with mine. It wasn't easy to decide to close the door on this chapter, but it had to be done.

The next morning, instead of papers from work, I loaded my briefcase with as much cash as I had on hand, which was considerable. I ended up having to stuff a bunch in the handbag I'd started to carry months ago, for this express purpose. I checked to make sure my sunglasses were in there and added a hat, for the surveillance cameras at the airport.

I went to work the way I did everyday; walked a couple of blocks to the T, rode a few more, and emerged nearly directly in front of my building. I walked in the front door to satisfy anyone watching, turned my reversible jacket from white to blue, put the hat and sunglasses on, and walked out the back.

I had no idea where I was going to go, but I could decide at the airport.


I was frustrated, annoyed and generally pissed off, pacing the hospital room, waiting to be released. It felt like I'd been here forever and I just wanted out. Especially now that I knew Kate had been in contact with Faith.

It had been a couple of weeks earlier. I'd woken up, and I always knew when Faith was there before I even opened my eyes, even if she hadn't made a sound.

I'd looked at her. She'd been fussing with her purse, looking for something and she hadn't seen I was awake. The sky outside was grey, heavy. Then I'd noticed, sitting on that table, with the tissues and the plastic pitcher with the water was an impossibly tiny bottle of Tabasco.

"Where is she?" I'd said, startled Faith.

"I don't know. She asked me to get that for you."

I'd frowned at it. "I don't know what that means."

"It means she's been calling me every week since it happened checking up on you."

"Every week."

"Every week." she nodded.

"How did she know?"

"Newspapers." That could mean she was nearby, or it could mean she was anywhere in the world with internet access to New York newspaper websites.

"From where?"

"I don't know."

"Can you find out?"

"I'll do my best." She'd promised.

And now, as I stood looking around at the room I hoped never to see again, she pressed a piece of paper in my hand. It was a phone number.

"What's this?"

"The number she called from. Every time."

"How did you get this?"

"Called in a few favors."

I didn't know what to say.

"We can get an address from that." She added.

"508. Where's that?"

"Boston."

"Of course it is."

I was going to Boston.