All recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich, I'm just playing.

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Chapter 3

RPOV

The waiting room is crowded with Rangemen, a few cops, and Steph's family. Mary Lou, Lula, and Connie are huddled in the corner with Valerie, not used to so many of the men gathered together. We should have heard something by now. A quick glance at my watch shows it's a little after 1400hours (2pm). It feels like we've been here much longer than the couple hours it's actually been. A burst of agitation I don't understand hits me like a lightning bolt and I can't stay still. The men are trying to hide their shock at the sight of me pacing, but I can't make myself stop. Something's wrong.

The beast in me lets out a feral howl that only I can hear, and I know I can't stay in this room. The walls are closing in, wrapping tentacles around my neck. I have to get out of here.

Striding to the door and throwing it open, I can hear startled gasps and the not so quiet whispering of my men. I don't look back and instead head for the doors that block off the surgical department from the rest of the floor. My exit here is quieter, more controlled, but still not normal for me. The hallway extends out like a ribbon of highway before me and gets longer with every step I take. The pressure in my chest continues to grow. Halfway down the unending path, lightheadedness forces me to stop and lean against the wall. Pressing a hand to my chest, I will myself to breathe, to ignore the feeling of being underwater and panicking. Through my tunneling vision, I see the cross next to the door in front of me and know I was led here.

The door is heavy, as are the steps that take me to the front of the little chapel. My legs can no longer sustain my weight and I drop to my knees just off center of the altar. The quiet serenity of the room is broken by my labored breathing.

Please.

It's the only thought that my overwrought system can form. Even though I don't want to admit it, I know what's happening. All the times she was missing, all the times she was hurt, I knew. I think I even knew something was wrong earlier, but I ignored it while I clung to my righteous indignation, my annoyance at her not doing what I wanted her to do.

Please, Babe. Don't leave me.

The constriction in my chest doesn't lessen, the feeling of loss doesn't subside. If anything, the feeling of drowning intensifies and spots dance at the edge of my vision.

God, I know we're not on the best terms, but I'm begging. Don't take her from me. Not like this. Please!

My entire body is bowed, praying that anyone who has the power to hear me, will listen to my plea. The spark of lightness that I feel when I'm around her is fading and despite all my training, all the miracle saves I've pulled out when no one thought I could, I can't stop it. I'm failing when she needs me the most.

Through the haze of my grief, I feel someone kneel beside me and place a hand on my shoulder. I can't afford the weakness I'm showing, but I can't stop it, either.

"Get out." My harsh words are out of place here in God's presence, but company, and a witness to the world as I know it ending, is the last thing I want.

"No can do, cuz. You freaked everyone the fuck out by bolting like that."

It's getting harder and harder to breath, and Lester stays where he is, waiting me out. His steady presence is a gift, and he deliberately slows his breathing, knowing I'll subconsciously match his rhythm. Sorrow and desperation tinge my quiet words. "I can't feel her anymore."

"What do you mean?"

I press my hand back against my chest, eyes closed like that will hold back the pain. "My heart hurts but feels empty. I can't feel her in there anymore, it's like she's gone." My fists clench while I concentrate on breathing a square. In for a four count, out for four. In for a for count, out for four. The weight on my chest is subsiding, but the pain is still there. If she's gone, it will probably always be there.

He processes that, saying, "I've always wondered about the connection between you two, and why you both run from it. If she was…gone…Bobby and Tank would be in here to tell you."

I know that much to be true. It goes against everything in me, but the words crowding my brain tumble out. "I never wanted this, the complications, or the pain. When I realized that I was wrong about just wanting to sleep with her, I tried to backtrack and put some distance between her. It worked for a while, until she needed my help with the Slayers. And then it worked again until I needed her help finding Julie. We were fine pretending the feelings weren't there until she called and asked for help getting a skip in Hawaii."

"What the hell happened in Hawaii? We've all wondered about it. I mean, shit. You came back with a broken hand a black eye, and Morelli was running around town with a broken nose. That can't be a damn coincidence." Realizing he's been swearing in a chapel, he winces and does a sign of the cross before closing his eyes and starting a Hail Mary prayer. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic, no matter how much you fight it. After he's done, he helps me stand and maneuvers me over to a pew.

Staring ahead, a small smile graces my face remembering Hawaii. With no outside influences or interruptions, it was easy to get lost in pretend. It was Carlos and Stephanie playing house and getting a glimpse into what Someday could look like. The memory of us, 'married' and in love, cavorting in paradise, always lives right below the surface. The bubble of make-believe lasted right up until Morelli showed up and popped it. We vented our frustrations on each other until Steph scrambled both our brains and then ran. I tried to take it as a sign that she'd never settle for what I could offer, but she still drew me to her like a moth to a flame. Hawaii and the dream might have slipped away, but the feelings didn't.

Things were awkward between us for a while, both of us advancing and retreating but never in sync. We met in the middle a few times, fleeting glances at what together would look like until one of us panicked and bolted. Lately, though, there were times when I thought maybe I should chuck my five-year plan out the door, but then we'd have a day like today where the actions of one or both of us would show me that incompatibility would tear us apart.

Lester's looking at me like he's questioning my sanity, or at least my stability. "Hawaii was…everything. For a week, we were just two people who let themselves be. It was hard to let it go, but even harder to recapture. The cop showed up and everything went to shit. Sometimes it feels like I'm spending all my time pushing forward just so I can try and get back to that one, perfect week."

"Have you really been trying all that hard?" The look I send him is entirely inappropriate for the location, but he earned it. He puts his hands up, a mock surrender. "Just sayin'. Hawaii was a couple years ago and you're still holding her at arm's length, not willing to let her in. Sure, she and the cop were back and forth and up and down, but that ended months ago. You're still standing back, watching her watching you."

"It's complicated."

He shakes his head. "It's really not. You either want her and you're willing to put the work in to make a life together, or you don't. Waiting for the stars to align hasn't worked out all that well so far. Maybe Hawaii was perfect because you knew it had an end date and you let your guard down. You let yourself love her in the light where she could see it instead of hiding in the dark."

Was he right? Did the forced end date of our time in Hawaii make me freer to show her what I really felt? Or was it feeling like Hawaii was a clean slate away from the bullshit of Trenton and the noise that constantly surrounds us here?

"What if what I can offer isn't enough?"

"Won't know until you try, but then at least you know you tried. Run it like a mission plan. Morelli's no longer part of the equation; first obstacle down. Her parents stood there and backed Rangeman as more important to her than Burg boy, so that should tell you something about whether or not they'll accept you in her life. Second obstacle down. What's left after that?"

"I don't think it's going to be that easy."

"Of course, it won't be. This is Steph we're talking about here!"

The knot slowly starts to loosen in my chest, and a gut check tells me that the fear and grief have lessened. It's fragile, but that lightness is still there. She's still with me. Keep fighting, Babe. "We should clear out. I've taken up the space too long."

"Hal's guarding the door. He'll let us know if someone wants in. Take all the time you need." He slides off the pew onto the kneeler, leaving me to my thoughts.

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We quietly let ourselves back into the waiting room. Bobby nods his head toward a quiet corner and walking over to talk to him feels a little like walking the plank; heading out on a narrow board and preparing to jump into the unknown, whether you want to or not. I move forward, anyway, because I already know what he's going to tell me. Babe is still holding on.

He turns to me, addressing me as a friend rather than his boss. "Carlos…Stephanie—"

"I know. She's a fighter. Do you know how much longer surgery will be?"

He holds my gaze, accepting that I do, in fact, already know and understand that she had coded again. "They expect to move her into recovery and then ICU sometime in the next hour." He chooses his next words carefully. "Two incidences of cardiac arrest are not good. She wasn't down very long either time, but you need to prepare yourself that there may be complications. She's also going to need occupational therapy on her hand."

"She'll have it."

"That was never in doubt. I can make a few calls, find out who's the best."

At my head nod, he moves on. "How bad?"

I know he's asking how I'm doing. He's my friend, but he's also the medical officer and there's no upside to lying. My shrug conveys my answer: not great but holding it together for now. He's learned when to push me and knows now is not one of those times.

Just as Brown steps back from me, Eddie Gazarra quietly lets himself into the room. He gives me a clipped nod before moving to stand in front of the Plums. They both stand, not sure what they're about to hear. Eddie's shoulders relax a bit. He looks to Frank for guidance and permission to speak in front of everyone. He gets it. "State police just called in a grey sedan pulled over on the side of I-295 outside of Burlington Township. Inside was a man; mid 40s, dirty grey hair. Deceased. He looks to have bled out from GSWs to his chest and shoulder. Based on the descriptions from Stephanie and the little girl, we're confident that this was the man from the alley. No ID on his person, so they'll be running prints, but we don't anticipate any surprises in the case. I just wanted to make sure you got the information from us."

The fact that Stephanie won't be in danger from him anymore is an appreciated break, one less thing to worry about. From the corner of the room, Tank lifts a coffee cup in offering. Declining, I settle myself down in one of the chairs on the end, discouraging the others from talking to me. The move is lost on Helen Plum, who comes over and sits directly beside me. It's so like Stephanie that it brings a small smile to my face.

She lays a timid hand on my arm. "How are you doing?"

I choke on a surprise bark of laughter. "I should be asking you that."

"The day Valerie ran into the house and told me Stephanie had jumped off the roof of the garage, I didn't think I could ever feel more fear than I did in that moment." Her eyes dart around, confirming that everyone is paying more attention to a rugby game on the tv than us. "And I hadn't, until I saw her being chased by a man in a rabbit costume and I knew I had to intervene. That day, I understood fear and I doubted anything could top that. I was wrong."

I never expected to feel a quiet kinship with a middle-aged woman from a conservative neighborhood, but our love and worry for Stephanie bridged that gap. "I've had a few of those days, myself."

She's quiet, probably wondering what stories she doesn't know about and probably never wants to hear. "You love her."

"Yes, ma'am. I do."

She looks down at her hand on my arm. "Stephanie has always been a handful. I used to complain to Frank, and he'd tell me that that was why God gave us two hands. I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I didn't always know what to do with her, but she just has this fire inside of her; always on the move, wanting to do things for herself. Little miss independent. I'd get upset when things didn't work out or needed to be redone. I've always wondered if I made the problem worse by only noticing things when they weren't perfect. My father was a hard man. A good man, but hard to please or even live with. As much as my mother's antics gall sometimes, I understand them. She's from an age where women put their hopes and dreams on the shelf and were good wives and mothers and that defined them. It wasn't until my father passed that she got the chance to live for herself. She and Stephanie are so much alike, free spirits that fight containment. My mother says it's the gypsy blood. They're like butterflies with a compulsion to fly free but needing a safe place land. I found that in Frank and just never felt the need to look for much else. Not like my daughter. I spent a long time pushing her to just settle down, to do what she was supposed to. It wasn't until I was with her and tackled that awful man with the fleas that I started to understand her. It felt like I made a difference and it felt good. My view is narrow. I take care of my family, feed them, give them a soft place to land. The routine of it makes me happy. But Stephanie needs more. She needs to be challenged. I look at my mother and realize just how similar they are, and I don't want Stephanie to have to wait until she's closer to death than life to really live."

The last bit is accompanied by a hitched breath, and I find myself covering her hand with my own much larger one. Mrs. Plum blinks back tears. "Look at me, woolgathering."

I tip my head to the women in the corner. "Connie called in a favor and asked me to mentor a new bounty hunter; I figured she wouldn't last a day, but Stephanie really surprised me, and she's surprised and impressed me many times since then. You're right. She has an insatiable curiosity and way of thinking that never fails to surprise me. I've learned to look at things differently since I've met her."

She pats my hand. "Let's hope that if we learn anything from this, it's that we're never guaranteed all the time we thought we had. I suspect it's a lesson that we both should have learned by now. Maybe this time it will stick. I do hope we'll be seeing more of you, Mr. Manoso."

Dumbstruck, I watch her walk back across the room to her husband. I don't miss the subtle way he watches her or the way he leans closer to her. Stephanie has always said that her family was not demonstrative, but the proof is in the little things. The leftovers carefully packaged and sent home. The ride when she needs it. Someplace to go when her marriage imploded. A soft place to land.

All this time, I thought I could only offer Steph tangible things; cars, jobs, my apartment when she needed refuge. Because of my past and the things I had to do, I didn't think I could offer someone like her anything worth fighting for. What if I was looking at it all wrong? For years I've kept her on the edge of my life, afraid she couldn't love me. Wouldn't the fact that she's still there, still willing to flit around the edge, show that she already does?

Lester's right. Her mother's right. It's time to love her in the light before we run out of time.

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SPOV

Blinking against the bright light, a grimace escapes me as my vision clears. A quick glance around has me confused and blinking some more, trying to clear my eyes. Nothing changes with each opening of my eyes, and I wonder how I can possibly be here.

"Sometimes we land where we're supposed to."

No way. Slowly turning, afraid I'm imagining things, I see him. "Papa!"

I run to Grandpa Plum with no hesitation, easily dodging the scarred coffee table that's been a staging ground for Army battles, Barbie catwalk fashion shows, and the scene of more than one epic game of Monopoly. His hug is extra tight, and I don't want to let him go. I bury my head in the crook of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of wood stain and pipe smoke. It's been over twenty years since he passed, but he'll always smell like home and comfort.

"How are you here?"

"Bah. Silly girl. I'm here because you needed me."

Tears sting my eyes. I was eleven when we lost him and there have been many times over the years when I really could have used his unconditional support. I'm afraid that if I let him go, he'll disappear on me. Eventually, he gives me an extra squeeze and I let him step back but I refuse to give up his hand, holding it tight with both of me. He simply smiles and pats my arm, walking me over to the kitchen table where he taught me to play Cribbage and Canasta. When he goes to let go, I start to panic but settle when he says, "Have faith, child. I've never gone far."

The kitchen is just as I remember it, with shiny white cabinets, aged black and white checkerboard tiles on the floor, and the bowl of plastic fruit in the middle of the table. I have so many happy memories of summer days spent here, baking cookies that were tastier than pretty and listening to Papa sing in his rich baritone while he made us pancakes for dinner while mom and dad were at Lodge functions.

He heads over the counter next to the refrigerator and pulls the chipped rooster cookie jar forward. A smile tugs at my lips. I used to always ask Gramma why there were never cookies in it, and she said that if you made the cookies right, they never made it to the jar. Instead, she always kept a special treat in there for Papa, and I know without a doubt that he's going to pull out a package of pink Tastykake Snowball cupcakes to split with me.

When he sees me watching, he smiles. "Get the milk, passerotta."

Little sparrow. I haven't heard that in years. He started calling me that after I jumped off the roof, a nod to my attempt at trying to fly. He never made me feel like I couldn't do it.

Once we're settled with our snack, just like we had many times before, we tap the Snowballs together for good luck before diving in. I haven't had one of these in years, the memory too tied to the man sitting across the table. I forgot how good they are.

After we've both finished the cupcakes off and licked the marshmallow coating off our thumbs, he asks, "why are you early?"

"Early?"

"You're not supposed to be here for a while. You haven't finished your list."

That confuses me. "What list, Papa?"

He sets aside his empty milk glass. "Everyone has a list of things to do before they get here. Some lists are short, some are long. You're not done with your list yet."

Before they get 'here.' Before they die. "Am I dead?"

"Eh. Mostly. Mostly dead is slightly alive, which is better than all dead."

He says it with a raised eyebrow and my bark of laughter turns into a fit of giggles. The Princess Bride was always our movie, the perfect mix of action, humor, and romance. That he is quoting Miracle Max to me is both funny and disquieting. I'm slightly alive, and yet this is the freest I've felt in a very long time.

"Then why am I here?"

"Maybe you got lost on your way to the castle?"

I snort at that. Still with the Princess Bride references. "I have friends that can storm a castle. I'm more of the distraction and comedy relief."

"And you don't like those jobs."

"Nobody likes to be laughed at, Papa."

He tilts his head to the side in contemplation. "Are they laughing at you?"

"Yes!"

"Not with you?"

I huff and cross my arms over my chest, the same as I did when I was nine. "The things they laugh about aren't funny. Not to me."

"Maybe not to them, either. But when the options are to laugh or cry, won't most people choose to find the laughter?"

"That's still not a reason to laugh at me!"

"Why not join them? Or not give them anything to laugh about? Do they not laugh at the pickles you find yourself in? Some things cannot be helped, but many things can. Why leave what can be helped up to fate?"

I stew on that, not wanting to admit one more thing that I've failed at. It's not all that different than what the guys said to me, but the idea that my lackadaisical approach to life has led to Papa being disappointed in me is a dagger to my heart. "You said I'm not supposed to be here, but I don't feel like I belong there, either. I don't know where I'm supposed to be!"

He pats my hand, just like he did after I got in trouble for getting my new dress covered in mud two days before Easter. "Why do you think you do not belong there where you are loved?"

"You're doing it again, Papa!"

"What's that, child?"

"Asking all these questions when you know I don't have the answers!"

His smile is gentle. "You've always had the answers, Stephanie. You just needed to stay the course to find them. Why do you not belong there?"

"Everyone else knows what they want in life and where they're going! I know nothing! Everyone has a purpose and a plan and I'm just me, floundering around and looking like an idiot. No wonder no one wants me."

"Why do you think you have no purpose?"

"Because I haven't done anything! I have nothing to show for my life." It's sad how true that statement really is. Empty cupboards, empty bank account, empty home, empty heart…how can he not see that?

He taps his finger against the tip of my nose. "Because you tie purpose to achievement and success to material things. Who's to say you haven't already found your purpose? What if it was talking to the woman at the store last week who needed a kind word? What if it was to show Valerie's girls to value themselves? Hmm. What if everything led you to the alley to save that child? Maybe the way you give of yourself without expecting anything in return is your purpose and the love and joy you give to people is your success."

My sigh is heavy. "I just thought maybe I was supposed to have a big moment that I could point to, to see that I mattered, that I had achieved something."

He flaps his hands, like he's batting away my words. "Big moments, big moments. Everyone is so tied up in the big things. Life is not big moments. It is all the little moments before and after the camera flashes, all the little stories that never make the news. It's the dancing in the kitchen when joy overtakes you. It's holding hands because your heart wants the connection. It is praising a child when they have done well because that is what they will remember, not the ribbon or the trophy. The little things are what is important. Without them, how would people recognize the big things?"

I mull that over while twirling my glass in my hands before quietly asking, "How long is my list, Papa?"

"Longer than today."

Papa gets up to putter around the kitchen, his presence a comfort while I dissect all the big and little decisions in my life. When I look at it objectively, I might not have had a big "look at me!" victory, but I've had plenty of small and medium victories that add up to something I can be proud of. Proud of you, Babe flits though my mind. Ranger. Papa's words hang in the air, and I think of all the little moments we've shared, all the little things that he's said and done that I discounted because I was looking for the big, grand gesture. Have I been so busy looking ahead to someday that I missed the everyday?

The room has grown quiet and cold and panic sets in when I look around and can no longer see or feel Papa's presence as the kitchen fades away. I need more time! I wasn't done visiting, haven't found the answers yet. For a moment I feel the gentlest of pressure on my cheek before I hear, "Trust your wings, passerotta. Jump and trust you'll land where you're supposed to."

I remember after I jumped off the garage and felt smothered by being grounded and mom unwilling to let me out of her sight, I begged for a weekend with Papa and Gramma. Instead of telling me I was crazy, he told me I should find bigger wings and a giant pillow to land on. He didn't tell me I couldn't do it, just that I needed a better plan. With a start, I realize that that's what Ranger does for me, too. He doesn't tell me no; he just backs me up and helps me find a better plan.

Spinning in a circle, I don't know where I'm supposed to go. My heart starts to pound and then I hear it. It's a soft flutter on the wind, but I hear it. Someone is calling my name, and they're insistent. When I turn back to see if my grandfather hears it, I remember Papa's already gone. I step forward on the path again and the tingle in my neck pulses like it's trying to get me a message. The lightness I felt in my memories is gone, replaced with a different kind of heaviness. It stops me, and I'm torn. I'm so tired. I want to give up, to sleep, but he won't stop calling my name. Babe.