Chapter Twelve

Lassiter was kicking himself. There O'Hara sat, huddled against the door of his car, and though he couldn't bring himself to look directly at her, it was clear she regretted getting into a car alone with him.

What was he thinking, bringing her along?

Of course, he didn't plan it, certainly didn't want it – he'd tried like hell to keep her out of it, in fact. But when she looked at him with such concern, after days of frosty distance, he found it nearly impossible to resist her. Somehow, he'd imagined he could conceal the purpose of his stakeout for the entire evening.

He could admit, to himself at least, that he got a little irrational when it came to Victoria. Chasing after her new boyfriend, trying to dig up dirt on the guy – yeah, he knew that was kind of crazy, but he couldn't seem to stop himself there, either. Usually, he could keep it secret, particularly from the one person whose opinion truly mattered to him. But it was as if he'd fallen into a frenzy, jealous at this asshole with the two-hundred-dollar haircut and bespoke suit who had distracted his wife away from reconciliation.

Even though he knew deep down that no man was an obstacle to his wife more than Lassiter himself.

Now that his manic stalking plot had been uncovered, he continued on driving to the hospital in silence. O'Hara hadn't spoken since the report on Anita, so swiftly following her pained question about his anger. He probably should have taken her back to the station rather than expect her to tolerate another minute riding with him.

Why was he still so angry? Lassiter didn't have an answer.

He'd thought he had his life sorted out. Academy, joining the squad and being taken under the wing of Chief Feinich. That mentorship had given him the confidence to make detective, and soon thereafter be promoted to head detective. And confidence to attract a woman like Victoria.

Maybe he'd peaked too early. Since Victoria left him – with little more than the excuse that his presence was taxing to her – his life had felt like it was on a downward trajectory. When you hit head detective before you're out of your twenties, where else is there to go but down?

Was it Victoria's fault, this misery that hovered over him? Soon after their split, he believed so. He'd been blindsided, unable or unwilling to see the cracks in their relationship. He'd spent so long feeling just plain lucky that he'd found a beautiful, intelligent wife that he never stopped to wonder whether he was emotionally fulfilled.

When he faced the loneliness of an empty house at night, he convinced himself that what he needed was his wife, back in his life. He found he had few friends to confide in – most of their social circle turned out to belong to Victoria – and little in the way of distractions. So he plunged into his casework, trying to forget, but couldn't suppress his obsessive need to dissect the relationship, desperately seeking an inroad to winning Victoria back.

The work suffered. Victoria was unimpressed.

Now, in addition to scaring off Victoria, he was at risk of alienating O'Hara as well. If he wasn't careful, he might lose the most meaningful relationship he'd had since his marriage. Even if it was only a work partnership, he felt a deeper connection with O'Hara than with virtually anyone else in his life – deeper even than Victoria in their final months. Years, maybe.

For the remainder of the ride, Lassiter tried to come up with an excuse, an explanation – something that might persuade O'Hara that he wasn't a danger to himself or to her. By the time he pulled into the hospital drop-off circle, though, nothing had yet come to mind. He stopped the car and turned to her. "O'Hara," he started, tentative.

She looked at him, her expression something between resignation and disappointment. Anger, he could have worked with, but he'd disappointed enough people in his life to know that there was no easy repair to that.

You could start with apologizing for dragging her along on your crazy ride. For scaring the crap out of her.

He hesitated, knowing that the word sorry was meaningless when trust was broken.

O'Hara drew a breath, as if she realized that waiting for him to speak was futile. "I've never been married or had a serious relationship like that, so maybe I'm talking out of turn," she began quietly. Her eyes fixed on his with a steely focus that Lassiter imagined was something like his own infamous glare. "But you know, at some point, you have to let go and realize that it's time to move on."

Without waiting for his reaction, she unbuckled her seatbelt, hoisted her purse, and opened the door to exit, each action deliberate and measured. He watched her with detached fascination as his mind processed her words. After a moment, he caught himself, mouth hanging open in shock. He closed it, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror – yep, he looked like a dope.

By the time it occurred to him to leave the vehicle, O'Hara had already entered through the electronic revolving door at the entrance. He got out of the car, looked down at his relatively casual appearance, and grabbed his tie and blazer, pulling himself together before following her inside.

O'Hara was one full elevator cycle ahead of him, so he didn't catch up to her until she was already in Anita Torres' room. He paused outside the door, taking a deep breath, returning himself to professional detective mode. Sure, he could compartmentalize, and from the look of O'Hara, alert and perched on the edge of one of those uncomfortable visitor's chairs, notepad in hand, she could as well.

Lassiter held up his badge and introduced himself, then found a section of the wall without equipment or wires to lean against, allowing her to take the lead.

"We're here to learn more about what happened to you," O'Hara said.

Anita's neck was wrapped in bandages, her face purpled and swollen. She studied Lassiter, looking a little dazed and suspicious. The former, presumably, because of the meds. The latter, perhaps, because of the trauma she'd experienced. He tried to look non-threatening.

Finally, Anita returned her attention to O'Hara. "I don't want to press charges," she said faintly.

Unsurprised, Lassiter masked a reaction, but O'Hara leaned back in surprise. "What do you mean? Are you sure about that?" She glanced over at him for backup, but he pretended not to see.

Anita said nothing, her gaze following O'Hara's to look at him. Her eyes were fearful, as if everything depended on how the man in the room reacted. Lassiter figured he was scowling and made an effort to clear his face of irritation.

He'd seen it before – abused women too frightened of their abuser to seek justice. O'Hara was optimistic enough – he wouldn't say naïve – to believe that she could convince this particular woman to pursue an arrest, but by the time the trial came around, she'd refuse to testify.

O'Hara tried again. "Your sister told us about Steve." She paused. "Do you want to tell us about that?"

She shrunk into herself a little, chin tucked deeper to her chest. "I wouldn't have done it if he hadn't already found me."

"Done what?"

"I didn't know where he was living or anything, so I told him to meet me at the coffeeshop by Maximo's. I wanted him to sign the divorce papers, and I can't afford a lawyer to track him down and serve him." She lifted the hand where the IV connected at her wrist, studying it with a detached fascination. "Public place, right? I knew he wouldn't do anything there."

"Did he make a scene?"

Anita gave a faint headshake. "Of course not. I stayed there for two hours afterward." She chuckled, slightly bitter. "The staff weren't happy because I only drank one cup of coffee the whole time." She sobered again. "I didn't expect him to hang around watching me. He must have seen me check in for my shift."

"And what happened the night you were attacked?"

At this, she grew less confident. One shoulder lifted in a sort of shrug. "I… don't really remember."

O'Hara pushed. Though he didn't think the victim picked up on it, Lassiter knew her well enough to read frustration in her tone. "You don't remember or you don't know who did it? You seemed pretty certain a minute ago when we were talking about charges."

Anita looked around the room, her eyes flickering to Lassiter and away again. She didn't speak.

"Did Steve do this to you? Put you in the hospital?"

Anita glared at her then, her expression suddenly fierce. "Are you married, detective?"

O'Hara's lips pressed into a frown, as if she knew what was coming. "No," she said.

"You don't know what marriage is like."

Whatever her initial response might have been, she bit it back. For his own part, Lassiter wasn't interested in whatever convoluted logic waited behind that statement.

Anita turned her attention to Lassiter again. "How about you? Married?"

He willed himself to unclench his jaw. "Yes." Technically, it was not a lie, and he really didn't feel up to explaining his complicated relationship status to a witness.

"Happy?"

He could feel O'Hara's eyes on him now. "Of course," he said, his voice flat.

"Well, I hope you treat your wife the way she deserves to be treated."

"I try." He looked at O'Hara now, saw the pain in her expression, probably as she imagined his own. Without word or gesture, he eased himself off the wall and slipped out into the hallway. She could wrap up the interview just fine without him.

Lassiter, hands in his pockets, waited about halfway down the hall, far enough away that he couldn't hear the rest of O'Hara's conversation. He knew how it would turn out.

Several minutes passed before O'Hara emerged from the room, heels clicking on the floor as she stalked past without acknowledging him. This time, at least, he recognized that she wasn't angry at him. He followed her at a leisurely pace, and due to his longer legs still managed to catch up as the elevator doors opened.

O'Hara jabbed the button for the lobby a few times as he edged past her into the back corner, hands still in his pockets. It was a risk, testing her patience this way. She fiddled with the strap of her purse on the trip down, but remained quiet.

Once they reached the car, Lassiter hesitated, recalling their earlier ride together. He wondered whether she'd refuse to go with him, even just back to the station to her own vehicle. When he glanced at her, though, she seemed focused only on what bothered her about the interview.

He unlocked the doors and got in, waiting for her to say something. It was unlike her to go so long without sharing her thoughts, and in his insecurity he now feared it had to do with him.

Doors closed, ignition started, she finally spoke. "She admitted that her ex-husband did this to her. After you left the room." Lassiter tried to determine whether that line conveyed any blame. "She says he was jealous about the new boyfriend, which is how she found the courage to go through with the divorce in the first place. And yet, she still insists that she can't put him in jail."

He waited until the car made it back onto the main road before answering. "You have to let it go, O'Hara."

She stiffened. "What do you mean, let it go? We're not going to pick this guy up?"

He sighed. "We can check with the SFPD and see if he has a restraining order or any outstanding warrants. Maybe we'll get a hit. Maybe we bring him in, put him before a judge, and he walks." He glanced over at O'Hara, who looked stricken. "That's just how it goes sometimes. You know that."

"It's not right."

"Of course it's not right." He kept his tone mild.

O'Hara didn't speak for a long time after that, and he thought perhaps she had actually let it go. Then she turned to look directly at him, straining against the seatbelt; he stared straight ahead out the window, trying to conceal his discomfort.

"Listen," she began gently. "I know you would never do something like that." She paused, as if seeking a delicate way to finish the thought. "But don't let yourself get to a point where I have to question that."

Though his immediate impulse was to object to the implied accusation, Lassiter had enough of a sense of self-preservation to think before lashing out. To an outsider's eye, how different was he really from Steve Pollack? He wasn't abusive – he knew that – but he was jealous, possessive, prone to violent displays of firearms, unwilling to completely let his wife go despite repeated requests.

Maybe O'Hara had good reason to be wary of him.

How could he get past the anger? He'd tried, in so many ways; he'd failed in just as many. Each screw-up left him feeling more distraught, farther from who he wanted to be.

What did a life without Victoria look like? So far, pretty crappy. But was that because it was inherently crappy, or because he hadn't discovered who he could be without her?

Before he realized it, he was pulling back into the station parking lot. If O'Hara had sought any answers from him during the drive, he was oblivious to it. He knew, though, that he couldn't let her leave without some final attempt at explaining himself.

He looked at her, or in her general direction, anyway, unable to meet her eyes. Although he'd already turned off the engine, she hadn't moved to exit the car yet, obviously giving him one last chance. "I had a… relationship with my last partner. Lucinda."

Where did that come from? It wasn't what he'd intended to bring up, and it seemed to surprise O'Hara just as much. She turned slightly, as if to get a better look at his face, or maybe this was finally the last straw for her. But she remained silent, waiting.

He still felt a need to defend himself. "It was poor judgment, I know, and I don't want you to think I'm a creep or something."

"I don't think you're a creep," she said softly.

Lassiter looked out the front windshield, staring at the concrete wall and imagining the ocean waves beyond it. "Victoria had moved out the year before and I was – " He broke off, unable to find the appropriate word to express that version of himself, overwhelmed and adrift.

"Lonely?" she offered. "Human?"

"Weak." He'd let his hormones get the better of him. All it took was a beautiful woman who offered friendship in his time of need.

O'Hara let his bitter self-recrimination stand. She knew when to push and when to give him breathing room, he could grant her that.

"I'd been separated for a long time at that point, and it just… happened." Lucinda had always insisted that he had no reason to feel guilty, that they'd merely acted on a mutual attraction. Even he was surprised at how quickly he fell for her, a beacon of hope in the darkest time of his life. "I thought we had something, but then she left."

In his periphery, he caught O'Hara's frown. "Because Shawn outed you," she murmured.

He shrugged as if it didn't really matter. "Vick wanted to transfer me away, but Lucinda volunteered instead. I don't know why." It did really matter. It hurt, even now.

"Maybe because she cared about you. She wanted to protect you."

Lassiter shook his head. "I should've realized that I'd screw up her career."

"But how do you know you screwed it up?" O'Hara leaned closer, reaching a tentative hand to his forearm. He suddenly noticed that he was still clenching the steering wheel and forced himself to release his grip. "Have you stayed in touch?"

He swallowed thickly, jerked his head into something resembling a shake. "I tried to hide my marital troubles from her. But she was a good detective."

"Learned from the best," O'Hara said, with an attempt at joviality. She considered for a moment. "And if your troubles then were anything like they've been since I got here, it wasn't a difficult thing to piece together."

At this, his lip curled up in an almost-smile.

"Pretty pathetic, right?" He couldn't hide from her, but maybe he could still play it off as a dumb mistake and not the guilt-inducing black hole that it really was.

O'Hara believed he wasn't capable of moving on, but he had been willing to try, until it got ruined by Spencer. The part he could never reveal to her was his fear that he'd never get there, to a point where he could consider himself fully moved-on. That he was ashamed of falling so easily for his partner just because she was nice to him when he felt so alone.

"No!" she said with a sharpness that seemed to startle them both. O'Hara captured his hand fully in both of hers. "It's not pathetic to develop an emotional connection with someone." She pulled his hand closer to her, thumb caressing his knuckles. He allowed it, feeling slightly disembodied from the hand she clasped in hers.

After the blunder with Lucinda, he'd redoubled his efforts to win Victoria back – partly out of shame, partly because he couldn't see another way forward. Whether he'd intended it or not, his dalliance with Lucinda was his attempt to move on, and it nearly destroyed him.

That failure showed him that he just needed to try harder. All he needed was to find the key back into Victoria's good graces, prove he wasn't the bastard she thought he was. Then again, maybe he was trying at the wrong thing.

He waited her out, until he finally looked directly at her face and was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

"You deserve to be happy," she said. "You know that, right?"

Guilty, he looked down. "Sure I do."

She gripped his hand more firmly. "If you need a friend – I'm here for you. I am your friend."

He hesitated. "I know."

Lucinda had been his friend once, too, and look where that got him. Even he wasn't cruel or self-hating enough to say that part out loud.