Olivia is lying in her bed, secure under a pile of blankets. For once in a blue moon her apartment seems eerily quiet. Her tendency for overthinking kicks into overdrive. It's late, and she should be asleep. She certainly feels tired enough to cling to a good slumber, despite the fact that it is still a reasonable hour. She contemplates tossing and turning for the next several hours, out of a matter of principal. She knows that for her guilt to plateau she is going to have to confess. She reaches for the phone that lies uncharacteristically silent on her bedside stand.
He's sitting at home, alone staring at a glass of bourbon when the phone jars him back into reality. Based on the caller ID, he assumes he is being called out. He immediately presses the phone to his ear.
"What have we got?" He questions out of instinct.
"I know that it's late…" she begins.
"Liv, what's up?"
"If you are busy I understand."
"What the hell are you talking about? I'm not busy. Is everything okay?"
"You and I both know that I would not be able to make a career as a criminal."
"Your guilty conscience is eating at you?"
"It's not as if I have murdered someone," she clarifies.
"It wouldn't matter. You know I would help you hide the body if you did," Fin points out.
"Can you come over?"
"Are you dying?!"
"What?! No. Why would you ask that?"
"Because after our conversation today all I could think about was cancer, and suicide. I usually don't let this stuff bother me, but it's you we're talking about."
"Fin, I'm not dying."
"I'll be over shortly," he disconnects.
Olivia is sitting in her pajamas on her couch sipping a cup of chamomile tea. She hears his knuckles on her door. She practically floats across the room, and unlatches the door without a single glance out the peephole. There is no need, as she would recognize his footsteps in her sleep. Her hair is pulled into a haphazard bun, as she pulls open the door. He takes a seat on the chair adjacent to her couch.
She settles back onto the couch, in her loose fitting satin pajamas. She takes a sip of tea, and begins using her detective skills against him. From several feet away she can see his neck pulsating. He has never been the type to be easily rattled. She has always appreciated his ability to keep his cool in nearly every situation. He sits on the edge of the chair he has chosen to park himself in. Suddenly it seems difficult to form an intelligent thought.
"You aren't going to draw this out to be some dramatic reveal, are you?" He offers an excited utterance.
"I certainly hadn't planned it that way."
"What the hell is going on? Why all of a sudden are you considering retiring? Is this because of Ed?"
"No. I am fairly certain that my existential crisis started when I was a toddler. I am just now, as a middle age human being beginning to find some sense of control in my life."
He rolls his eyes, "Liv, don't you jump down some damn rabbit hole. Why are you currently considering retiring?"
To respond she offers a question that is seemingly unrelated. "Do you remember a selfless act that you made about ten years ago?"
He shrugs, "Nothing really sticks out to me."
"I got a call from a cryobank a while back."
He chuckles, "You are jogging my memory. What about it?"
"It totally caught me off guard. I hadn't thought about it in such a long time. It took me to a different time in my life. I suddenly found myself playing the 'what if' game. I became sort of fixated on the question of whether my life is how I want it to be."
"I'm not really sure that I see the connection to you wanting to retire," Fin admits.
"I have given this job more nights, weekends, and holidays than I can even count. My son it growing up, and sometimes I feel like I am missing all of it. For what? Why am I not spending every waking second with him?"
"As a loving father, of a wonderful son, I can confidently say, because you would likely kill him if you did."
"It just really challenged me to reconsider some things."
"Once again, it seems like I am Hiroshima over here minding my business, only moments away from atomic bomb."
"Fin, that is a little dramatic."
"I am just telling you how I feel. Please continue."
"So I just decided to do it."
He furrows his brow, "You've lost me. Do what? You put your papers in?"
"No," she shakes her head.
"I don't follow."
"So I've just been living with all of this guilt, because I haven't told you. It's not as if you wouldn't figure it out. I just…" she rambles.
He waves, "Whoa! Slow down. What did you do?"
Several Months Earlier:
She's sitting at her desk listening to a medical professional drone on, and on. She is in the midst of a huge, complicated case, and she finds herself selectively listening.
"Basically I just need you to put another payment method on file if you want to continue to maintain the current cryopreservation status that you have. If you do not want to update a payment method you have to come in, and fill out some paperwork."
"What kind of paperwork?"
"You can choose to use them, have them destroyed, or donate them to science, or someone else."
His eyes widen, and he leans back in his seat as she recounts the exchange. She does her best to control her breathing.
"Why would you feel guilty? I made it clear then that it was your decision to do as you saw fit. You didn't have to clear it with me."
"That was ten years ago."
"I am completely confused. You could have told me this on the phone. Donated, destroyed, it doesn't make a difference to me. Why would you feel guilty about that? You were paying for those storage fees."
Her glance shifts. She stares at the coffee table. She refuses to meet his glance. A lump forms in her throat, and suddenly her mouth feels very dry. The nauseated feeling creeps back up on her. She swallows hard, and focuses on the task at hand.
"I didn't donate, or destroy them," she divulges.
"Okay. I get it, you weren't ready to make a decision. It's your money."
"It was a boatload of money."
"How pricey can it be to store something in a tiny container, in a glorified fridge?"