(Chapter 29:  CGH, beach house, Moretti's house, prison, Em's home.  June 29-30, 2033.)

"I'm very sorry, Emily," Alex said as he looked across his desk at the young woman before him, "but the stem-cell therapy doesn't seem to be working."

She made no sound, but quickly dropped her head.  For a while, she sat silently, brushing invisible lint from the brightly colored plaid blanket that covered her legs.  Alex studied her as she sat there, avoiding his gaze.  Her flame-red hair hung in dense, tightly coiled ringlets down past her shoulders, and was drawn back from her face with a plain gold clip.  She was still painfully thin, but Alex was confident that she would put some meat back on her bones as soon as she got out of the hospital and could begin eating her mother's good home cooking.  Her hands trembled.

When she looked up at him, her gold-green eyes revealed neither pain nor uncertainty, but quiet acceptance.  "That's all right, Alex.  The BioGen virus just altered my cellular structure too much, the stem cells don't know they are supposed to start growing into new tissues in my body.  We both knew it was a long shot."

"But we were both hoping."

"Yeah, for a miracle," she said ironically.  Then she smiled, "but I guess I've about had my quota for a lifetime.  After all, I'm still here."

"There's a cloning study going on at the Mayo Clinic . . ."

"No!  No way."  She refused so readily, Alex supposed she must have already considered and rejected the option.

"People have . . . watched me my whole life, first because I was bigger and smarter than the other kids, then because I got into trouble with the law.  When I was convicted of treason, for four years, I couldn't even use the toilet without permission.  After the BioGen virus, for weeks I couldn't go anywhere without seeing a reporter, and well, you saw what they were like after the business with Moretti."

He had indeed seen.  In the first days after the shooting in the courthouse, reporters had camped out in lounges around the hospital, lurking about for a chance to spot her parents or one of her doctors and assail them with questions.  One over-eager photographer had even slipped into her room under the guise of an orderly with bathroom supplies and snapped a few pictures of her while she was still sedated and on the ventilator.  Fortunately, Steve had arrived for a visit at just that time and dealt with the man so severely, Alex had no doubt he had seriously considered finding a new profession.  For a while after that, they had backed off, but then postoperative infection had set in, they'd had to remove her damaged kidney, and that idiot Jonas Monroe had started talking conspiracy again.  It seemed every time things had begun to die down, someone would dig up a new and interesting tidbit from Emily's past and revive the story.  He'd even seen a supermarket tabloid that claimed it had proof that she was an alien hybrid with superhuman strength and ESP.

"Cloning is your last chance, Emily, organ donation's not a viable option for you because of the effects of the BioGen virus."

"I know," she said, "but I won't do it.  I've been a freak of nature my whole life.  I was a child prodigy, and my parents had me tested by psychologists and psychiatrists and Lord knows who else, trying to decide what to do with me.  The government used me to create biological, chemical, and energy weapons in my teens.  In my twenties, I somehow survived . . . No, I fully recovered from . . . a genetically engineered virus that killed or totally disabled 98% of the people who contracted it.  If you count my conviction for espionage, this is the fourth time I should have died, but didn't.  I don't want to start my thirties as a freak of science, too.  If I enter this cloning study, and it works, that's exactly what I will be.  I'll have scientists and doctors, watching me and testing me for the rest of my life, to see how well the organs hold up."

"So, that's it?  You're giving up."

Emily nodded, "Yeah, that's it."  Surprisingly, her voice didn't sound defeated or resigned, but remarkably satisfied.  "I've never been normal, Alex.  Now, maybe I can be, normal with a weak heart and a missing kidney, but still, normal.  Besides, I really think the reason we can't figure out this cloning thing well enough to create functional replacement organs is that there are just certain things human beings are not supposed to know.  We've been working on it, what, 30 or 40 years now?  And except for that damned sheep, Dolly, that supposedly proved anything's possible, there's been no real success.  I guess she was a freak, too."

"You can't be a cop anymore."

She dropped her head and started on the fuzz that wasn't there again.  He watched her hands.  They were surprisingly large and capable-looking for a woman's hands, but then, there was a lot about Emily that was surprising, and he knew she was an extraordinarily capable young woman.  This time, she did not look up when she spoke.

"In three days time, it might not matter.  If I am convicted, I'll be off the force anyway."

"I doubt that will happen," Alex said.  When she didn't argue or agree, he continued.  "Except for the stem-cell therapy, everything is going remarkably well.  I think you're ready to go home, as long as you follow doctor's orders and don't overdo it."

He had hoped his announcement would cheer her, but when she finally met his gaze, she couldn't even muster a sad smile.  "Don't worry," she said desolately, "between my mama and Steven, I won't be able to lift a finger even if I want to."

"Well, then, I'll come around about nine o'clock tomorrow morning to discharge you."

"Ok, and thank you Alex."  As she went to release the brakes on her wheel chair, she paused and said, "By the way, I know you take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously, but I have to ask you, please, give me your word you won't tell anyone about the stem-cell therapy."

"Emily, I have to sign a health form for the LAPD," he reminded her.

"Oh, that," she waved her hand dismissively, "That's so far in the future I hadn't even thought of it.  I'm not asking you to lie on that, I just . . . I want to be the one to tell my parents and Steven that I'm not going to be able to bounce back this time."

"You'll recover, Emily, you just won't be fit for police work," he said, as he came round the desk to take the handgrips on the back of her chair.

"So, I can't go back to doing the one job I ever gave a damn about.  That doesn't sound like recovery to me."

Alex shrugged.  She had him dead to rights.  "I'm sorry, Em."

"I know."

They were sitting in the living room, side by side on the sofa.  Maribeth read the letter a second time, and then a third.  Then she looked up at her husband, stunned.

"Steve, are you sure about this?  I mean really, really sure?"

"Yes, Mar," Steve said patiently, and a little amused.  "If I weren't sure I wouldn't have written the letter."

She turned to face him completely.  "Why?  After all these years, why now?"

He shrugged.  There were so many reasons, some of them too hard to explain.  "Why not?"

"Oh, don't even try that with me!  Why are you doing this?  I've tried for years to get you to retire, but you wouldn't.  Why now?"

He sighed, and tried to convince himself it wasn't really lying to only tell her the parts she wanted to hear.  "Well, for starters, I'm an old man, Mar.  When I joined with the force, twenty years was a good run.  I've had more than twice that." 

She eyed him critically.  "Yes, but you're still fit and healthy and enjoy your work, so I can't imagine you'd quit just on the basis of your age.  What's the real reason?"

He couldn't tell her that every time he noticed he had a stiff shoulder or sore muscles or forgot where he put his damned reading glasses, he heard Leigh Ann's voice when he interviewed her the night Emily got shot.  Maybe you could salvage some dignity by claiming old age clouded your judgment, but that would only prove you're an old fool clinging to a younger man's job, too vain and proud to admit you are well past your prime.  He tried another tactic.

"I've given two thirds of my life to the LAPD, Maribeth.  I'm tired."

"Bull."

He was losing his temper with her.  He could feel it slipping away.  "Look Mar, I thought you would be happy about this.  I thought you wanted me to retire.  If you have changed your mind and decided you don't want your husband underfoot all the time, you can say so, but it's not going to change my decision!"

Maribeth stood up and started to pace.  Moving helped her think, and she needed to think clearly so she could say what she needed to in just the right way.  "I haven't changed my mind, Steve.  In fact, I have had my own resignation written for the past ten years.  I can transfer my patients to other doctors, fill out pension and social security paperwork, and be officially retired by the end of the week, but I need to know that you'll be happy doing this.  I don't want to spend the remainder of my days with a restless, discontented, resentful husband who feels he's been maneuvered into doing something he didn't really want.  Are you absolutely sure you're ready to hang it up?"

Steve stood up and blocked her path.  She stopped and stood facing him, looking at him with so much love and understanding, he hated himself for not telling her everything.  He couldn't tell her how it hurt to hear the press calling him 'The Teflon Cop' like they used to call John Gotti 'The Teflon Don' because they knew Gotti was a crook and a killer and just couldn't make the charges stick.  He couldn't tell her how guilty he felt about Emily's sacrificing herself for him.  He couldn't tell her that he wasn't sure he still had what it took to be a cop, that he should have found a reason to get Leigh Ann out of the courtroom, that he should have seen the gun, that it should have been him because he'd lived a long time and Em was just getting started and it was just damned good luck that she was still alive because he sure as hell hadn't done anything to help her.  He couldn't tell her the truth.

He smiled at her.  "Do you remember where I was when Steven got arrested?"

She smiled back.  "You were on stakeout."

"And what happened at his senior night football game?"

"You were called away to a hostage situation and couldn't go out on the field and stand with him when they recognized the seniors who were leaving the team."

"And his medical school graduation?"

"You had to leave early for the first of the Mafia hearings."

He nodded.  The sense of loss as he listed the things he had missed grew almost overwhelming, and he felt tears begin to prick his eyes, but he would not let them fall.  "Those are things I can never get back, Mar.  I want to be a part of what's to come."

"But Steve, I've been called away, too, from birthdays and graduations and ballgames.  It's the nature of the work we do.  Why are you leaving the force now?"

"Because I want to rent that boat and sail to Catalina with you while we're both still able to enjoy it, Mar.  Because I don't want to be called away from my son's wedding, if he ever gathers the nerve to ask that girl to marry him.  Because I want to spoil my grandkids."  He felt a weight in his chest, and it was getting hard to breathe.  "Because I'm afraid, Mar.  I don't want to end up like Ron.  There's too much left to do.  I don't want you to end up like Amanda, and I don't want Steven to have to face what CJ, Dion, and Hannah are going through.  Because I've had enough, Maribeth!  I've just had enough!"

Maribeth looked into her husband's eyes and saw tremendous sorrow and deep pain.  "I don't think you've ever been so honest with me in all the years we've been together, darling."

He stood before her, trembling, gasping for breath, fighting to control his emotions.  "Mar, I . . ."

Something in his eyes scared her, a part of his soul she knew he couldn't bear to expose, even to her, even now.  She cut him off before he could make an admission he couldn't live with.  "You haven't been to visit them for a long time, have you?"

He shook his head no, and looked away, ashamed.  "Not since it happened.  Amanda is so lost, they're all hurting so much.  I just can't stand to see it."

"You should go see them before you give this letter to Tanis."

"It won't change my mind."

"You should go see them anyway."

He nodded, but still didn't meet her gaze.  She dropped the letter to the coffee table and forgot about it.  "Look at me, Steve."

After several moments, he did let her see his eyes again.  They were red-rimmed and glassy with tears unshed.  She laced her fingers through his hair so he couldn't look away.  "If you really think it's time, then do it, but be sure you're doing this for you, and nobody else, not for your dad or Steven, not for the grandkids we might have someday, and most certainly not for me, because Steve, we all love you, no matter what, especially me."

There was that flicker again, of something he didn't dare show her, and then it was gone.  He nodded and pulled her close in a savage, needy, demanding hug.  She held him for a long time, until finally, the trembling stopped.

"Mornin', Len," Moretti said to the reporter who had been dogging his steps for the past three months or so as he headed down the street for his early morning jog.

"Mornin' Moretti," Lenny Murdoch said as he fell into step beside the former mobster.  "What's on the agenda today?"

"Well, after my run, I'm gonna lift some weights an' have some breakfast," Moretti said conversationally.  "Then there's a small Welcome Home party for Em at her place.  After that, I think I'm gonna come back here an' paint the livin' room in my apartment.  Wanna help?" 

"I don't think so, thanks," Murdoch replied. 

Moretti had taken an apartment in the same complex as his grandson, both for safety and to be near his family.  While he made no secret of where he lived, he hadn't gone out of his way to communicate his new address to his old cohorts either, and as a result, he saw surprisingly little of them.  Murdoch had gotten a good human-interest story out of it, and Moretti had gotten an extra hand with moving his things.  Under normal circumstances, Moretti would never consider speaking to the young man who had nearly destroyed so many good people's lives, but, once Murdoch had discovered his mistakes, he had printed a full retraction and called on the rest of the mass media to stop scandal-mongering long enough to search out the whole truth.  He hadn't completely undone the damage he had caused, but his retraction plus a public letter of apology to each of the individuals he had hurt had gone a long way toward raising his credibility in Moretti's opinion.

"What are you gonna do tonight?" Lenny asked.

"I guess Fredo an' I are goin' over ta Al's for a cookout an' maybe a swim.  I think Donovan an' Hannah Wagner are gonna be there."

"I see.  How are the Wagners?" Lenny's voice dropped in register, expressing his sympathy for the family.  There wasn't a reporter in LA who had worked on Moretti's story who didn't know what had happened to Agent Wagner at the safe house in Barstow.

"Last I heard, they were all hangin' in there, though I imagine it's been rough."

The men had reached a hill on their run and needed all their air to get up it.  It gave them each time to silently contemplate the good fortune that had so far spared them the kind of suffering that had visited the Wagner family.

"Does Helen . . . still refuse . . . to talk to you?"  Lenny huffed when they got to the downside of the hill.

Helen was Moretti's daughter-in-law, though for the first two months of their acquaintance, she had refused to acknowledge him and made a habit of hanging up whenever she answered his phone calls and shutting the door in his face whenever he came to the house.

"Nah, we've been on speakin' terms for a while, now.  She's civil but not nice, but that's off the record."

"Ok, then what can I print?"

At the bottom of the hill, Moretti began to sprint, leaving the younger, but much less fit, Murdoch behind.  He slowed his pace on the next uphill grade, and by the time Murdoch caught up, he had thought of a suitable answer.

"You can print, 'Mr. Moretti never expected ta be welcomed into the Cioffi family with open arms.  In fact, he never expected ta be welcomed at all, so he was surprised an' delighted when his grandson invited him ta move into the same apartment complex, an' felt humbled when his son an' daughter-in-law began invitin' him to cookouts an' special family events.'"

"Sounds good.  You coulda been a reporter.  Can you give me a quote?"

"Sure.  A year ago, I didn't know I had any family left.  Last week, I got ta see my son turn forty-five.  All of a sudden, I belong somewhere, I'm part of somethin' bigger an' better than I could ever have been by myself."

"That's pretty profound, Moretti."

"Thanks.  I can be that way sometimes."

"Moretti, why do you let me hang around all the time?" Lenny asked as if the thought had never occurred to him before.

"For safety."

"Safety?"

"Yep.  I figure as long as you are here, anybody who agrees ta do a hit on me is gonna have ta deal with you an' your camera, too," Moretti explained.  "You know me an' my habits, an' if anythin' happens, you're gonna start nosin' around pretty quick an' just maybe, you'll come in before the job is done an' run off whoever comes after me."

"I see," Murdoch said nervously, and blanched.

Moretti didn't miss his change of color, and chuckled slightly.

"Relax, kid," he said, "anybody comes for me is gonna be a pro.  Pros like ta take care of business either behind closed doors with no witnesses or with a sniper's rifle from a distance, so no one can see where the shot came from.  You're as safe with me as in your mother's arms."

"You sure?" Murdoch asked.

"Pretty sure," Moretti replied.  They rounded the last corner to the apartment complex, and Moretti said, "Last one back buys the beer."

Murdoch ran as hard as he could, but the older man left him behind, again.  Of course, he'd never bought Moretti a beer yet.  It was just something Moretti said to make it seem like there was a point to their race.

As the old pink jeep pulled up the drive, a very nervous Emily looked eagerly at her house in Brentwood.  She had been in the hospital for three months, away from home for four, and she could not believe how good it felt to be coming back.  True, she was still very weak, so weak in fact, that she knew she would not make it into the house under her own steam, and she would require assistance for many tasks for months yet to come, but she was home, and that made all the difference.

"Ok, kiddo," Keith said as he brought her wheelchair around from the back of the jeep, "let's get you inside."

"Not yet, Daddy.  Please, just let me look at it a while."

Humongous ferns alternated with pink petunias trailing four-foot-long streamers of blossoms along the edge of the porch roof.  The swing, with its vibrant floral cushions, swayed slightly in a faint breeze, and the chimes tinkled sweetly.  Morning glories clung to the main support posts that held up the roof, and creamy-petaled climbing peace roses threaded through the front rail.  The spring bulbs, mostly calla lilies, tulips, and gladiolas were long gone, but a vibrant collection of field-grade lilies, zinnias, four o'clocks, snap dragons, and sweet peas glowed brilliantly in the flowerbeds.  Begonias and dusty miller, coxcomb, pansies, and lots of primrose grew close to the ground.  Emily's favorites were the primrose, which she had planted herself, knowing how her mother despised them, because the deceptively delicate flowers camouflaged a surprisingly hardy plant that was almost impossible to get rid of once it crept into areas where it didn't belong.

When Emily first moved out West, the big brick house had been nothing more than an extravagant roof over her head, a sterile, empty shelter far away from her mother's fretting and the lethal cold of the Pennsylvania winters to which the BioGen virus had made her so dangerously susceptible.  As she cleaned it up and added a few touches of her own, including the primrose, it had become a haven where she could come and unwind after a stressful day training Rossi, Velasquez, and Marino, and attending the California legal classes that she needed to complete in order to become a member of the LAPD.  Then, when Steven had moved in, it had become a home, simply because someone who loved her lived there.

As Emily gazed upon her house for the first time in four months, the man who made it her home stepped out on the porch to greet her, and suddenly, she felt her heart move into her throat, choking her with emotion.  She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling and closed her eyes to hold back the tears.  In all the time she had been in the hospital, she had never asked if he would be there when she came home, because she was afraid she would not like the answer.  She had put him through so much in the past few months.  After all the lies and deceit, after the trouble she had caused his family and friends, seeing her lover come out of her home, welcoming her back, was more than she could have hoped for.

As Steven walked toward her, Emily took several deep, calming breaths, wincing slightly at the pain in her chest, which she had been told would go away with time.  She watched his long, lithe frame as he moved down the steps and across the drive to stand beside the jeep.  He moved with such grace and ease, He looks perfectly at home, she smiled.

"Welcome home, Em," he said softly as he stopped beside the jeep.  "What are you grinning at?"

She shook her head.  There was too much to explain.  Past the lump in her throat, she managed to choke out the words, "It's just good to be back."

Steven helped her out of the car and into the wheelchair, and while her dad parked the car and got her bags, her mom hovered nearby to tut and fuss over her and be sure the blanket was securely tucked around her legs.

"Mama, please," Emily said gently, "I'm only going as far as the house."

"Of course you are," Liv said, "I'm sorry.  Old habits die hard."  Even as she spoke, Liv tucked the blanket a little tighter.  Emily just smiled and endured.  She had learned of late the value of being loved, and had promised herself never to take it for granted again.

Leigh Ann turned the pages of the LA Times morning edition with trembling hands, looking for a new story about Sloan, Moretti, or that wretched bitch, Emily Stephens.  For a while, it had looked like she was going to succeed in destroying them all, but then, her scheme had fallen apart.  First, it was proven that Stephens was not Sloan's daughter, that there was nothing improper about his hiring her to work for the LAPD, and that there was nothing perverse about her relationship with his son.  Then Moretti had shown up, alive and well, and put a cop-friendly spin on all the facts in Murdoch's article.  When Agent Wagner had been shot, his family got the sympathy vote, and when Emily rallied and her condition started to improve, the city of Los Angeles, awed by her resilience, swayed to her side and began to see Sloan's little gang as protectors of the innocent and defenders of justice once again.  After that, the media had, day by miserable day, revised its view of Sloan and his cohorts, molding their stories to conform to popular opinion so as not to offend the audience.  For a little while, when Stephens developed a dangerous kidney infection, Jonas Monroe and a few other reporters had started talking about a conspiracy again, but as soon as they realized that the public disagreed with their theories, they dropped the story.  Now, it seemed to Leigh Ann, her best hope was that Emily would die or that someone would kill Moretti.

Leigh Ann had pleaded 'no contest' to all of the charges against her.  Even as he'd hired a divorce lawyer to get free of her without having to pay up on the prenuptial agreement he had signed, Rick had paid her defense attorney to petition the court for psychiatric evaluations and make all sorts of other motions on her behalf.  Rick was not a powerful man, but, she had to admit, he was a disgustingly good man and he had provided for her despite the fact that he could no longer stand the sight of her.  Unfortunately, except for the psyche evaluation, which had proved she was not afraid for her life at the thought of disappointing Mr. Gorini and that she knew the difference between right and wrong and was legally sane at the time of the shooting and during all her other crimes, every motion had been denied.  Now, Leigh Ann was shocked to find herself facing the maximum penalty of life, surprisingly, with the possibility of parole, for the attempted murder of Deputy Chief of Police Steve Sloan.  Since there were a number of lesser charges on which she had been convicted, and since the judge had ordered that her sentences be served consecutively instead of concurrently, she knew she would never live to see a parole hearing, let alone the day she could walk out of the maximum security women's prison in which she had been confined. 

Prison had been a devastating disappointment to Leigh Ann.  She had initially hoped at least to get a thrill from being ordered around by a bunch of powerful men, but a disgusting percentage of her guards had turned out to be women.  Soon she had realized that even the few male guards were just petty bureaucrats following orders.  Hoping for some stimulation, she had come on to one of the male guards and attacked him when he didn't offer any reaction.  She had been secretly thrilled to be placed in solitary confinement, and nearly ecstatic when she was taken to speak to the warden because of it.  Then she had been completely crushed to find he only wanted to get her statement so that when the State Board of Corrections investigated the incident, he could not be cited for denying her the right to levy charges against the guard.  As she sat in the warden's office, recounting her interactions with the guard, Leigh Ann had suddenly realized she was doomed to spend the remainder of her life among pawns and peons, never again to know the unique thrill of being the possession of a powerful man.

Finally, she found what she sought, a small article, buried in section C of the paper, with Lenny Murdoch's byline, and the headline made her weep in despair:  Lieutenant Stephens Set to Go Home, Attorneys Expecting an Acquittal.

"Now, I know you said you didn't want a big party when you came home," Steven said, bending to whisper in Emily's ear and sending chills down her spine as he pushed her towards the house, "but there are a few people who really needed to be here for you.  Just smile and remember they all love you, and if you get tired or want them to go, all you have to do is ask."

Emily smiled and nodded, feeling warmed by the gesture despite the fact that it went against her express wishes.  I suppose it would be rude to ask them to leave right away, wouldn't it?  She took a deep breath to prepare her self for the crowd.  Be grateful that they care, and stop being so selfish.

"Oh, and try to look surprised," Steven added as her mother opened the door.

Being the consummate actress, when the lights came on and the guests yelled, 'Surprise!' Emily dropped her jaw and opened her eyes wide in an expression of utter shock.  Placing a hand to her chest, she gasped, "Are you trying to scare me to death?  Remember, I have a bad heart!"  If only they knew.  It was easy to play the clown as long as no one in the room knew it really was, and always would be true.

"Who ya kiddin', Em?  We all know you're a lot tougher than ya look."

"Moretti?"  Emily was shocked and delighted.  She hadn't seen much of her former charge since the trial, but it worried her to see him now.  "Is it safe for you to be out and about?"

"Safe enough," he replied, and would have said more but he was interrupted.

"Listen, Emmy," Alicia said with mock concern, "with CJ and me here, if you have any problems, help is closer than if you were still in the hospital."  Alicia had no way of knowing how serious Emily's condition still was, because as she had regained her strength, Emily had asked that her care be transferred exclusively to Alex.  She remembered and appreciated his kindness from the day she first awoke and with him as her doctor, she had placed her health in the hands of someone she trusted without having to face the pity of her family and friends.

"And if I needed a shock, you'd improvise a defibrillator from one of the lamps, right?" Emily jested.  Don't tell her the truth.  Not here, not now.  Be happy.  You are home and surrounded by people who care for you.  That counts for more than anything you have lost.

Grinning, CJ said, "If we had to."

Emily smiled back, but found it hard to hold CJ's gaze for more than a moment.  She was glad that he and Alicia had found each other, and had known from the first time she could remember them coming to visit her together that they were a good match, but the thought of what had happened to his father was a painful reminder to her of all that she had lost. 

She wondered if she would have been able to be there for CJ when he came home if their positions were reversed.  She knew he had no reason to blame her for Agent Wagner's shooting, but she still felt responsible because she hadn't been able to ferret out all of the mob puppets in the FBI, even with Moretti's help.  Stop it!  He doesn't blame you.  It's not your fault.  The fact was, nobody had known that Tim Brown was a gambler.  He owed his bookie more than he'd ever be able to earn honestly, and his bookie had owed someone a favor, and that someone had owed someone else, all the way back to someone who owed Vinnie Gaudino.

Feeling her smile falter, Emily turned to Moretti.  "Are you absolutely sure you're safe here?"

Grinning, Moretti replied, "Yes, Em.  I'm fine.  I seriously doubt anyone's gonna come after me now.  Gaudino's gone bankrupt an' can't pay for a hit, an' nobody ever thought enough of him ta do him the favor, so I figure I'm in the clear."

"Moretti," she argued, "he was the head of one of the most powerful criminal organizations in America for years."

"Yeah, Em, but he didn't have his people's respect.  They obeyed him because they feared an' hated him.  Now that he can't hurt them anymore, nobody's gonna listen ta him.  Besides," Moretti grinned, "I have two full time body guards now."

Emily pursed her lips thoughtfully and considered her captain and the young man she now knew as his son.  "I suppose you know Gaudino and his people better than I do," she said, "but if you fool around and get yourself killed, I'm gonna kick your butt, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am.  Don't worry, Em.  I'm safer now than I have ever been in my life," he lowered his eyes and watched his foot as it scuffed across the carpet, "an' I owe it ta you for gettin' me through the worst of it."

Oh, for goodness sake!  "Moretti, it was my job, and the right thing to do, you don't owe me a thing, but I would certainly appreciate it if you made the most of your second chance.  Damn few people get one."

"I . . . I know that, kid, an' I won't let ya down."

"Don't worry about me, just don't let yourself down."

For a moment, the room descended into awkward silence, and then, as if suddenly realizing she had been ignoring her other guests to worry over Moretti, Emily looked around and said, "Hi everyone.  Thanks for being here.  It means a lot to know you all care enough about me to want to welcome me home.  I've had a rough few months," And yesterday was bad, too, after my talk with Alex.  Picking lint from the blanket over her legs, she continued, "and it's good to finally be getting back to normal."  Whatever that may be!  "I'm glad you're all here."

She smiled as she looked at each person in turn.  Besides her parents, Steven, Alicia, CJ, and Moretti, her guests included Captain and 'Fredo Cioffi and Charles Donovan.  Emily wondered where Hannah Wagner was and if she and Donovan were a couple, for she had seen them together a lot when they came to visit her in the hospital, but she figured, like her mother and eldest brother, after the shooting of Agent Wagner, Hannah just couldn't bear to come here and surround herself with these people.  The Chief and Maribeth, he had invited her to call him Steve off duty, Like that's ever gonna happen! were there, too, along with Steven's grandfather, Mark, the only one of the three she had easily taken to calling by his first name. 

Just as she was trying to think of something more to say, I've never been speechless in my life! two people came out of the kitchen with trays full of slices of her mom's famous chocolate cake with peanut butter icing and  a cart bearing a coffee urn and a stack of porcelain cups and saucers, and Emily looked up to see her aunt and uncle from Pennsylvania.  "Uncle Kenny, Aunt Sue!  When did you get here?"

"Your mom flew us out a couple days ago," Sue said.

"Yeah, we thought we were going on a vacation, but she put us to work cleaning up the house and getting things ready for you.  Serves us right for not asking before we packed, I guess."

"Ken!"

"Sue!"  Kenny smiled, then said, "Seriously, Em, it's good to see you, sweetheart."  As he stooped to let her choose a slice of cake from his tray, he dropped a kiss on her forehead.  "I'm so glad you're doing better."

She smiled up at him as he moved away.  "You and me both, Uncle Kenny, believe it."  You are better than you were, so it's only half a lie.

For a while, the room grew quiet and Emily's visitors broke off into small clusters chatting about various topics as they enjoyed the cake and coffee Ken and Sue had served.  As Steven pushed her in the wheelchair from one small knot of guests to another, she was able to talk with each group of friends, welcome them to her home, and thank them again for coming.  Then he pushed her over toward Charles Donovan, Moretti, and the Cioffis.  Donovan was regaling them with a story from his teen years when he was on a movie set with his father, helping with the special effects. 

" . . . they needed an extra and I fit the costume.  So, that's how I got my SAG card.  My dad said as a member of the Screen Actor's Guild, I will always have a career to fall back on."

"If you can find the work," 'Fredo Cioffi laughed.

"Yeah, wish me luck!"  Smiling, he turned to Emily.  "So, Lieutenant, has your doctor said when you can come back to work?  I only ask because Lieutenant Bremer was wondering just the other day.  I think he's feeling a bit overwhelmed."

The whole room fell silent, waiting for Emily's answer.

Swallowing hard, Emily turned the full force of her smile on the young man, knowing it would turn him to putty.  Be nice.  He doesn't know.  None of them know.  "Actually, Charles, Dr. Martin and I haven't thought much about that.  Right now, I am more concerned with getting through my trial."  Reaching out and patting his hand, she said graciously, "It's so sweet of you to ask, though, and it's nice to know I am wanted back."

Predictably, Charles blushed, the crimson of his face clashing with his carrot red hair.  "Yes, ma'am . . . well . . .ummm . . . we do miss you."

Beaming at him again, she said, "Thank you, Charles.  You're a dear." 

Turning inconceivable redder, he said, "Yes . . . ummm . . . thank you ma'am."  Turning to Moretti, he said, "Would you like some more coffee?"  Not even waiting for an answer, he took the other man's cup and crossed the room to the coffee urn as his friends chuckled softly behind his back.

"Steven, darling," Emily said, patting his hand as it rested on her shoulder, "I could do with a breath of air.  Could you wheel me out to the garden for a bit?"

Once they were safely out on the porch, Steven began to laugh.  "Em, you're too rough on that boy.  You know he has a crush on you."

"I know," Emily replied, pointing down one of the paths in her back garden to show where she wished to go.  "It's a wonder Hannah puts up with it."

"Well, she likes you and knows there's no way you would be interested in him."

"Are you sure about that?" Emily asked.  "What makes you think I have decided he's not my type?"

"Well, first of all, I get the impression that you have already decided I definitely am your type," Steven said as he wandered down the white gravel path that Emily had indicated, "and I'm nothing like him.  Secondly, he's too simple . . . I don't mean simple-minded, but innocent, I guess, naïve."

"And you don't think my life could do with a little simplicity right now?" she asked, surprising Steven with an annoyed tone.

"Well, no, Em, that's not what I meant at all," Steven said sincerely as he wheeled her under the branches of a weeping cherry tree.  The delicate pink blossoms were long gone, but the glossy, dark green leaves provided shade from the bright noonday sun and privacy from prying eyes.  "I just think Donovan would be a little boring for someone like you, don't you agree?"

Emily couldn't help herself; suddenly she was so angry she had to tear into someone.  "What do you mean, someone like me?" she demanded.  "Do you mean the loose cannon working just outside the law, or the woman of a thousand masks, so good at being someone else that sometimes she forgets who she really is?  Or maybe you mean the former juvenile delinquent, or the computer hacker, or the invalid who's sitting before you now."

"Em!  No, I . . ."

"Oh, just go away, Steven," she snapped, "and take the party with you.  I told you I didn't want them here when I came home, and I meant it, but you're just like my parents.  They never gave a damn what I wanted either!  Go on back to Malibu with your mom and dad.  My folks will smother me just fine without your help."

"Emily!"  Steven didn't know what else to say.

Emily didn't respond, but with a great effort, she turned her wheelchair so that her back was to her lover.

Steve watched as his son rolled Emily out on to the patio.  From there, they followed a meandering path through the back garden to a graceful weeping cherry tree.  They moved through the garden and away from the house, and even from a distance, Steve could see the rigid set of Emily's shoulders, and he could tell she was either hurting or angry.  In the months since Emily had returned to them, Steve had found she was just like her mother in many ways, and was surprised to find that there were times he could read her even better than his son could.  He only hoped Steven realized how she was feeling now and tread carefully.

He was disappointed when, just a few minutes later his son came back up the path toward the house looking confused and angry.  Steven paused on the patio, took a deep breath, did his best to erase the strong emotions from his expression, came into the house, and said, "Excuse me, everyone, but Emily has asked that you all go home now.  She seems to be feeling a bit overwhelmed, but she says thank you for coming."

Somehow, Steve knew she hadn't said any such thing.

It took just a few minutes for the house to clear, and then it was just Steven, Olivia, Keith, Steve, and Maribeth.  Sue and Kenney had given Mark a lift back to the beach house on their way to the hotel where Olivia had rented them a suite.

"We talked about Donovan's having a crush on her," Steven explained to Emily's parents and his mom and dad,  "and then I said he would be boring for someone like her, and she blew up.  She started calling herself a loose cannon and a juvenile delinquent and an invalid.  Then she said Liv, Keith, and I didn't give a damn about what she wanted and told me to go away.  I didn't know what to say, so I left."

"It sounds like she's depressed," Maribeth said.

"Probably," Liv agreed.  "It's common after a lengthy illness."

"I don't think so," Steve said, surprising everyone.  Looking from Maribeth to Olivia, he said, "Look, I know you're both doctors, and Liv, I know you've been gravely ill in the past and are speaking from experience, but Em's a cop, and I can tell you from my own experience, she's not just depressed.  I've got a feeling there's more to this than what meets the eye."  Looking at the young woman's parents, he asked, "Would you mind if I had a word with her?"

Liv and Keith looked at each other silently for a moment, and then Olivia wordlessly gestured towards the back garden.

Before he went outside, Steve fixed two cups of hot, rich coffee from the urn that had been set up for the welcome home celebration, and he filled a thermos with more and put the whole lot on a tray with a small pitcher of cream and the sugar bowl.  He wasn't sure how long he would be out there talking to his lieutenant, but he knew abundant coffee made the conversation flow faster.  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and headed out to the garden feeling very much like Daniel entering the lions' den.  For a brief moment, he questioned the wisdom of his actions, but shook off the doubt.  He was not a psychologist, but his job demanded that he understand people, and of all people, he was sure he could understand another cop best.

As he approached the cherry tree, Steve was pleased to see a small white concrete bench sitting beneath it.  Now he could speak to Emily at her level without straining his knees by squatting or kneeling and he would have some place to set the tray of coffee.  Now, what the hell am I going to say?

Emily had just managed to stop sobbing when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind her.  "Go away!  I want to be alone." 

The person behind her continued to approach, but she refused to look at whoever it was.  Nobody could possibly understand what she was going through, and she had no inclination to explain.  When the Chief sat on the bench facing her, she took a deep breath and looked down at her hands in her lap and began picking lint from the blanket across her knees yet again, just to give herself something to focus on.  She really wanted him to get lost, but her deep respect for the man, taught to her from an early age, made it impossible for her to be as rude with him as she would be with Steven, or her own parents for that matter.

As he sat in front of his lieutenant, for the first time, Steve became aware of how very vulnerable she seemed.  He knew she had to have been afraid at some point while she was in hiding with Moretti, but in all his dealings with her, she had put on a great show of being completely in control, and having a good time of it as well.  If she had not known fear at the moment she was shot, she had almost certainly been frightened when she came to, hooked up to various machines in the hospital, confused and in pain, but she had never shown it.  Now, though, she looked lost, and frightened, and totally alone, and he knew just how she felt. 

Steve could still remember the all consuming fear he had experienced when, years ago, he had come out of a lengthy coma only to find his dad on trial for the murder of Gordon Ganza, the man who had ordered the hit that had initially put him in the hospital.  Even the grueling physical therapy and his agonizingly slow recovery, always dogged by the doubt that he might never recover enough to return to work full time, hadn't matched the pain and fear of seeing his own father convicted of murder and sentenced to death.  He could barely begin to imagine how Emily must feel.

For a long time, Steve and Emily sat quietly together under the tree.  When it became apparent that she was not going to speak, he finally said, "Thank you for saving my life."

Emily shrugged, a clear indication that she was not going to say what was on her mind without some coaxing.  Without looking up at him, she said, "It was my job."

"The hell it was," he told her harshly.  "It was a selfless, courageous, and damned foolhardy thing to do.  I will never be able to thank you properly for it, but you could at least let me say the words and accept them graciously.  Thank you for saving my life."

This time, she looked up at him, just for a moment, and he almost wished she hadn't.  Her expression was so haunted, so frightened, he suddenly doubted if anyone could understand her suffering.

"You're welcome," she said, and looked away again.

Steve handed her a cup of coffee and a saucer.  "Drink up," he said.  "It will make you feel better."  If he couldn't understand, he could at least sympathize.

It took Emily a while to obey, but finally she did drink some of the coffee.  As she lowered the cup, it rattled sharply against the saucer, and Steve looked down to see her hands trembling.  The coffee was sloshing in the cup, and some of it splashed onto her leg. 

"Oh, dammit!" she snapped, and then came unhinged.  "Dammit!  Dammit!  Dammit!"  She pulled back to throw the cup and saucer, coffee staining her blanket and her blouse, but Steve caught her hands and took the delicate, expensive porcelain pieces away from her. 

"Shh, it will wash," Steve murmured as he pulled her to him.  She began to sob and started thumping his chest, but he held her close, rubbed her back, and soothed her, and eventually she calmed down.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said softly into her hair.

"Do what?" she sniffed.

"Be tough all the time and pretend you don't need anyone," Steve replied, feeling very much like a hypocrite.  How many times have you tried to stand against the world on your own?  "Trust me, it doesn't work.  All you do is make it harder on yourself by depriving yourself of the support you need and depriving the people who care about you of the chance to be there for you."

"I just don't want them to worry."

"Emily, they love you," he said, holding her at arm's length to look her in the eye.  "They're going to do that anyway.  You just make it worse for them by not telling them what's troubling you."

For a while, Emily just sat sniffling and shuddering as waves of emotion tore through her.  Steve held her hands and waited quietly.  Finally, she looked up at him, almost shyly, and said, "How well do you know my parents?"

Steve was caught off guard by the non sequitur, but after a moment, he was able to reply. 

"I know a lot about your mom," he said.  "She had a very difficult life, as a child and as an adult, but it made her incredibly strong, and patient and compassionate, and I know she developed a deep faith in God to get her through the rough times."

"What about my dad?  What do you know about him?"

Steve smiled.  "I don't know your dad so well.  I never did.  Sometimes, I still get the feeling he only tolerates me because I am important to people he cares about."

"Mom and me."

"Yes."

"Dad taught me you were a hero.  I know all about how you and Mom were planning to get married and you stood aside and told her to marry him.  I'm sorry she hurt you."

Steve shrugged.  This conversation was getting far too personal for him.  "It's all water under the bridge.  If she hadn't chosen him over me, I never would have met my wife, and I wouldn't have Steven now, and neither would you."  He tried a smile, but it did not have the desired effect.

Emily nodded slightly, frowned, and said, "It was still a rotten thing for her to do."  Looking back to her hands, which were still picking invisible lint, she asked, "You were there when Ted Baer died, weren't you?"

The conversation seemed to be veering off course again, and confused, Steve just followed Emily's lead, waiting to see where she would take him.  "Yeah, I was there."

"Do you remember what they said to him?" she asked.  "Uncle Kenney's told me about it dozens of times.  I know the story by heart, but I only know what Ken saw.  Mom and Dad won't talk about it.  Do you remember what my mom and dad told Ted Baer when he was dying?"

Steve felt an odd fluttering in his stomach, like a moth rattling inside the glass globe around the porch light.  He remembered that day like it was yesterday.  It was the first time he had really wondered if he was the right man for Liv.  He'd told his dad about it, and about his concerns that he could never be so forgiving and compassionate, and he'd never spoken of it again.

"I remember.  They said they loved him and forgave him and that God would, too."

"It was the third or fourth time he'd tried to kill my mom.  He tried to kill you, too, and they forgave him."

"He was sick, Em . . . "

"He was an evil, perverted son of a bitch, and they forgave him!"  Emily looked up at Steve again, her eyes flashing anger, and he knew they had wandered into a sore spot for her, but he didn't know what it was or why she was upset.  "Why couldn't they forgive me?

"Forgive you?  Emily, forgive you for what?  I'm sorry, I don't understand."

As fast as it had ignited, Emily's anger burned itself out.  "People just love my folks."

"They're good people, Em."

"Yeah, they're freakin' perfect," she agreed sarcastically.  When Steve said nothing, didn't even look surprised, she eventually continued.  "Do you know why I became a cop?"

Steve gave it some thought.  He knew what Liv and Keith had told him, but that wasn't necessarily the real reason.  Finally, he replied, "Your mom and dad said you wanted to make up for some of the things you had done as a kid and for some of the things the government had done with your ideas while you were in Washington."

Emily shrugged.  "That's what I told Moretti, too."

Steve knew what that shrug meant.  After several silent minutes, he finally asked, "So, what's the real reason?"

She looked at him, quite surprised, and then she smiled.  "I'm a hell of a good actor, but a lousy liar.  How'd you know there was more?"

Steve shook his head.  "Sorry, kid.  If I tell you my secret, I'll lose my advantage.  Now why did you become a cop?"

"When I was growing up, everybody thought my parents were such good people," Emily said.  "I remember the preacher doing a sermon on forgiveness once, and while he didn't name names, and he did change the specifics, everybody knew he was talking about Mom and Dad when Ted died."

Steve poured another cup of coffee as he realized this was going to be a long explanation.  Emily was a lot like her mother in that nothing was simple.  She had to give all the back-story leading up to a situation for anything to make sense.  The big questions in life are never short answer.  He poured a cup of coffee for her, too, and handed it over.

"People think my mom is an angel and my dad is a saint," she explained.  "They forget things like what my folks did to you and the time my mom left my dad.  They forget about the hell mom raised when she was in school and that the CB was put in the jeep so she could warn her underage friends to clear out when the county deputies were closing in on the weekend party.  They forget how Dad sent her away after he lost his legs and didn't speak to her for over a decade.  They forget that until the night before their wedding, she'd been sleeping with you and neither she nor my dad knew for sure who my father was."

"Your mom says she knew," Steve reminded her.

Emily made a face that clearly indicated she did not credit her mother with any special knowledge or powers of divination.  "She took it on faith.  I'm not big on faith, Chief.  I trust proof.  She had no reason to believe my dad was really my . . . dad except that she wanted him to be."

"But she was right."

"Yeah, there is that."  Emily fell silent a moment, as if trying to decided just how much of the truth she should tell.  "Anyway, people always spoke in glowing terms about all the good, kind, loving, compassionate, righteous things my parents did.  Then they whispered about me."

"What do you mean, they whispered?" Steve asked, curious.

"People called me lots of things," Emily said lightly, trying too hard to sound like she didn't care about the words that had been said behind her back when she was a child.  "When I was small, they said I was shy, unsociable, mischievous, inconsiderate, and ill mannered.  As I got a little older, I was called awkward, backward, naughty, even wicked.  Everybody felt sorry for my sainted parents because I was such a difficult child."  The word 'sainted' was said in a sarcastic tone that said she knew far more than most people about her parents' shortcomings and she wasn't inclined to overlook them.  "The truth is, I wasn't bad.  I was just bored."

"I understand you showed signs of genius from a very early age," Steve said.

"Oh, that's an understatement."  Strangely, Emily didn't seem to be bragging.  If anything, she seemed bitter.  "I was reading Shakespeare while my classmates were still sounding out Dr. Seuss.  My teachers didn't know what to do with me; my parents were at a loss.  They all tried to make me fit in, and it just didn't work."

"You rebelled."

Emily smiled mirthlessly and nodded.  "Big time, Chief."

Steve just nodded his understanding.  The whole country now knew what a wild child Emily had been, and there was no denying, she had been trouble in motion, plain and simple.  Steve was suddenly struck by a question that he realized no one had ever thought to ask, and as Emily sat swirling her coffee in her cup, he decided to be brave. 

"Emily, as smart as you are, surely you could have thought of something worthwhile to do.  Why did you choose instead to make so much trouble?"

As Steve waited for Emily's reply, it seemed the world slowed down.  She swirled her coffee and took a swallow.  A robin lighted on a branch in the cherry tree, baby birds cried for their dinner.  The robin fed them and flew away again.  A garter snake, harmless little green thing that it was, slithered through the grass at their feet, looking for a cool spot to shelter it from the heat of the day.  A fat bumblebee hummed to himself as he moved from flower to flower in the nearby beds.  Finally, Emily looked at him, and he could see years of pain and regret in her eyes.

"Because I couldn't be good," she whispered, and as she continued to talk, her words took on the cadence of a haunted chant.  "Not like I wanted to, not like my parents.  I could never be as good as them.  I could never be as kind and compassionate and loving and forgiving as they were.  I could never be as thoughtful and as patient and as generous and . . . I could never be as good as them."

Emily had begun rocking slightly, and her words had all been whispered harshly as she fought to hold off the threatening sobs again.  Steve had to lean forward to hear her, and each time she rocked forward, her bangs brushed his forehead.  Sensing her need for comfort, he gathered her in his arms again and helped her out of the wheel chair and onto the bench beside him.  As he held her close and rubbed her back, she continued to murmur to him all the painful truths she had hidden inside herself for years.

"All I ever wanted was to be like them," she said softly, "to be good like them, to be loved like them, but I just couldn't do it.  I couldn't be like them, no matter how hard I tried.  No matter how smart I was, I couldn't be like them, and I always felt like something inside me was broken because of it.  So, one day, I decided to be really bad because I just couldn't be really good."

"It was easier to fail for lack of trying than to try and fail again," Steve suggested.

"Exactly," Emily agreed, "but in the end, I wasn't even good at being bad.  I never really hurt anybody.  I just embarrassed a few powerful people, and that's when they sent me to Washington."

"I know what happened there, Em," Steve said gently, trying to save her some of the pain that would come from telling the story.  "I know about the China virus and the electron bomb, and I know what they did when you refused to help anymore."

"Oh, ok."

"And then you decided to be a cop, right."

"Yes."

"Why?"

She shrugged.  "Penitence.  An act of contrition."

Steve sighed.  She had told him so much today, but still she would only trust him so far.  Maybe he could nudge her a little.  Lord knows she needs to confide in someone.

"Come on, Em.  I know there's more to it than that."

She shot him a sideways look, but didn't ask how he could tell.  By now, she realized he really did know when she was dissembling, and he wouldn't tell her how he knew if she asked.

She studied her hands again.  "I thought if I could do something heroic, some grand gesture . . ." She just trailed off.  "I don't know anymore what I thought, Chief.  I guess I figured it would make me a good person.  Maybe my parents . . ."  Again, she couldn't finish the thought.  "But you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear, can you?"

Steve really didn't know how to answer her, so he didn't try.  Instead, he just told her what he knew was the truth.  "Emily, you shut down BioGen back in Pennsylvania because you had the courage and the knowledge to do so.  You paid a terrible price for it, but you got the job done."

"Yeah, after they poisoned half my home town."

"Nevertheless, you got the job done before they could inflict the same suffering on the rest of the world."

"So, my friends and family are considered acceptable losses, huh?"

"I didn't say that, but Em, you did a good thing."  He would not let her put words in his mouth, and he would not let her misconstrue what he did say, though he knew it would be damnably difficult because she was a hell of a lot smarter than him.  He decided to keep it simple, not try to prove anything, but just state the facts.

"I can't convince you that you are a good person if you don't want to see yourself that way, Emily, and I can't make you believe your parents love you completely and unconditionally just as you are if you don't want to believe it.  But I can tell you, without a doubt, that I would be dead if you hadn't saved me, and I can tell you Giancarlo Moretti would be dead instead of getting to know his son and grandson if you hadn't looked after him.  And Vinne Gaudino would be a free man, laughing at the law and hurting honest, decent people if it weren't for you taking care of Moretti, Leigh Ann would still be out to get me, and Rossi, Marino, and Velasquez would still be in the LAPD, and Tim Brown would still be with the FBI.  And I can tell you that the BioGen virus would have killed thousands or maybe millions of people instead of hundreds if you hadn't done something about it.

"You are not your parents, Emily.  You've lived a different life in a different time, and that has made you a different person.  You have made a contribution to the world, Emily.  You have made it better and safer, and you have made lots of people richer for having known you.  You have made your parents proud, and you have made my son a very happy man.  That might not make a good person in your book, I don't know what your criteria are, but it damned sure ought to count for something."

To Steve's great surprise, Emily didn't have much to say in reply.  She just shifted slightly on the bench beside him, rested her head tiredly on his shoulder, and said, "You're a good man, Chief."

For a long time, Steve and Emily sat still on the bench as the afternoon shadows lengthened.  He could hear neighborhood children chanting a jump-rope song that had been old when he was a child, and he thought Emily dozed a little, getting some much needed rest.  The robin came and went, feeding its brood of chicks.  A squirrel chattered in the bushes edging the yard.  A butterfly came to sit on Emily's lap.  After a while, she reached out and flicked it gently away with one long slender finger.  Then she spoke.

"Chief, can I tell you a secret?"

Steve laughed softly.  "Haven't you done that already?"

She looked up at him askance.  "You have a point."  She brushed some invisible thing from the spot on the blanket where the butterfly had alighted, and spoke again.  "Seriously, though, if I tell you something, can I have your word you won't repeat it?"

"Of course," Steve said casually, even as cold fear clenched his heart.  Knowing Emily, her secret could be anything from an extraordinary fondness for pink bunny slippers to a capital crime, though he knew if she had done something illegal, there would have to be mitigating circumstances.

"I . . . I can't be a cop any more.  I spoke with Alex yesterday morning.  I've been trying stem-cell therapy, and it hasn't worked."

"I see," was all Steve could say.  Somehow, it was enough.

"I knew you would understand," Emily said, and Steve realized he did, more than he was willing to admit.  She was being forced to quit the LAPD for medical reasons, and he was leaving because he wasn't sure he was fit for the job any more.  Neither of them had any choice in the matter.

Again, they fell silent until Emily explained, "I didn't want to say anything until after the trial.  I didn't want them worrying about it, because if I lose, it doesn't matter anyway."

"Emily, you're not going to lose, I promise."

She slid him a doubtful glance.  "You're like my mom, you know that?"

"Am I?  How?"

"You take a lot on faith."

"That may be so," Steve said, "but has she ever broken a promise to you?"

"No, she hasn't."

"Well, there you have it, then."

"I suppose so."

Emily settled against him again, and they sat together in companionable silence as evening crept in.  Again, Emily nodded off for a bit.  Bees buzzed drowsily on their last round before they found a comfortable spot to rest for the night.  The robins settled in with their chicks.  In the waning light, Steve saw the garter snake slither away, presumably to look for one last patch of sun to soak up now that the evening was cooling.  The mothers of the neighborhood children called them home.  Steve sighed.

"Em?"

"Chief?"

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Absolutely."

"I'm retiring tomorrow.  Only Maribeth knows, but she doesn't really understand.  I couldn't tell her.  I think I'm getting too old for the job."

"I see."  It was all Emily could say.  Somehow, it was enough.

They sat just a few more minutes as the setting sun and the evening sky changed from molten gold, to pink, to blood red, royal purple, deep blue, and finally, silvery dusk.  Then Emily sat up straight, and Steve helped her back into the wheelchair.

"I suppose we ought to go in," she said.

"I suppose," he replied, handing her the tray of coffee things so he could push her chair for her.

"What in the world are we going to tell them when ask what we were doing out here all afternoon?"

"That we sat in the garden, drank coffee, and talked for hours," Steve replied.

Emily nodded, smiling, "And that we are both ok."

Unable to suppress a chuckle, Steve said, "Works for me," and wheeled Emily back into the welcoming golden glow that poured from the patio doors.