"Let's talk about your dreams."
"What do you want to know?"
"What did you dream about last night?"
I pause and intertwine my hands, distracting myself from the piercing gaze of the therapist.
"Annie Miller."
"She was one of your cases?"
A case. That's what she's defined as now. When you're missing, you're still a person, still half-there; there's still a chance that you'll be found. When you're dead, you're a case, a victim, a little statistic on a pie graph.
"Yes."
"And what happened in this dream?"
"She asked me why I didn't save her. Why I let her die."
"And what did you say?"
"Nothing. I don't have an answer. I wish I did."
"You think it's your fault she died?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"If I had -- I don't know, maybe if I had picked up that home movie, the one with Mr. Brandini -- maybe if I had picked that one up sooner and played it, we would've figured it out before -- before he killed her. Then Annie could've told her mom."
"Told her what?"
"That she loved her."
"Why do you think she didn't already?"
I think of my own mother, my less-than-perfect childhood, my struggles with adolescence and rebellion and taking things for granted.
"They loved each other, but they -- they had typical mother-daughter spats, and it wasn't addressed all that much, by Annie, at least. I think she would've liked to tell her mother that, just one last time."
"Why do you think people guard their true feelings like this?"
"Because we don't always see what's in front of us. It's easier to hide. Then you -- you miss it when it's gone."
I think of Jack, as I often do; think of his feelings for me, complicated as they are right now. I wonder if he would miss me, if thinks of me. Had I died, when I die, maybe I'll just be another agent who died in the line of duty. Still, there's something to be said for that. For all it's worth, maybe there's more glory in death than life.
At least you get remembered.
*
"How did we get here, Samantha?"
The pasta's cold as I twist it absently around my fork, never bothering to bring it to my mouth. My wine glass is half-empty, my clothes are hanging loose, and there's a little bit of loneliness swimming in my eyes.
"I don't know, Jack."
I don't have the answers anymore. Maybe I never did.
"It's final, now -- our divorce. I uh, I feel relieved actually."
There's this invisible line where his ring used to be and I think maybe that scar will never fade away.
"Did you like the spaghetti?"
"Yeah, I did, I just haven't had much of an appetite lately."
A look of worry passes through his eyes for a moment and leaves just as quickly. His impromptu dinner surprised me as I stumbled through the door with mail and groceries piled awkwardly atop my arms. I admit I liked it, but I keep running through reasons this shouldn't be happening and ways I can stop it and how exactly I'm supposed to say goodbye.
I can't hold back any longer and the question falls from my lips.
"What do you want, exactly, Jack?"
He pauses imperceptibly, a slight stiffness comes over him, and I wonder if holding on would be easier than saying goodbye.
His fingers go to his ring that isn't there; his eyes search for an answer in the unforgiving night; his heart looks for a way in and a way out and a reason to leave, and a reason to stay.
It doesn't come.
It never does.
"I want -- I want you, Sam. Don't you want me?"
"I wish it were that simple."
"Why can't it be?"
I've been wishing for this conversation since he turned me away on that bench so long ago. Now that it's here, I wish for anything but.
"Because I don't know what to do, what to think. What can possibly happen here, Jack? We get married, we have kids...we grow old together? I don't --"
"I'm still here, Sam. I'm not going anywhere."
But you did once. You left me.
"Sam, are you okay?"
I died, Jack.
Not the traditional way, of course. Maybe that would've made things easier. But somewhere between the bookstore, the gun, Barry Mashburn, the lonely hospital room, and the cold spaghetti tonight, I started to lose myself.
"Yeah, Jack, I'm fine. I just -- I just need some time, okay? We've got this case, I'm going to therapy -- everything's going to work out."
He smiles and brushes a kiss against my cheek as he turns to leave.
Everything's going to work out.
I wish I believed that.
*
"This guy's a real piece of work, you know?"
"What, you mean aside from robbing a bank and allowing his wife to be kidnapped?"
"Yeah, aside from that."
He's crunching on those damn peanuts and I can only pray this ransom drop ends quickly.
My hands are shaking as just the mention of a 'ransom drop' haunts my dreams along with the dead, the missing, and the long forgotten faces that stare at me all night, begging me to save them.
I run my hands against the barrell of my gun, a finger trembling against the trigger. It's cold and unfamiliar and I remember the feel of my own bullet piercing unnaturally through skin and muscle and bone.
It will always be there, trapped in my leg, trapped in my mind. I'll never escape that day.
Jack's form is perfectly hidden in the shadows as the welcoming night encases the alley. Mr. Beckett stands unsurely between the dumpsters, clutching the bag of money nervously between his hands.
The noise of a car pulling up grabs our attention and I see Jack move closer towards us as Danny moves forward, gun drawn. Martin sits up straighter, tossing his bag of peanuts away, and grips the steering wheel. It's hard to make out distinct forms in the darkness, plus the distance doesn't help.
I see Mrs. Beckett take tentative steps towards her husband as he hands the bag smoothly to the perps. Then all hell breaks loose as one of them pulls out a gun and shoots Mr. Beckett, Danny jogs up to them, and suddenly Mrs. Beckett finds herself in a stranglehold with a gun to her head and Danny leveling his just above her chest.
Jack motions us out of the car and I can't shake this slight terror rising through my chest as I'm forced to pull my gun out for the first time since it was used against me that hot summer day months ago.
"Put the gun down, sir, you don't want to do this."
Jack brings his gun level with Danny's, as well as Martin and I walk around the right as my gaze falls on the bleeding shell of Mr. Beckett.
Two of the perps suddenly take off and Jack motions Danny and Martin to follow. Their bright yellow FBI jackets fade away and I brace myself for the sound of gunfire. Something's going to happen here, now. Something I'm suddenly afraid of.
Before I can blink, Jack fires off a shot into the guy, the sound rings in my ears. The guy falls and Jack catches Stephanie Beckett. A sound bumps the dumpsters and I catch a glimpse of yet another perp as he stumbles on the ground, frightened.
"Sam, get him!"
I almost hesitate, to bring up a reason a rationale to him that will make him realize why I simply can't move from this spot, but my legs move of their own volition and I soon catch up to him. What I don't anticipate, however, is the gun he slowly brings from under his coat as his body swerves slowly around.
I see his lifeless eyes through the ski mask and I wonder if this breath will be the last I take. I turn to gaze at Jack who can't seem to comprehend why I'm standing there, unmoving. It happens too fast, I can't react and I think, in that second, if this time, I'll remember to die.
*
TBC...