Day 73: Fisherman's Wharf

"It's beautiful," Susan whispered as we watched the waves crash against the shore . . . the jagged rocks . . . browns and grays . . . their color intensifying with each pass of the cool salty water, "I've always wanted to see the ocean."

"I know," Woody whispered . . . he seemed entranced by the tranquility of the ocean . . . I felt lost in its enormity . . . it's uncertainty . . . afraid of what might be lurking below the magnificent dusky blues and grays.

"Jordan, dear . . . are you too cold?" Susan asked . . . she wrapped her hand around mine . . . the white, plastic hospital bracelet was still encircling my wrist . . . a constant reminder.

"No . . . I'm not really sure," I said rambling . . . it wasn't the same voice I had a few months ago . . . it shook . . . I couldn't think of the last time I sounded like this . . . suicide . . . right after I attempted suicide . . . my voice shook.

"Is this too overwhelming for you, dear?" Susan asked concerned . . . she had been so much like a mother to me . . . she combed my hair this morning . . . I woke up exhausted . . . . like I had never fallen asleep . . . I really hadn't . . . the nightmares. I stopped letting Woody stay in my hospital room . . . it was time for him to start spending time with Susan before she needed to leave . . . he reluctantly relented. Susan told me that he finally went back to his apartment . . . to pack . . . everything was in boxes . . . she said it happened in record time . . . the landlord was kind enough to let him out of his lease.

"No, I'm just not used to being around so many people," I replied . . . Susan smiled . . . Woody asked me if I wanted to go home . . . we were taking Susan to the airport this afternoon . . . I assured him that I was fine . . . he wrapped his arms around me . . . we stared at the ocean . . . he whispered 'home is right behind you.' Home was right behind me, but home was becoming such a foreign place.

We all walked along the shore . . . the park full of children . . . the summer slowly fading into autumn . . . the wind a little cooler. It felt good to have the wind in my hair . . . but I wanted to go home. It was so much safer to have walls around me . . . this was too open . . . he could just walk up to me . . . stab me . . . rape me. I knew that was unlikely, but it always lurked in the back of my mind . . . I could see it in Woody's eyes . . . scanning the crowd . . . looking for him . . . it would always be there.

Tonight would be our first night alone in my apartment . . . our apartment . . . he never asked to move in with me . . . I guess he figured that there was no way that I would say no . . . I don't think I could handle to be alone . . . I wanted him with me.

"Jordan," Susan said . . . pulling me out of my trance, "Dear, are you okay? Woodrow, we should take her to Max's . . . this is too much."

"No, I don't want to go back there," I gasped . . . horrified of the thought of going into the kitchen . . . seeing where Nigel lay motionless before I was attacked . . . the sheer panic of the situation made me collapse to the ground . . . my knees buckled under my own weight . . . gravity took me the rest of the way. The grass was cool . . . the ground hard . . . a few on-lookers rushed over . . . Susan shooed them off . . . Woody picked me up.

"You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to . . . let's take you to the morgue . . . we could call Lily . . . see where she is," Woody offered . . . he helped me stand . . . I was wobbly . . . horribly embarrassed for making a scene.

"I don't know where I want to be . . . Can I go see Nigel?" I asked . . . I cursed myself . . . I sounded like a child. Nigel rarely came to see me . . . he said he felt like he didn't protect me . . . I told him that I couldn't even protect myself.

"Anything you want," Woody said . . . trying to smile . . . pretend that everything was okay . . . the sound of the ocean rang in my ears.

Day 73: Morgue (Peter's POV)

I watch Bug sleep silently . . . his head is on his desk. I'm a little jealous . . . Nigel and I haven't gone to sleep for well over twenty-four hours. We've combed the jacket for any piece of evidence possible . . . Nigel was busy trying to examine a handful of fibers we found on the inside liner of the suit jacket. No one else had worn the jacket since the last time it was cleaned . . . only by the stroke of luck . . . it seemed like luck and circumstance had been fighting us the entire way.

It's hard not to care about this care . . . . it's too easy to care too much . . . the reminders are all around us. I think of how lucky I am that I wasn't at Max's with Jordan . . . I don't think I could have put up the fight that Nigel did . . . the kitchen was destroyed . . . pots . . . pans . . . knives littered the floor . . . Nigel was lucky that it was only a frying pan that connected with his head. I wish that I could rewind the clock . . . go back one year . . . I should have kept to myself . . . built the walls that I had let crumble . . . maybe then this case wouldn't keep me awake every night. The residency application does not tell you that this morgue is like a family . . . it didn't tell that these people would let you in . . . even if you didn't ask to be let in . . . one day you wake up and you are part of the family.

I've been struggling with a DNA extraction . . . Ellington must have connected with this guy's nose . . . there was some blood on the sleeve . . . smear of blood . . . hidden by the darkness of the fabric . . . revealed by the fluorescent glow of the blue light. My first two extractions failed . . . two of Bug's failed . . . I threw a test tube at the wall . . . Bug said he needed a cup of coffee . . . he fell asleep before he sat down in the chair. I only had a few more centimeters of blood smear to work with . . . I needed to make this work.

"How's the extraction going?" Garret asked as he set a steaming cup of coffee next to me, "I thought you might need it."

"I can't get a sample . . . Bug can't get a sample . . . why is this whole damn case fighting us every inch of the way," I replied getting a little more pissed off as I reflected on our circumstances.

"Nigel has good news," Garret replied . . . waited for me to look up at him hopefully . . . anything to put this to rest, "He has a fiber match . . . a 1999 two door Chevy Blazer . . . they are hard to come by . . . there weren't many produced that year. Only three hits in Boston. He also found some cat hairs . . . Eddie scheduled a press conference . . . they will be starting in two hours."

"Cat hair and a fiber isn't going to sway a jury," I commented . . . growing more and more frustrated.

"It's something . . . Peter, go home . . . get some sleep. Don't come back until 8 am . . . that gives you over sixteen hours to sleep," Garret replied as he walked towards the door, "There's always tomorrow."

"We don't know that for sure," I replied grimly.

"You're talking like Jordan . . . now, go home," I replied.

"Who's talking like me," Jordan said . . . trying to smile. I was impressed with how much she has healed . . . the black eye . . . the swollen cheek . . . all the cuts . . . everything was so superficial . . . it didn't even scar.

"Aren't you supposed to be with Woody?" Garret asked.

"I was. He needs to talk Susan to the airport . . . I'm not that good with people anymore," Jordan replied . . . looking a little embarrassed . . . blushing a little.

"Hey . . . you were never good with people," Garret said as he hugged her . . . she smiled . . . the tears ran down her face.

"Is there anything that I can help with? I need something to do . . . I've been just about going out of my mind," Jordan replied . . . releasing Garrett . . . quickly wiping the tears from her face.

"How are you at extracting DNA?" I asked . . . yawning.

"An expert," Jordan replied . . . trying to be the person that she was months ago . . . it was hard for her to do.

"Want to give it a try?" I asked as I stood up from my stool . . . helped her up on it . . . she said that she wasn't as strong as she used to be . . . I pulled another stool up next to her . . . I was mesmerized by how her hands moved . . . it seemed like this was second nature for her . . . Garrett and I silently watched her move with an intricacy that neither of us would ever know.

"Jord, don't overdo it," Garrett warned her, "Peter, keep an eye on her."

I nodded.

"It's awkward, isn't it?" Jordan asked.

"What?" I questioned . . . I knew what she was getting at . . . I knew that she knew this DNA was somehow connected to her case.

"People look at me different . . . it's like what happened to me is the dirty secret that everyone in the room knows about, but doesn't want to mention," Jordan replied . . . taking me a little off guard that she wanted to be open and honest . . . she wasn't normally like that . . . I never remember her ever just wanting to talk to me.

"We are making progress . . . we've been killing ourselves to make progress. This isn't going to go unanswered," I replied . . . watching her load the vile of potential DNA into the PCR.

"It won't change how I feel about myself and the world in general," Jordan replied . . . . she was right . . . revenge would only be a momentary release from the burden that she was going to have to carry around for the rest of her life.

Day 73: Jordan's Apartment (10 pm)

"That's the last bandage," Woody replied as he took the latex gloves off his hands . . . I lay half naked across my bed. Some of the wounds were slower to heal . . . the nurse showed Woody how to change my dressing . . . he dutifully took care of my tortured body, "Jordan, everything is healing perfectly . . . you look so beautiful."

"I'm ready for bed," I said trying to change the conversation . . . I reached for a bulky t-shirt to cover all the bandages and memories . . . I didn't feel beautiful. He ran his fingers along my spine . . . I pulled the t-shirt over my head . . . I tried to shut down everything before it started.

"Jordan . . . did you want me to leave?" Woody asked confused . . . the whole day had been confusing . . . trying to figure out my role in society . . . trying to feel comfortable with the fact that the man that did this to me was walking the streets . . . probably waiting for me to let my guard down.

"No, I'm just tired . . . you know, my first day back in the real world," I replied as I pulled back the sheets . . . I was nervous . . . sharing a bed with him didn't seem this complicated a few weeks ago.

"Jordan, is everything okay?" Woody asked he lay down next to me in bed . . . turned out the light.

"Is the door locked?" I asked.

"Yes . . . the deadbolt and the latch are locked. I checked already," Woody replied he ran his hands through my hair . . . I inwardly cringed . . . the last time I was in a real bed . . . Nigel and I were ambushed by an intruder . . . the loudness of the hospital was a comfort . . . there were always people watching me . . . it was an odd comfort. The silence and darkness of the apartment was unsettling . . . it ran in my ears, "Jordan, are you going to be alright?"

"Can we give this more time?" I asked.

"Give what more time?" Woody asked.

"Everything . . . I'm just not ready. Maybe once the wounds heal," I replied.

"Jordan, you need to stop looking in the mirror . . . everything looks worse than it really is. Did you want me to call Dr. Stiles in the morning? Maybe you could get back in the routine of seeing him a few times a week," Woody suggested . . . I couldn't even imagine how hard it was for him to be shut out again . . . I had built my walls thicker and taller while I was in the hospital . . . he knew what was entailed in bring those walls down.

"Could you? How much longer are you off of work?" I asked . . . rolling over to face him . . . trying to give him an opening . . . a way back into me.

"Another week . . . or as long as you need me. Jordan, does everything have to be small talk?" Woody asked . . . growing more and more exasperated with my attempts to keep every conversation from becoming personal, "Jordan, don't build these walls again. I want to help you?"

"How are my walls different from the walls you have been building?" I challenged him.

"Building walls and being protective are two different things," Woody countered . . . he sat up in bed . . . swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"So looking at everyone suspiciously is being protective? I miss you . . . sometimes I just want to hear someone say something optimistic . . . I want to hear you laugh or get mad at me for doing something stupid. I want you to stop looking at me like I'm a victim . . . like I need to be saved," I rambled . . . choking on all of the words . . . the tears were hot against my cheeks . . . forming steadily flowing rivers.

"I'm sorry . . . this hasn't exactly been a trip to the park for me," Woody said cynically . . . I began to laugh . . . it was the same cynicism he had in him voice when he would lecture me about following up leads . . . I knew it was some where in him . . . I was glad I found it before it was squandered.

"Why are you laughing?" Woody asked confused.

"Could you please tell me what has been a trip to the park for you?" I replied laughing a little harder . . . his way of wording his anger always made me laugh . . . he always had to dance around his feelings . . . never show anger . . . never show disappointment.

"You are impossible . . . one minute you are mad . . . the next you are making fun of me . . . class act, Jordan," Woody replied frustrated with me . . . making me laugh harder . . . I thought I heard him laughing too.

He laid back down next to me . . . kissed me. He told me that he didn't understand me . . . that I was being difficult. I asked him to use a Wisconsin-ism for me . . . some cheesy phrase to capture the exact emotion of the moment . . . they were always deeper than the sounded. He asked me to shut up and kiss him . . . maybe we weren't as dead inside as we thought we were.