Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.

By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com

Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 9

HEATHER

I pull up in front of Jim's house with my mouth watering. Asking for a repeat of his spaghetti was an impulse, but now all week I've been remembering it--the mixing of flavors, the spice of the sausage and the richness of the wine, the tang of the oregano and the sweetness of the tomatoes. It's an ongoing experiment, he'd said, and I don't expect an exact copy, but I'm anxious to taste his particular brand of marinara creativity again.

And to taste him. We took another step forward in our relationship last week, and I remember the shape of his mouth with as much pleasure as I do the first time we ate together.

I shut the car door and open the one just behind it, pulling out the pizza pan I've brought along. I volunteered to bring dessert this time, one of my favorites. Glazed slices of kiwi, strawberry, orange, and starfruit make a colorful mosaic on top of a base of meringue. It's light, and will complement Jim's meal perfectly.

By the time I reach his front walk he's standing in the doorway, hands on his hips, regarding me with that odd soft-eyed smirk that tells me he's glad to see me. I smile back, pleasure crinkling my spine at the sight of him, and as he steps back to let me pass I lean up and kiss him briefly. He gives a small grunt of pleasure and follows me inside. "Nice to see you too."

I wink at him, making it cheeky. "Are you complaining?"

He snorts. "No way." Pulling the pan from my hands and setting it down on the coffee table, he surprises me by pulling me into his arms and dipping me back in an exaggerated version of the classic movie clinch. I squeal, and he kisses me, both of us laughing a little. I smooth my hair as he lets me go.

"It smells marvelous in here," I note, picking up the pan again, and Jim waves me on towards the kitchen. "More in an onion mood this week?"

"Vidalia," he says, removing the lid from a simmering pot and stirring it, then holding out the wooden spoon. I put the pan on the counter and lean forward for a taste, and oh, it's good--sweet and savory, not as robust as last time but smoother.

"Wow," I say inelegantly, but it makes him laugh, and he reaches out one blunt finger and wipes a drop of sauce from the corner of my lips, popping it into his own mouth in an automatic move. Then our eyes catch, and a frisson of awareness passes between us. For a moment we simply watch each other, attraction filling the small space between our bodies.
And then, by mutual, silent agreement, we let it go and turn away. There's no need to rush.

The table's already set, and Jim's set out candles, which he lights as I pour the wine he's left breathing on the counter. The setting is elegant, and I find myself glad that I chose a blouse this morning instead of a t-shirt. Jim's wearing jeans again, but they go well with the short-sleeved button-down shirt; the crisp whiteness of the cotton sets off his eyes.

He goes back to dish up the pasta, and I slip off my shoes as the phone rings. "Could you grab that for me, Heather?" he calls, and I can see through the doorway that his hands are full, so I pick up the receiver in the living room.

"Hello?"

"James? Is James there?"

Every nerve I have goes on alert. Not because the voice is female and cultured, not because I've never heard anyone refer to him as "James" or even thought of doing so myself, but because urgency runs under those four words. "One moment, please."

Four strides takes me into the kitchen with the handset, and I pass it to Jim before he can pick up a second plate. He takes it, his brows drawing together, and I realize that my face must show something.

"This is Jim Brass," he says, and pauses. "Hello, Elaine."

I'm about to back away, to give him privacy, but before I can look away I see his eyes widen, and my stomach twists at the expression that flickers over his face. It's there and gone again as his face settles into blankness, but I recognize it.

Pain.

Scooping up the full plate, I carry it out to the table, though something tells me we probably won't be enjoying this meal. Setting it down, I hesitate a moment, not sure whether to return or simply stay out of the way, but then I hear the click of the handset being placed on the counter, and I go back.

I have to swallow hard. Jim's still standing where I left him, but his hands are braced on the counter and his head is bowed, and every line of him shows...defeat. This is not the simple weariness and hurt I saw before when he was attacked at a crime scene; this is a deeper blow, something deadly serious. "Jim?" I ask, half-whispering.

His head comes up slowly, and I realize with a pang that his eyes are glittering with tears, though none have fallen yet. "It's Ellie," he says hoarsely.

BRASS

I hate planes. I'm not paranoid about flying, but it seems to me that every time I get on a plane it's because something bad has happened. The last time I was on a plane was for my mom's funeral; the time before that was flying out to Vegas, and while it was for a job interview, I wasn't looking for a new job because I was bored with the old one, if you get what I mean.

The plane's half-empty, and I'm grateful. It's not that I can't keep my face straight, but everything hurts right now, and I don't need the extra pressure of a crush of people. I keep remembering Elaine's voice on the phone, sobbing between words--It's Ellie, James. She's been in an accident.

Part of me wanted to ask why she was crying so hard. She never paid much attention to her granddaughter--too busy with her bridge club and her garden--but I didn't. I just listened, even though I wanted to toss the phone across the room.

Y'know, in a sense I've been expecting this for years. Ellie always wanted to do her own thing, but the older she got, the more that seemed to mean walking on the wild side. For a while she'd do anything to piss me off, which is normal for a teenager I guess, but it never stopped. The last time I saw her, she'd been picked up for smuggling drugs, and though there wasn't enough evidence to hold her, there was no doubt in my mind that she was guilty as hell. We had our usual fight, and for a minute I thought I'd finally got through to her, that maybe we could just start over.

I think, for a second, she thought it too.

But she walked away, like she always did, and I went home, to hear her voice around corners. Like I always do.

I rub my eyes. They're all gritty and stinging; the air up here dries 'em out. The captain comes on to say we're descending, and I look down to fasten my seatbelt, but it's already fastened. I've been like that ever since I got the news--distracted.

Bless Heather. I didn't have to explain much. She just kind of took over, telling me to go pack, and driving me to the airport. Lucky for me there was a flight that had space, even if I had to pay through the nose for it.

I look out the window, seeing the green patches that Vegas doesn't have, remembering even before we land how humid Jersey can be. The last time I came back it was a shock, coming from desert to a snowstorm.

This time it'll be a funeral again. But this time...oh, damn...this time it won't be my mother in the casket. It'll be my daughter.

I catch a cab outside the terminal, then sit for a second in the back, wondering where to go. I sure as hell won't be welcome at Karen's place. Finally I give the cabbie the name of the hospital, more because I can't think of anything else to do.

It isn't till we get there and I walk into the smell of antiseptic that I realize I'm halfway through my sleep time, and maybe that's why my head hurts so bad. There's a fist of pain right behind my eyes, and the reek doesn't help any.

I've been here before--not for years, but I know the place. Never been to the morgue, though--when detectives need to see bodies they're usually on the city slabs, not in the hospital. But hell, all I have to do is follow the signs.

I push through the doors. The place isn't as nice as Doc Robbins'; it's battered and--not exactly grubby, but not as polished. There's nobody there but a scrawny diener. "I'm here to see Ellie Br--"

And I choke a little. I don't know if she's still using my last name, or if she went back to Fiorelli, which was her first stepfather's name.

I don't even know.

But the kid's face shows recognition. "She's already been identified," he says uncertainly.

I pull out my badge. "I'm her father," I snap, flashing the ID at him, betting that the combination of authority and relationship will be enough, and I win my bet. He shuffles over to the wall of drawers and pulls one out.

She's still got a sheet over her, and for that I'm grateful. The diener folds it back carefully to her neck, and there she is.

My baby girl.

For a minute all I can think is that they got it wrong somehow. This can't be her. My beautiful sprite of a daughter is still out there somewhere, laughing maybe, all blonde hair and energy.

But it's true. She's still beautiful under the bruising, I can see that. Her face is calm, though I don't know if the coroner put it that way for identification, and the lines of her face are still pure, even though no living skin has that shade of gray. Her hair's been smoothed down, but it's streaked with blood here and there.

My eyes drift lower, down her long neck, and I see a piece of black thread peeking out from under the sheet. Huh?

I reach out and pull the sheet down further. The kid twitches, but he's too slow to stop me. Something in the back of my mind whimpers at the sight of the coarsely stitched Y-incision, but most of me is in cop mode, wondering why in hell they did an autopsy when it was her head that got hit. "What's this?" I demand.

The diener blinks. "She was an organ donor," he says weakly.

He keeps talking, but my ears are buzzing and I don't hear him. Oh, Ellie. Oh.

You were still you.

HEATHER

I let Jim off in the dropoff lane of the airport, watching him hurry inside with his bag slung over his shoulder, and then I just sit, ignoring the security guy who's giving me a fishy look. I just need a minute. To mourn.

It's a parent's worst, most horrifying nightmare. The loss of a child. No matter that Jim was estranged from his daughter--she was still his daughter, and always would be. I know there are parents who don't deserve the name, but Jim wasn't one of them. He'd barely spoken of Ellie, but I knew he loved her.

Finally I put the car in gear. I need to go back to Jim's place and clean things up a little--we left dinner just sitting, hardly taking the time to blow out the candles and shut off the stove.

The house is dark and silent. I've never been in it when Jim hasn't been there, and the curtains are still drawn, so the sun can't reach inside.

I stop in the living room, turning on a light, and drift over to look at the small framed picture on the wall. It's a child's drawing, three stick people and a house behind them, and it's signed "Ellie" in shaky capitals. The paper is yellow with age.

Jim never said much about her. He was always interested when I talked about Zoë, but his own daughter was pretty much off-limits for discussion. This ancient drawing is almost all I know about who she is.

Was.

I swallow hard and turn towards the kitchen. My heart is aching for Jim. He looked so lost, even as he packed a bag with swift efficiency.

The plate of pasta has cooled to a gelid mess, and the sauce is cold too, but with a dreary sense of responsibility I put the filled plate in the microwave. I have to eat something--I'm already pushing my luck. While it heats I put the rest of the sauce into the freezer and the noodles into a container; I'll take them home with me, since they probably won't keep until Jim gets back and it would be a pity to waste them. The dessert can go to work. Plenty of my employees have a sweet tooth.

The sauce really is excellent. But I just don't have the heart to enjoy it.

BRASS

The motel's seen better days, but I don't want to spend money on one that's still in its better days; the last-minute plane flight's taken a big enough bite out of my budget as it is. I drop the key on the desk and sling my bag on the bed, deliberately ignoring what the CSIs always say about hotel linen. Right now all I want is sleep, because if I'm asleep I won't have to feel anything, at least for a while.

First things first, though. I pull out my cell and punch up Elaine's number.

She's not bawling this time, which is a relief. I tell her I'm in town, and she doesn't invite me for dinner--no surprise there. But with the pleasantries out of the way I have to ask. "What...what the hell happened?"

Her voice gets all thick again, but mine's not exactly steady either. "I'm not really sure...she got into some kind of argument outside a club. The policeman tried to explain, but Karen was...and I couldn't..."

I can fill in the blanks. Karen went into hysterics, and Elaine had her hands full dealing with her daughter. I let a sigh out, and leave it for now. "All right. Tell me what's going on."

When I hang up I have the schedule. Funeral in three days, cremation the next day. And goodness only knows what in the meantime, trying to straighten things out.

One thing this crappy little place does have is a minibar. I give it a long look. I'm really tempted to let whatever excuse for liquor that thing contains help me to sleep, but I finally decide not. I'm no alcoholic, but as I told Sara not too long ago, it's way too easy to slip into numbing the edges on a regular basis. I just strip down and peel back the sheets, and fall onto the creaky mattress.

And hope I don't dream.

xxxxxxxxx

I've never been one of those people they talk about in books, who wakes up not knowing where they are. I don't know if it's a side effect of being a cop or what, but as soon as I'm even slightly conscious, I remember.

Remembering is hell, this morning.

I did dream, though no nightmares, and I kept waking up. So my head doesn't feel much better than it did yesterday. I roll over--the sheets smell clean, at least--and try to face the fact that my little girl's dead. Shot in the head in what my ex-mother-in-law calls an "accident," and while that sounds pretty fishy I wouldn't put it past Ellie.

I just want to go back to sleep, and not wake up again.

But there's no getting out of this. I pry myself out of the bed and take a shower--lukewarm's the best the pipes can do--and go out in search of coffee. There's no way I'm facing Karen without some coffee.

There's a little diner about five blocks away from my motel, and while it's been years since I've been in it, it used to serve pretty good coffee. I take a seat at the counter and turn down the offer of breakfast; I'm halfway down my first cup when a voice behind me reminds me of something I shouldn't have forgotten--I wasn't the only cop who liked this place.

"Well, if it isn't Officer Snitch."

Sergeant Tregard slips onto the stool next to mine and leans back against the counter. It's been years since I've seen him, too, but I wouldn't expect him to forget me. I keep my eyes front and take another sip; I never had a beef with Tregard himself, but finger one dirty cop and they all close ranks on you, and I don't want a fight. "Sergeant," I acknowledge.

"Heard you ran off to Las Vegas," he says, and his tone isn't as hostile as I expected, though it sure as hell ain't friendly.

"Yep." I still don't look at him. "Gotta love the night shift."

He snorts. "So what brings you back to Jersey?"

All of a sudden I'm out of patience. I turn my head and look him in the eye. "My daughter died yesterday."

He blinks, and the hardness falls off his face. I hold his stare, and he blinks again and looks down. "Oh," he says finally. "Uh--sorry."

I nod once, and after a second or two he slides off the stool and goes away, and that's all I care about.

xxxxxxxxx

Elaine's place looks just like it always has--lawn manicured within an inch of its life, and a bunch of those cutesy animal statues scattered here and there. The flowers are nice, though. I knock on the door, suddenly wishing I were wearing my suit jacket instead of a polo shirt. Everyday armor.

But the door opens and there's Elaine, tall and skinny and elegant. She's aged since the last time I saw her, and it shows, even though her hair's still perfect and she's made up within an inch of her life. She looks at me with the expression she's always reserved for me--politeness, and a little bewilderment, like she can't understand what an ordinary cop is doing in her daughter's life. "James," she says, and stands aside so I can come in.

"Hello, Elaine," I answer, and slide past. The inside of the little house is as perfect as the outside--I get the feeling that any self-respecting dustbunny would run for its life rather than live here. "Where's Karen?"

She closes the door. "In the den. James--be kind to her, she's absolutely devastated--"

I bite my tongue, and nod. I'll give Karen this--she tried to be a good mom to Ellie even if she did paint me black the second I walked out of her life.

I walk down the hall towards the den, and Elaine vanishes into the kitchen. The walls here are lined with photographs, and I'm careful not to look at some of 'em--I need to keep control right now, not break down staring at a picture of my little girl. One of them catches my eye though. It's not my daughter; it's my ex-wife, back before things got bad. Back when we were happy. She's smiling, a little saucy; long hair the same blonde as Ellie's, but her build curvy and short. Just the right height for my arm around her shoulders--

I follow the smell of cigarettes into the den. Karen's slumped in one of the big armchairs left over from her daddy's time, and the half-full ashtray on the desk nearby tells me she's probably been smoking from the minute she got up this morning. The difference between Karen now and Karen then is pathetic; her hair's bleached and short, the curves have been chased away by some diet, and she's dressed like somebody at least twenty years younger. Her face looks like she's ten years older than she is, though I figure that at least part of that's due to grief. Hell, it's not like I look all that great today either.

It occurs to me that I really don't know what to say, but it turns out I don't have to say anything. Karen's head rolls around until she sees me, and her eyes go narrow. "What are you doing here?"

I don't want to fight, I never do, but some things are just automatic. "What do you think? I just dropped in for a flying visit?"

She snorts, and crushes out the cigarette she's holding. "Typical. You show up when it's too late."

The ache in my head is spreading down my neck now. "I came as soon as I heard."

"Just in time for the funeral," she sneers. "You can play the grief-stricken father all you want, but everyone there'll know you left her years ago."

"I didn't leave her, she left me," I retort, my hands clenching into fists. "Just because you--"

"You were never there!" Karen screams, pushing out of the chair. "If I'd stayed with you Ellie would have grown up without a father!"

"Yeah, and she had three instead, and hated all of 'em!" Now I'm yelling too. "I tried to be there for her, but you kept shoving me away--"

"So you run away to Vegas?" Her eyes are almost bulging, and I feel sick, and furious too. "If you weren't such a damned coward, you--"

"If I weren't such a damned coward I'd have told Ellie the truth years ago!"

I can't believe I said that. I didn't even know it. My throat closes up on any more words.

Karen's definitely not out of them. She opens her mouth again, but Elaine's voice cuts into our fight like ice.

"Karen! James! What are you doing?"

My ex stops mid-word, and I turn a little in the doorway, feeling even guiltier. Elaine's standing behind me, hands on her hips. "Your daughter's not even in her grave and you two are fighting! James, I told you not to upset her!"

I run one hand over my hair, and realize it's shaking a little. There's no point in arguing with Elaine. "Sorry." My voice is hoarse.

Karen slumps back into the chair. "Get out of here, Jim," she snarls. "Go back to Vegas."

Elaine sighs, and gestures towards the front door, and I head for it, suddenly wanting very badly to get out of the little house before I break one of those pictures or put my fist through a wall. "I'll see you at the funeral," I tell Elaine, letting her know that I'm not leaving the city just yet, but she just nods.

"That would probably be best."

I look at her for a second, wondering how many times Karen and I have gone through that scenario, and then something occurs to me. "Do you remember the name of the officer who..."

I can't quite finish the sentence, but Elaine bites her lip, and reaches over to the hall table for the business card there. She hands it to me and I put it into my pocket, and leave the little house behind.

It takes me almost half an hour of driving to calm down. I didn't think Karen could still push my buttons like that, but nothing about this is normal. I try a couple of the exercises that Heather taught me, the ones she uses when clients get on her nerves, even though I laughed at them when she described them.

Man, I miss her. I miss the smell of her, the press of her body against mine, the look in her eyes when I tease her. I want to call her, just to hear her voice as an antidote to Karen's screaming, but I don't. She's got enough to deal with without my griping.

And somehow, I want to keep her separate from all this. As long as she's back there in Vegas, I have something to go back to, even if I never tell her about this week.

When my grip on the wheel is a little less strangling, I fish out the card. I don't recognize the name, and it's a relief; maybe this Sgt. Raffelli won't resent me for what I had to do all those years ago.

xxxxxxxx

The park isn't big, but it has a pretty cool jungle gym; I used to bring Ellie here when she was little. I sit on the bench in the sunshine and just stare; there's a few kids playing on the swings, but I don't really see them. Instead I'm seeing Sgt. Raffelli's report, and hearing his voice telling me what went down. And at the same time, I'm seeing it play out in my mind.

Ellie and a couple of her friends, waiting to get into a club.

Three drunk guys deciding that her friend Sean is a good target.

Ellie getting in their faces when they wouldn't leave Sean alone.

The bouncer moving to break it up, but not fast enough.

The .22 one of the jerks is carrying as he presses it to Ellie's skull to shut her up.

The noise of the gun going off--not loud--and the look on his face when she falls.

The clink of the gun hitting the sidewalk when he dropped it in shock.

Damned fool's lucky it didn't go off again.

I can't breathe. It hurts too much.

Ellie...

I didn't know I could still cry.

HEATHER

It's been three days. I can't stop thinking about Jim.

It's not just worry--the oddest things remind me of him, like driving past the grocery store where we first met that rainy morning, or the scent of barbecued chicken that calls back the time he had to prove to me that he could grill as well as I can.

He hasn't called...yet...and while I keep having the impulse to call him, I haven't. Grief can be a lonely journey, and sometimes one has to go part of the way alone, or only with those who share the grief.

I just hope he knows I'm here if he wants to call.

Tonight I leave for work a little early. I'm restless this evening, and I might as well go to work as do housework--and nobody pays me to do housework.

The sunset's magnificent; for once there are clouds in the sky, and the heavy cumulus produce a medley of crimsons and pinks and gilded greys in the western sky. I keep stealing glances while waiting at stoplights, and then when a last beam of light strikes one small building in particular, I choose to take it as a sign.

I must be presenting an incongruous picture at best. I'm dressed for work, which tonight means a lacy blouse, a cameo on a ribbon, an artfully tattered skirt, and my stiletto boots, and I'm walking into one of the little Catholic churches that date back to the founding of the town. But there's no one there to stop me, even when I step inside; if it weren't for the flicker of candlelight and the faint hum of air conditioning units, the place would appear abandoned.

It's been a long time since I've been to a service; while Las Vegas does offer more services than many other cities, living the night life just doesn't make it convenient. Still, I automatically soften the tap of my heels against the stone floor. The sanctuary is a bit shabby; my guess is that its congregation is small. But it's a historical building, which has probably kept the developers at bay for the moment.

I pause at the last pew, looking around, absorbing the scents of wax and stone and incense. But somehow I don't want to advance up the aisle and sit, even for a moment. Instead, I move off to the side where a smaller area holds a statue of the Virgin Mary.

It's funny--people tend to think of her as meek and submissive, but I've never considered her so. After all, it must have taken tremendous courage for a teenage peasant girl to defy her family and her fiancé by informing them that she was pregnant--and that she'd been told so by an angel of God. Not to mention raising that child and his brothers, only to see her eldest son become reviled, worshiped, and wrongly executed.

No, Mary was a woman of strength. And she would understand the loss of a child.

I fish a coin from my handbag and slip it into the small box next to the rank of votives, then light one myself, thinking of Jim and the stricken look in his eyes. And the young woman whose drawing hangs on his living room wall.

May you find peace. Both of you.

BRASS

The funeral's absurd. I can't think of a better word for it. I stand on one side and watch the people coming in, with Elaine or Karen greeting them, Karen sniffling into a handkerchief every so often. Most of the mourners are old friends of those two, who watched Ellie growing up, or they're friends of Ellie's, teary young women clinging to each other.

The room's not very big, and it feels stuffy and cramped. The casket's open, and my eyes keep drifting back to it, getting one more glimpse of Ellie's face. She looks very beautiful, but not natural. In all her life she was never still for so long.

It all feels like it's taking place on the other side of a thick pane of glass. I take my seat next to Elaine--she insisted that we all sit together, which is a laugh--and listen to people talk about an Ellie I never knew.

I'm not sure they knew her either. They describe someone caring, smart, sweet--and she could be all those things, yeah. But none of them mention her spirit, her energy, her stubbornness, the fact that when she was little she would stomp her feet if she didn't get her way... They don't talk about how she could be reckless, or how she loved strawberries, or how she would stick up for the underdog even when it--

--Got her killed.

Elaine's nudging me with her elbow, and I blink, and realize that it's my turn to say something. I push to my feet and walk up to the podium; the carpet's so thick that my feet aren't making any sound. They're all watching me, except for Karen, who has her face buried in her handkerchief. I open my mouth, and nothing comes out, because there in the back is the one guy I really, really didn't want to see.

Ellie's biological father.

I always figured he didn't know, but I can tell by looking at him now that he does, though whether he always knew or Karen told him some time later I have no idea. It's too much, really, and for a second fury twists my gut and I just want to walk out and leave the whole fake scene behind. We're all fakers here--Elaine's faking mourning, and I'm faking parenthood, and everybody's talking about a girl who didn't exist, a sweet and perfect young woman to match the perfect, empty face in the coffin.

But I get it under control. Lady Heather, expert at control, would be proud, and I really wish she were here to sit with me instead of a woman who hates my guts and one who never liked me.

"I loved Ellie from the second I set eyes on her," I say, and my voice is rough at first. "I knew right then that my life was never going to be the same."

Wide eyes open and a tiny fist wraps around my finger.

"Being a father was the best thing that ever happened to me."

Jars of baby food and piggyback rides and telling bedtime stories. The three of us going out for pizza, a family even if it was just temporary.

"I know I wasn't the world's greatest dad, not by a long shot, but I did try."

Those wide eyes full of tears as she watches me pack a suitcase. "Daddy, why are you going away?"

"Ellie was her own person. She was a dreamer and a rebel. She...had a good heart."

A fourteen-year-old with too much makeup and a skirt that's way too short. "What do you care who I go out with? You're never around anyway."

"It's a parent's job to protect their child. But you can't protect them from everything."

"Dad, it's way too late."

"And sooner or later you have to let them go."

He's hardly more than a kid himself, huddled in the cell. Guard says he was crying off and on all night. Raffelli says he'll plead no contest to involuntary manslaughter.

I can despise him, but I can't hate him.

"Ellie..." I swallow. "Wherever you are, I'm proud of you."

xxxxxxxxxx

Potato salad. Three kinds. It almost makes me laugh, seeing the big bowls on Elaine's table. Ellie hated the stuff.

It's not as big a spread as at my mom's funeral, but she had a lot of friends, and there were cousins all over the place too. This time, people keep dropping by, and it seems like all of 'em have their hands full with something edible. Cookies, jello, a trayful of vegetables--somebody even brought some of those tiny little quiches. Elaine's been busy brewing pot after pot of coffee, between answering the door; the one time I tried to do it she nearly ran me down. She's in her element here, receiving guests, and while I can't say she's enjoying it, I know she likes to be in control of a situation.

Karen's sitting in the living room and letting people come to her. She keeps breaking down. Y'know, if this were one of those cheesy made-for-TV movies, we'd have some kind of reconciliation; I'd go over there and comfort her, and maybe we'd both cry for a while, and part friends. But the truth is I don't want to be anywhere near her. We'd only end up screaming at each other again.

So I hang out in the den, wishing I had a glass of Scotch instead of a cup of coffee. Elaine, bless her hostess instincts, brought me a plate of goodies and a napkin, but I'm the farthest thing from hungry.

Every so often someone wanders in, and we end up having a minute of awkward conversation. It's mostly older folks--not too many of Ellie's friends showed up--and it's a weird feeling, seeing people I knew years ago, but in this situation. It's not like most people took sides in Karen's and my divorce, but the fact that I didn't stick around kinda makes the issue moot.

In one of those pauses where nobody else is in here, I find myself thinking of Vegas. It's home now, even though I don't really think of it that way, and part of me really wants to get back there. Ridiculous damn climate and all. Back there are people I know and trust, people I can joke with, people who don't resent me for things I did or didn't do. People like 'Rick, and Grissom, and Heather.

I miss her. I keep thinking that if she were here it wouldn't hurt so bad. It would be nice to have somebody around who isn't involved, if you know what I mean. I close my eyes for a minute, imagining her sitting in the other chair, those big eyes all warm and serious the way they were when I told her what had happened. Listening.

But she's not here. And it's probably a good thing, really. She doesn't need to be stuck in my personal mess.

It's gotten quiet out there. I finally look at my watch, and it surprises me how much time has gone by. Looks like the party's over.

I push to my feet and stick my nose out the door. The hallway's empty, so I collect my plate and cup, and head back to the kitchen. I can hear Elaine and Karen talking in the living room, but no other voices. Pouring my cold coffee down the sink, I look around at the mess of crumbs and plates, and for a second I'm tempted to roll up my sleeves and start washing, just to have something to do.

"Go home, Jim."

The voice makes me look up. Karen's standing in the doorway, looking more tired than I feel, which is an achievement. But for once, she doesn't seem mad. "Go on, get out of here."

Her voice is just sad.

"Tomorrow--" I start, and she shakes her head.

"We'll see you then."

And that seems to be that. I nod, and walk towards her. She pushes off the doorframe and steps back so I can pass through.

Still short enough that I could put my arm around her shoulders. But I don't want to anymore.

xxxxxxxxxxx

I've seen cremations before. My dad, my grandfather. They never bothered me much.

This does.

The funeral was so surreal--it got to the point where nothing felt really real, and the beautiful face in the coffin was somebody I didn't know, or just a symbol--a stand-in for my daughter. Here and now, in this stark room, the coffin is already sealed shut, but I have this crazy urge to pop it open and pull her out, to stop the whole thing, just in case she's not dead. Because the fire in that furnace will make sure she is.

I know, I know, it's insane. But I can't help how I feel.

It's just the four of us--me, Karen, Elaine, and the guy running the show, I don't know what you call 'em. It's not like there's any ceremony attached to this, but he moves slowly just the same, and I guess it's a kind of respect. He must do this a dozen times a week, but it's not ordinary to the folks he does it for.

He kind of looks like what David the coroner might look like in twenty years. Solid and regular, but not stupid. He glances around at us, the two women huddled together, me standing off by myself, and then does something with the control panel. The big doors slide open, and my throat gets tight as the belt starts to move and the coffin lumbers towards the furnace.

I haven't seen flame like that since the last time I watched a house burn down. My hands are in my pockets, but I clench them into fists, trying to keep from saying anything. Ellie's dead--she's not awake in there. And she'd approve of this. Letting her ashes go on the wind seems much more appropriate than burying her body in a cemetery somewhere.

Except, I'll bet, they won't go free. I'd lay odds that Karen'll keep them, or Elaine will. Maybe in an urn on the mantel.

The coffin slides into the roar of flame, and the doors close over it. The weird sense of panic that gripped me since this began just--stops.

Karen's sobbing again, and Elaine has an arm around her, murmuring something I can't catch. Neither of them looks up as I turn and go out.

Seems like all I do is leave.

See Chapter 10