"You need to eat," I said as I pushed the Chinese food towards her. She looked at it and pushed it back. I pushed it right back at her only to receive a scowl in return. Dr. Macy and Nigel called me out of frustration. Nigel was staying with Jordan at Max's house; well, it was her house now. Nigel said that she hadn't eaten in four days; Dr. Macy said she stopped sleeping two days ago.

"You are going to eat the damn food I brought you and you are going to eat it now," I yelled at her. I knew that was the only way that she was going to hear me; she ignored everything else said to her. She had begun living in her own catatonic world.

She looked at me confused. I saw her lip quiver. I saw the tears begin to well in her eyes. She wasn't going to be defiant any longer tonight. She was going to begin grieving her loss.

"I don't understand," she whispered. She looked down at the kitchen table.

"What don't you understand?" I asked as I stood up and put the carton of Chinese food in the refrigerator; I knew it wouldn't be eaten tonight.

"I need my dad . . . I've always needed him. Why? I don't understand why he needed to leave . . . Woody, I need him," Jordan whispered as she broken down in tears.

"I don't know why," I replied as I stood behind her. I rested my hands on her shoulders and gently began to rub them as she began to silently sob. I did wonder why; Jordan needed her father more than any other person I had ever met. Her father was her only family. She needed her father so much more after James committed suicide and after her grandmother died during surgery just a few weeks ago. I don't think she told anyone about her grandmother; Jordan said that she didn't have a relationship with the woman. Jordan said that she got sick of hearing stories about how Max brutalized her mother from a woman that looked at the world through the windows of a mansion that she never invited her granddaughter into.

"What do I do next?" Jordan asked. It was the same question she asked me a few nights ago right after Max had passed away. I still didn't have a good answer for her. All the easy stuff had been taken care of; Max had planned his own funeral years ago. Max had all his finances in order before he disappeared into the depths of Boston as Samuel Winters, Allen Walters, or one of his other fake identities. I wondered why he needed to hide; the mess with Malden had been taken care of. I hoped that he had watched over Jordan; I hoped that maybe once or twice he snuck into the Pogue during a busy Saturday night just to make sure she looked well. I knew all the hopes in the world wouldn't make this reality.

"I don't know, but whenever you decide that there is something to be done . . . I'll help you," I replied. I hoped she knew that I was being sincere. I hoped she knew that maybe she didn't have to leave Boston to find something tangible to make her happy; I had recently learned that I relished the intangible so much more than I thought possible . . . I longed for the briefest smile to play upon her lips. In those seconds, I felt like maybe everything in the world was right. I hoped she could find something so much more meaningful than cowboys, leather boots, and barbeque. I secretly and selfishly hoped she could find the intangible in me. I wouldn't hold my breath . . . it would take a long time for her to get to that level of soul-searching again. Today, tomorrow, and the day after that would be spent defining her relationship with Max and figuring out the perfect way to say good-bye.

"Thank you. Do you think he was happy?" Jordan asked me. She seemed to only ask the questions that I had no idea how to answer.

"I hope so . . . he had so many reasons to be happy. He had you . . . the Pogue," I replied. In all reality, I thought those were far too few things. The Cavanaughs seemed to lead lives of simplicity . . . I wondered if sometimes the lack of clutter in their lives was what did make them unhappy. I never saw photos of them lining shelves or mantles. I never saw carelessly left behind mementos of his daughter in the house . . . there were never sweatshirts, jackets, hair jewelry, or anything else on a counter or coffee table. I always tried to leave a piece of myself behind if I knew that I wanted to come back. I wished Max and Jordan had learned that behavior.

"I'm hungry . . . could you heat up the Chinese food I pushed away?" Jordan asked. She blushed a little.

"Sure. You want anything else?" I asked as I pulled the carton back out of the refrigerator. Jordan got up and pulled a bowl out of one of the cupboards.

"I really want brownies," Jordan replied. I had to laugh; she always wanted some form of chocolate when she was upset.

"You have to eat something with even the minutest nutritional value before you have dessert," I replied.

"When did you turn into an old hen?" Jordan asked as she sat back down at the table.

"The minute I realized that you were going to leave me and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. The second I realized that I loved you more than I ever thought I could love a woman. The millisecond I realized that life is too damn short to waste on fruitless relationships with woman that could never even hold a candle to you," I thought. I didn't dare say this out loud; it was too soon for this admission to be remotely acceptable.

"When I found out that you haven't been eating," I replied as I scooped the contents of the carton into the bowl.

"Thank you," Jordan replied. I really wanted to thank her for even letting me be here. I watched her tear a napkin into tiny shreds. She seemed content focusing all her attention into the meaningless task. The kitchen fell silent for a few minutes. I watched her pick at her food. I was thankful that she was at least making an attempt to eat. She would occasionally look up as if she needed reassurance that it was still okay to nourish herself. I reached over the table and wiped off a smudge of sweet and sour sauce from the corner of her mouth. She smiled; it was a brief smile, but it made my heart pound inside my chest. I think I smiled in return.

"So how long did Nigel ask you to stay for?" Jordan asked as she continued to pick at her meal and I continued to stare at her.

"I don't know . . . he said that Garrett and him probably would end up doing an all-nighter on the guy that was pulled out of the river. It was some politician's son," I replied. I would stay until she forced me out the door.

"Shouldn't you be out there helping? I thought you were lead homicide detective or something," Jordan replied.

"Seely managed to get his brown-nose in on this one," I replied. It was the truth or at least a half truth. Seely didn't mind working with Nigel and Garrett; I was still a little too intimidated to take their cases.

"I'm sure he did . . . he's a creepy little one," Jordan replied, "Did you want to watch a movie . . . or something?"

I was curious what the 'or something' choice was.

"Whatever you want. You get to run the show tonight," I replied as I scooped the rest of the food into the carton and put it away.

"When do I not run the show?" Jordan replied. She smiled again, but it quickly faded on her face. I assumed that maybe she thought it was inappropriate for her to be even remotely happy; I wondered when she would decide that it was indeed okay to be happy again.

"I know . . . I can't think of a time when you ever let me run the show," I kidded. It was actually a very truthful statement; the only place I ever got to be even remotely in control was the few occasions that we found ourselves in bed together. Even when I was the detective and Jordan was the medical examiner, she always managed to dictate the next move. It was okay; for some reason that arrangement just seemed to work okay for us.

"Can you help me box up some of Dad's clothes? He wanted them to go to charity," Jordan replied as her gaze fell back to the table. That's what the something else choice was.

"Okay, let's do that and maybe afterward we can find that brownie you want," I replied. I wanted desperately to give her even the smallest thing to look forward to.

"I guess . . . in the future, will you always offer up chocolate if I do what I'm supposed to?" Jordan asked. I guess she could smell a bribe from miles away.

"If that's what you want," I replied. She seemed a little irritated with the replied. She threw a dishrag at me.

"Don't be so complacent. I'm getting sick of it, but I still do want the brownie," Jordan replied as she got up from the table. She was smiling; I followed her upstairs to Max's bedroom. It was sparse; I was surprised that there were no pictures of Jordan or Emily. I wondered where he hid them. We spent the better part of three hours in that room packing away dress shirts and a tuxedo that might have easily been from the fifties . . . ruffles and all. Jordan would occasionally stop to run her hands over the fabric of a shirt or jacket. She began crying only once. She saved a few items . . . an old police officer uniform, a corduroy dinner jacket, and an old brown suit . . . it was the suit Max wore on his wedding day. We folded and bagged all the clothes; I carried them downstairs and put them in the trunk and the backseat of my car.

"You don't have to do all this for me," Jordan replied as she collapsed on the couch in the living room.

"I don't have to, but I want to," I replied as I sat next to her. She leaned up against my shoulder.

"Thank you," I replied. She sat forward and reached for the remote control. She flipped through several channels before deciding upon watching some show on CourtTV. She rested her head in my lap. I instinctively began to run my fingers through her hair. I would occasionally stop to rub her neck or shoulder. She fell asleep quickly . . . snoring softly. I didn't dare move; I had no reason to. There was no other place I would rather be. I don't remember falling asleep. I don't remember anything besides feeling a happiness that I thought I might lose to Dallas, cowboys, leather boots, or barbeque.