Author's Note

I'm demented enough a person to have had a terrible amount of fun writing this chapter. x) Well ... I've already illustrated that with my posting of three updates in one day.

So far, monkaholic has promptly reviewed every one of these sections without fail. I want to thank everyone for their reviews, but you most of all. Thank you, friends, and enjoy.

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Chapter Four – "Parting of Ways"

Silence felt to ensue for more minutes than even Adrian Monk would have cared to count. He cleared his throat, eyes a bit unfocused and heart ripping through his chest.

"Ben—" His voiced cracked. He tried again. "Benjy. This is very important. D-did you happen to-to n-n-n-otice," Monk rubbed his fists against his eyelids, pausing a moment to collect himself somewhat, "His hands?" The boy looked puzzled.

"What about them?"

"H-he didn't have . . . eleven—you know—fingers? Did he?" Benjy shot a familiar "you're-absolutely-out-of-your-mind" look in Monk's direction before lifting his chin to question his mother. When she made no move to explain, Benjy answered uncertainly.

"No—He had normal hands. Uhm . . . He was short, and skinny . . . and . . ."

Sharona ran her fingers through her son's hair and over his scalp. Otherwise, her attention belonged strictly to the nervous wreck of a man standing in her living room. And then:

"Benjy, honey? Why don't you get back to bed? I'll be there in a minute, and we'll talk." She lowered her eyes long enough to push back his bangs and place a kiss on his forehead. Benjy nodded, unfolded himself from Sharona's embrace, and started toward his room. He turned to favor them with a skeptical glance before disappearing around the corner.

She cocked her head, listening for the soft click of her son's door. When it came, Monk was hit with all the force of a gunshot.

"This is it. I'll say it quickly: I can't do this anymore. Just when I thought that our situation couldn't get worse, my kid is dragged into it. What if this had been a real psycho, Adrian? One out for any sort of revenge he could get? What if Benjy had been kidnapped? Or . . . I just . . ." She propped the points of her elbows up on her knees, burying her face in the upraised palms. An instant later they fell back against her thighs, damp. "I realized that this job would have its moments, but," She angled her chin back to her employer and the overhead lighting glinted off the moisture gathering in the corners of the nurse's eyes, "There's a good chance that this guy will be back. I don't want Benjy around here when that happens."

Deep in the rational core of Adrian Monk, there was no doubt as to what she was implying. The part of him that acted was not rational.

"Well—What are you saying? Do you think your mother would—you know—take him for a while? Until it's safe?" His expert fingers vanished beneath his jacket for a moment as he replaced the pen. Sharona's features grew hard.

"No, Adrian. I'm saying that I won't work for you anymore." Monk shook his head slowly, incredulously.

"Wh-wh-what do you mean? Don't you think I feel terrible about all this? But . . . you can't just quit." He threw his hands into the air, "Even if you could—which, by the way, you can't—you'd just come back, right?" Warm, dark eyes pleaded with cold, light ones.

"We could still keep in touch, and it's not just about this," her hand flipped in an unreadable gesture, perhaps trying to make palpable the entire situation, "I've been living my life like this for more years than anyone should ever have to."

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Maybe not the best way to phrase that. Sharona cringed inwardly at the hurt flickering over her friend's face. Monk managed to take a few steps forward before apparently discovering himself rooted to the spot by his heels, as he moved no further. Instead, shoulders slumped and tears brimming, he loosed his despair.

"What about me, Sharona? What do you expect me to do without you? I-I can't . . . function." He jabbed a finger at her, "You know that, and you're leaving me . . . what the hell kind of friend would do that?" Her guilt suddenly took a backseat to nearly a decade of pent-up exasperation.

"After all I've suffered through with you? Oh, a pretty fucking terrible one," she spat. Sharona leapt to her feet and crossed the room until she was nearly face-to-face with Monk, staring him down with all the fire she could muster. She repeated the last phrase again slowly, emphasizing each word with a sharp prod to his sternum. He bit down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out at the contact, leaning away marginally and setting himself slightly off balance.

"No, you can't . . . you'll be back . . . Sharona? You'll . . . be . . ."

"Goodbye, Adrian."