The Notes
By Tarrant
A/N Of course these characters don't belong to me, I am not at all sure who they belong to anymore but I just listen and write when they feel like talking to me. I am hoping to have more for this story but I think it stands alone for now. Many thanks to Ms. Saunders for bringing them to life. Long live SBR and all the profiler characters.
George sat and stared at the note in his hand. He read the last line of the note again. "I'll miss you terribly, you have been a wonderful friend, but I know you will understand. All my love, Sam."
George felt tears stinging in his eyes. "I don't understand, I don't understand any of this. It's so unfair."
He could barely make out the words that Bailey was saying. There was a roaring in his ears. He wanted to jump up and scream. "What is wrong with you, how could you have let her go. You didn't tell her, did you? You kept it to yourself and you just let her walk out the door." But he didn't scream, he didn't say anything. He just kept his head down and stared at the writing that had become oh-so-familiar to him.
When Bailey was done talking, he turned on his heels and walked out of the command center. George heard the door to his office slam, but right now, he didn't care what was happening within that office.
One by one the others left the command center. No one spoke, it was as if they were at a wake. Everyone caught up in their own thoughts and concerns. And finally, George was alone. He looked over to the chair that Sam had occupied less than 24 hours ago. He had worked long hours alone in this room. But never had it felt this empty, this lonely.
He sighed heavily. It was a sigh that came from his very soul. "It can't end like this. This isn't right or fair or... it just can't end this way." He thought to himself. He pushed back his chair and stood up. He felt as though he was carrying a very heavy load on his shoulders.
George walked past Bailey's office. He glanced in the window and saw Bailey sitting at his desk. His back was turned to the window but George could tell that his shoulders were slumped. A cigar burned in the ashtray on his desk, untouched.