Chapter Sixteen

"The power of suggestion can be very dangerous," Galloway said.

Jim nodded. He had just finished explaining what he remembered from that morning, how empty he'd felt, how utterly blind, how he'd been paralyzed.

Galloway had shifted a few things to get him in because of the urgency of Christie's call. Even if Fisk hadn't called and asked him to talk to someone, even if Christie hadn't called Galloway herself, Jim would have made the appointment. He had things he didn't understand, like what had happened at the church that morning. It was early evening, scant hours since he'd talked to Josiah Wilkins, but it could have been weeks. Jim was already exhausted, but he tuned his attention to Galloway as he never had before.

"What do you think happened?" Galloway asked.

"I don't know."

"Some people are very persuasive."

"I'd been listening to that guy talk for hours and it fascinated me, all the horrible things he was making sound good, all the good things that were bad."

"And?"

"And I started thinking how Christie was probably going to leave me after our fight that morning because I couldn't leave well enough alone.

"And I started thinking she shouldn't have stayed with a guy who couldn't see her.

"And then I started thinking about how things were falling apart on the case and in the squad, all because I can't see. I can't protect my witnesses. I can't ID people. Marty saw that, that's probably why he started questioning me again. And with Karen gone… And Fisk telling me I had to be careful I didn't jeopardize the lives of anyone else…" Jim trailed off. Everything had been compounding that morning even before he got up on that stage and the blindness had closed in around him.

"Jim, you're a good cop. It doesn't matter that you're blind."

"Without Karen, I'm helpless."

"Without Karen, there's someone else. Yes, you need help, but she doesn't do everything for you. You told me before sometimes her descriptions of the crime scenes leave a little to be desired."

"I rely on her too much."

"You need help now, but you're not helpless, remember that."

Jim sighed. "Sometimes it feels like it." He felt like he was back at that place, the edge of that abyss in the hospital, when someone had come in and told him he was verging on depression. It had shocked him then, and now, to find himself back there—he'd been fine yesterday. Was it all because of that morning? Could one man say something so profound that it could push someone over the edge?

"I don't know what happened between you and Detective Russo, but it'll probably blow over. It probably has nothing to do with you being blind."

"Then why's he questioning my ability—"

"Because that's the only way he knows to get to you. It sounded to me like he had accepted you as a detective. He's not going to be able to forget that." Galloway shifted in the big chair. "As for the lieutenant pulling you aside, maybe you need to be reminded to be careful."

"I was careful. I didn't—"

"Did he know that for sure?"

"No…" Jim shook his head. "So this morning?" he asked.

"Jim, you can deny it all you want, but when people talk, you listen," Galloway said. "You actually listen, even when you don't want to hear it. That's part of what makes you a good detective."

"I know you're not suggesting I stop listening, so what are you trying to tell me?"

"When it comes to other people, you can weigh the truth and decide what you want to believe. But when it comes to your own life, that's up to you. I've told you before, you need to decide for yourself who you are."

"You need to check your report? Forget my name already?" Jim joked. He'd heard Galloway before, but he'd never been able to answer the question.

"Jim," Galloway said, "you need to decide what defines you."

Jim cocked his head to the side, waiting.

"What do you want people to think first when they see you? The blindness can either be everything, or it can just be a part of your life. That's up to you."

Jim shook his head, ready to argue.

"It can, Jim. With the people you know. It all depends on your attitude. Russo, the lieutenant, your wife, they can either see you first as a blind man, or they can see you as Jim Dunbar."

Jim bit his lip. "I've gotta be honest, doc, I'm starting to forget who that is."

"You need to take time, re-evaluate. You can't just keep running in place or you'll end up in a hole."

Jim leaned back to think it over. What defined him?

Stop fighting everyone. Relax.

Relax, that's what DeLana had told him.

He used to be able to relax. What had happened?

If he stopped fighting the blindness, if he stopped fighting Christie…

He cracked his neck. Those were two things he could work on. He'd already mostly accepted being blind. Maybe if he could accept help once in a while, let the other detectives know when he wasn't infallible. He had told Marty he considered Karen and he to be a team effort. He could give that a try.

And he could let Christie be part of the team again. It wasn't just his decision about their marriage—it was up to both of them.

Jim remembered one time the blindness had defined him. It had been so overwhelming, when he first found out. Stuck in that hospital, no escape. He couldn't hide, couldn't think, could only stare and say, this isn't happening. He hadn't been able to break free. This is me, this is what it's going to be like forever and ever, completely empty, completely helpless, he'd kept thinking. He couldn't even walk to the bathroom on his own. He had a head injury to boot, almost no balance, couldn't come to terms, wouldn't take it slow. Kept thinking, if I could get to the roof, I'd throw myself off. If I could get to the street, I'd throw myself in front of a bus. If I could find the medication cart, I'd take it all. He hadn't been able to come up with a way to even kill himself, so pathetic, so utterly helpless.

And he'd had so little time alone to think. You'd think, being in the hospital, that you'd have all this time, but as soon as he was out of ICU, he'd been flooded with guests. People from the squad, from different precincts, people he knew and those he didn't. Well-wishers who didn't know what they were talking about. That's why the comment from Midnight Matheson had hit him so hard, that hatred of well-wishers. He knew what Bo had meant. They came to him, two at a time, three at a time, like a Dr. Seuss novel, all these people shuffling past in the dark.

Good job.

You'll be up and around in no time.

The squad's not the same without you.

Get well soon.

We all miss you.

Tough break, but you'll be okay.

You're a survivor.

Lucky you.

And they'd all introduce themselves, people he'd known for so many years as a cop would come up to his bedside like he was comatose, and they'd say, "Hi, how's it going, oh, by the way, this is Richard Watson, remember me?"

Jim wanted to punch them. Of course he knew, how much of an invalid did they think he was? Did they think he was brain damaged? Had amnesia?

Get well soon? You'll be okay? What the fk did they know?

Jim wouldn't even look at them. He'd barely listen. He was tired, this wasn't real. These people wouldn't be part of his life anymore once he got out of the hospital because he wouldn't get well soon, wasn't okay. Sadly, not brain damaged, so he could think and feel everything.

He wanted them to go away, not see him like this. But on the other hand, if they weren't around, it would really hit him that he wasn't a cop anymore. He wanted to make the best of the time he had left, but he couldn't react, could barely talk because he couldn't think.

Terry had visited only once that Jim was aware of. He'd been nervous, hadn't even taken a seat. Jim had just stared at him, couldn't believe he was there. Terry'd mumbled some things, but wasn't there long, probably couldn't handle seeing Jim's blank stare.

After he'd left, Jim had wanted to throw things and scream, but his body wouldn't take action. Knowing Terry was up, walking around…

Walter Clark had stopped by, a bright spot, talking more about cases they were working and about his family, not bringing up the past or the bank or the future. Just giving Jim time to reflect. Jim had been thankful for Walter's visits, short as they were, as the other man was always rushing off in search of more evidence. Walter had been one of the few people who didn't seem unnerved by Jim, the way he looked, the way he didn't know what to say anymore.

A few other cops he'd known for years had taken Walter's lead, and Jim had relished those moments. He listened raptly to talk of cases, and soon found he was able to contribute to conversations, bounce ideas back and forth again, like everything was okay.

Someone from the press had snuck in once. That had gone badly. He hadn't been ready to deal, couldn't figure out this whole not seeing thing. And there was someone, sitting in the visitor's chair, telling him what a gorgeous day it was, that the sun was shining through the window and wasn't he glad to be alive. He hadn't been able to answer. The man, so chipper and upbeat, Jim had been sure he was part of the hospital staff, come once again to tell him how they'd help him to get his life back on track and how he'd learn to manage.

The guy had asked him, how do you feel, knowing you saved all those men at the bank? How does it feel to be a hero? What are you going to do now? How's your lovely wife taking it? Can you imagine living your life as a blind man?

Then Jim had heard the unmistakable scratching of a pen on paper.

"You're writing this down?" he'd asked.

"Boy, you don't miss anything," the guy had said.

Jim had realized the man had never introduced himself, just sat down and started chatting. Jim had been trying to be polite, and most of the time he'd just stared straight ahead and shrugged, not really giving an answer, but he knew the press would run with it, whatever little they got or didn't get, they'd find ways around it. The wounded hero, sitting shell-shocked—

Jim had lunged out during the man's next question. He'd actually jumped from the bed, pulling the IV from the back of his hand, landing badly and using the chair as leverage as he grabbed the guy, embarrassed as he had to fumble for a proper hold. The man had cried out, but Jim had grabbed him up, made them both stand. He'd fumbled again, spinning the guy around, couldn't even imagine the look of horror and concentration on his own face as he stood with the man pressed against his chest, one arm around his throat, his own eyes wide. "Head for the door."

The man had almost bolted, but Jim held him in check. He couldn't throw the man bodily into the hallway if he ran away first, and Jim terribly needed to throw someone out.

Footsteps were running down the linoleum-covered hallway, alerted by the cry, but Jim kept on his quest. He felt the doorjamb graze his shoulder and he let up the pressure on the journalist's throat and pushed, still weak from being unconscious and from the medications, but even so, he'd overbalanced the man, heard him stagger across the hall and smack lightly against the wall to keep his balance. It sounded like he dropped his notebook.

"If you print a word about me, I will sue you," Jim had threatened. "Don't come back."

"Detective!" a nurse cried. It sounded like she had a whole slew of orderlies with her, ready to restrain him.

But he was already lightheaded. He hadn't stood much recently, was still medicated. Only the adrenaline had gotten him this far. He slumped against the wall, holding his hand over the bleeding IV site.

"Detective, what happened?" the nurse asked.

"Keep the press out. Didn't we tell you that?" Jim turned on her, straightening up to his full height, hoping he looked intimidating and not just sickly.

The nurse rushed over and grabbed his arm, but Jim never would have admitted he was grateful for the support. He shook her off. He hadn't heard the journalist move and wasn't about to let anyone see Detective James Dunbar in a weak moment.

"Get him out of here," he ordered and turned back to his room. He took a step, reached out, groping for the door, but not sure which way it opened. The nurse rushed forward and closed it for him with a satisfying thud. Jim had almost collapsed on the floor as soon as it was closed. He felt weak and disoriented, couldn't remember which direction the bed was. Or the window the reporter had told him about with the sun—

"Is the sun really out?" he'd asked, finally taking the nurse's shoulder and shuffling forward until she sat him on the bed.

It wasn't until she left, closing the door against the world, that Jim had been able to play back the situation. Like listening to play-by-play on the radio.

He'd forced himself to imagine the players. A big burly reporter, himself weak and confused, scared even, only having known he was blind for two days, the nurse, light playing through her hair as she sat him gently on the bed, reassured him it would never happen again, then jabbed a new IV through the skin on the back of his hand, making him wince because she hadn't warned him she even possessed a new needle.

He'd finally been able to run it all through, from the initial realization, where it felt like he was coming out of a coma, to the end, shuffling back to the bed, utterly spent.

He hadn't shuffled with the reporter. It had almost been like walking with a perp in front of him, controlling the other man's movements, Jim had been able to walk normally, even unsure of his destination. Cop instincts, they'd kicked in, saved him a rotten article. Cop instincts, they'd shown him he could move freely, could control himself and his situation. He didn't feel so helpless. Almost grateful to be alive. Almost smiling, imagining the look on the reporter's face when Jim attacked him.

It was a good memory, that first smile.

Jim had never decided whether or not to go back to Morrissey's. Yeah, Steve had caught him, invited him back. Even though Steve had never liked him.

It made Jim wonder what the other guys thought of him. Before. After.

It was difficult having a Before. So many people seemed to make it through life without being compared to an earlier incarnation of themselves, like he'd been two different people.

He felt that way, though, especially around Christie.

The Jim Before, he used to look on him as the epitome of who he was supposed to be. But when Steve told him he hadn't liked that guy… A bit of himself had skewed. Christie hadn't liked that guy sometimes, either. Anne learned to hate him.

Jim Before started losing some of his luster. Jim Before was a womanizer, a jerk.

Jim Now had a second chance. He could change. People would say it was because he didn't have a choice, because he was blind, but he would know it was partly the near-death experience, the chance to re-evaluate his life, the fact that he'd been given something a lot of people never had—time. Time to think and reassess.

That's what Galloway had told him he had to do. He'd reinvented Old Jim when he went back to work. Trying his darnedest to be the same man he had before.

Now he thought, maybe that was a mistake. He could use this, his chance to improve, not his chance to be the same.

Galloway had said Jim had become obsessed with his blindness. Keeping it from Christie. Living with it himself. Compensating. Proving to everyone it didn't matter. It did matter. Jim knew that; he had things he couldn't do anymore, things he had to do differently. But it was up to him to decide how much it mattered.

This was why he'd been so affected by what Uncle Josiah had said, because he still hadn't integrated the blindness into his life, was always fighting against it.

It wasn't who he was. He needed to figure out who he would be with Christie, the squad, his friends. Because he wasn't going to let the blindness define him.

He hadn't been back to Morrissey's partly because he wasn't sure he had a place there anymore, partly because he wasn't sure what the guys thought of him. It would be a small step, going back, but he had to do it. Even if Cal and Fos and Steve weren't his friends anymore, that didn't mean it had anything to do with him not being able to see, and that didn't mean he would never have friends of his own, as Jim Now.

He forced himself to head over. It wasn't like him to be nervous, but then again, it couldn't be wrong to feel apprehensive about re-evaluating his life. It was a big step to take.

Except for whatever he'd done to piss off Marty, Jim felt he'd pretty much earned his place at the squad. The other detectives respected him and knew he could do his job. He'd been lucky to fall into an open-minded partner like Karen. And even if Marty was going to keep riding his ass all the time, Jim would use that as a gauge to make sure he never got lax. Tom and he had formed an easygoing relationship; Jim felt he could relax around Tom. Even the lieutenant had accepted Jim, treated him the same as any other cop.

Christie and Jim were going to re-evaluate their lives—together. They'd promised. They wouldn't try to do it alone.

Now all Jim had left to figure out was who he was outside his job and wife. Who Jim Now was when he was alone, when he had time to kick back.

Christie'd nearly fainted when he said he was going out, that he had to think. After the day he'd had, and everything he'd put her through, she wanted him to stay home. But he'd sat down with her and explained, a little. She wished him luck.

He shivered as his hand touched the cold metal handle at Morrissey's. The moment of truth. It was getting late, but, he hoped, at least one of the guys was bound to be there.

Stale and fresh smoke escaped out the door. Glasses clinked and people laughed and chatted, yelling over each other to be heard.

Jim headed into the warmth and turned right for the bar.

"The usual, Jim?" Gray asked.

"Yeah, thanks." He leaned up against the bar, took a deep breath to inquire about his old friends.

"Foster and Steve are in the corner," Gray offered casually.

"Which corner?"

"Back. Left. Under the big screen and that picture of the fish."

Jim nodded. The picture was of a pike or a musky, Jim wasn't enough of a fish aficionado to know the difference, a huge behemoth with teeth the size of anchors, oddly distorted by the artist. They looked like they were tinged with blood, making it the talk of all the people when they started getting drunk. It was a hideous picture, but chances were, it would be there forever.

A bottle clinked onto the counter and Jim reached out. "Thanks." He left the bills on the counter and turned. He ordered Hank to move forward, then right, listening carefully through the din for voices he recognized.

"Hey, Jim," Fos said.

Jim measured the distance, estimating it to be about five more feet and just to the right. The tables weren't set up in a perfect grid, so he'd nearly gotten disoriented on the way back as Hank wove in and out.

"Hey, guys," Jim said. "Mind if I join you?"

A pause. Fos probably checking with Steve to make sure there wasn't going to be any conflict.

"Sure," Steve said.

Hank stopped him at the table and Jim let go of his harness so he could have a free hand. "There a chair…?"

"Yeah, just to… uh, your left," Fos said.

Jim switched the beer to his right hand and reached out. His hand encountered the table first, so he used it as a guide, sliding it along.

"Almost there," Fos said.

"I got it," Jim assured them and a moment later his hand touched the chair.

Safely seated, Jim set the beer down and shrugged out of his coat. He leaned his head to the side, reveling in the small crack his neck gave out.

No one moved. A silent corner of a bar, it felt strange.

Jim reached up and removed the sunglasses, thinking maybe they would be a barrier to his quest. "So…" he said as he set the glasses on the table by his beer.

"I dunno, Jim, you kinda always dominated the conversations before, you know?" Steve said.

Jim grinned sheepishly and glanced down. "So I did. Sorry about that."

Silence again.

"What, you actually want to hear me talk about every case I've been working on? Come on, it's been a long week." He gestured at them to carry on, rolling his hand through the air. "You don't need me to entertain you."

There was a small pause before Foster shifted in his chair and asked, "So you really don't carry a gun anymore?"

Jim grimaced. "What would I do with it?" he asked, quoting Marty's favorite line. "So, uh, either of you ever remarry?"

"Nope," Fos said. "You get a divorce yet?"

"Nope."

"Think about it."

"We were. We decided against it."

"You want me to talk to her? Five minutes with Foster's charm, she'll be out of your hair for good."

"Thanks, but no."

"She still as good-looking—shit, sorry."

Jim laughed. "She is. Don't sweat it."

"You're just going to laugh?"

He shrugged. "I guess so."

"The last time I saw a guy with that many bottles of beer in front of him, he was singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," and pretending he was a baritone," Cal said, coming up behind Jim. "Oh, wait, that was you."

Jim had been staring at the wall, trying to remember every detail of the fish picture, even though Fos and Steve had assured him he was lucky he couldn't see it and that's why they let him sit across from the damn picture. He blinked and glanced over his shoulder, but he could already hear Cal moving across the table, so he turned back. He gestured and said, "Have a seat." He listened, but didn't hear anything. They were in the carpeted section of the bar and it was pretty noisy behind him, obscuring small things like a moving chair. "Steve and Fos just left. I wasn't drinking alone."

"No drowning your sorrows tonight?"

"No need." Jim remembered how Cal had found him one night, trying to drink enough beer to send himself to oblivion. He'd refused anything stronger, though he couldn't remember why. Maybe because he really hadn't wanted to get drunk, just wanted to sit there all night drinking beer.

It had been right after he'd broken up with Anne. Before Christie found out and threatened to leave. He'd really wanted time to just re-evaluate the whole marriage thing then. He'd broken it off with Anne because of Christie. He was married, couldn't have a girlfriend. But why had he wanted a different girl in the first place? What had happened between him and Christie?

He'd started drinking as soon as he realized just what he could have messed up, how badly he'd acted.

And he vaguely remembered now, halfway through the night, he'd fallen back in love with Christie. He'd remembered something. Promptly forgot it the next morning when he woke up with his head pounding, but for that moment, he'd been totally in love with his wife.

Things had gone to hell shortly after, but for that moment…

"Steve said it was all water under the bridge?"

"Yeah."

"We were wondering if you were ever going to show back up."

"Here I am." Jim put out his hands. He could practically feel the cigarette smoke with his fingertips.

"Your wife still afraid of dogs?"

Jim furrowed his brow. "I forgot about that."

Cal laughed. "Here. I bought you a beer." He slid it across the table until it touched the back of Jim's hand.

"Thanks." Jim took the bottle. "I can't believe I forgot. How'd you remember?"

"I'd always hoped you'd divorce her so I could have a chance. Things okay between you two?"

Jim smiled. "You're married, don't go putting any moves on my wife."

"Just keeping my options open."

Jim shrugged. "Things have been better. But they're okay."

"I still remember you telling me about that trip… If my wife and I—"

"Trip?"

"Yeah—"

Jim remembered and didn't hear another thing Cal said. He'd forgotten the trip. It had been so out of character for Christie, and for him, too. Relaxing. He'd been supposed to meet an old army buddy upstate, the middle of summer, hotter than heck. He and Christie hadn't been even engaged yet and couldn't get enough time together, so he'd invited her along to make a weekend of it, rented a little cabin.

They'd got in a fight about directions or something, not having enough matches, needing hair spray to be prepared, something like that. It had turned into a snipe fest, then there'd been the flat tire.

It was an old country road. No spare tire, no traffic, no cell phone service. Jim wasn't about to leave Christie there; he was a cop, knew what happened to single women alone in the middle of nowhere. But she didn't want to walk, it was too far, she didn't have the right shoes, and it was sooo hot.

They'd yelled, argued. Stopped speaking. And in the sudden silence, Jim had heard running water from a nearby creak.

He dragged her over, playfully threatened to throw her in to cool her off. They'd made up, kissed, walked hand in hand along the creek bed until they'd found a lake complete with a tire swing. They'd both gotten rid of their inhibitions, shed their clothes, dove into the water and played like children for hours. Christie'd dunked him. He jumped from the swing into the lake.

They'd spend the night sleeping in the grass next to the car until the owner of the land drove by the next day and gave them a lift.

Peaceful. They'd had peace.

They'd talked a little, about the future, what they wanted in life. They'd watched the stars, saw a couple fall. Christie had said how sad that was, they'd been there for millions of years, but she felt lucky to have seen it at the end. Jim hadn't told her it was just a tiny meteor piece that had just burned up, nothing too special. Christie had been to college and knew all sorts of little tidbits. She'd probably even taken astronomy, just preferred the romantic view of things.

"I don't want things to end between us," Jim had said.

"Then they won't. As long as we don't want them to, they don't have to."

Jim had taken her hand, linked her fingers in between his, keeping them each safe.

"But if it does, I'd want it to end beautifully," Christie said. "Shouldn't that be our goal in life? To just live the best we can, so even when we die, it's beautiful, not sad, not unfulfilled."

Jim had stared at the stars. He wasn't much of one for beautiful. Romantic. He liked to think of the grand scale of the stars, how far away they were, how much work and light and power they had to reach even this tiny planet. Jim liked to look up and feel small because when he looked down, he felt significant. He liked the contrast, the conflict it brought him. He started thinking how he'd want to bring out the next bad guy he caught, set him down to look at the stars, and say, look at how insignificant your actions are, now you're going to jail so you can be miserable the rest of your days and never see this again.

Christie had turned and stroked a finger down the side of his face, startling him from his reverie. "You're beautiful," she said. "The way you help people. You're not selfish. I like that about you."

Jim had turned to look at her in the dark, barely a shadow in the grass. He could feel her hair spilling over his shoulder, tickling his neck. He could smell her, smell the grass, how natural it all was. Feel the lake water evaporating. They didn't get this in the city. He'd never been much of a fan of camping. But this, lying there looking at the stars with Christie lying on his shoulder, this he could get used to. The moon was barely enough to blot out a star or two. "You're already beautiful," he'd said.

Jim was flooded with other memories triggered by that first one. Christie smiling an honest smile, not at all with a hint of manipulation like he'd been seeing lately. Christie dragging him to a benefit concert and teaching him about all the different instruments, showing him how to appreciate the music, then feeding him baklava all night while they chatted with the ambassador of a small country in Africa. Jim had been surprised to find that, underneath the upstanding exterior, the ambassador had just been a regular guy.

Christie was great when she relaxed. When he relaxed. With the stress of the past year or so, they'd both been so uptight.

Hank whined and nudged Jim's foot.

"Oh," Jim said. "I'd better take Hank out." He finished his beer and stood up.

"I'll come." Cal stood. Jim listened to him slide back into his coat as Jim did the same.

Jim turned and led the way to the door.

"Night, Jim, night, Cal," Gray called.

"Night," Jim said with a wave. He pushed open the door and shivered. Hank shook and Jim leaned down to make sure the dog wasn't covered in peanut shells again.

"So," Cal said, "you need the dog to, uh…"

"He helps me get around. Or I use my cane." The words came easier each time he explained. He could notice that now that he was looking. My cane, I'm blind, my dog, where's a chair, how do I get there, what's this? He still didn't like having to rely on people to tell him things he'd always just been able to see for himself, but he could appreciate it when people were willing to give him the answers. "But I still have to know where I'm going."

"You're quieter," Cal said.

"Yeah?"

"Is it weird? Not being able to see anything?"

"Weird?" Jim smiled. "I guess you could call it that. But I can manage." Manage? He'd said that before, heard other blind people in rehab say it. He wanted to do more than just manage. He wanted to kick back and enjoy life. Not spend all his time worrying or fighting. He wasn't going to just "manage" anymore.

"You are quieter, you know that?"

"I guess I'm trying to figure some things out still. It's been a long week."

"You can really, you know, do your job and everything? Even though you can't see?"

Jim turned the corner into the small park and stopped on the grass. "Cal, there's a few things I can't—"

"Like, you weren't just not talking because you needed to concentrate too hard on getting around?"

"No," Jim said, a little confused.

"'Cause I've been waiting for a big Jim Dunbar story and you can barely even say hello."

Jim smiled to himself. "We're in the middle of a huge case at work. The boring stuff where we just talk to people and make phone calls all day. You always told me that was too boring, so—"

"Are you saying you used to just lie to me?"

"No—maybe once or twice I embellished a little. But I'd only tell you stuff when it was all over."

"So you didn't lie to me?"

Jim shook his head. He hadn't cared enough to bother lying to the guys. Spending all that energy coming up with stories, he'd saved that for Christie. He only lied to the people he cared about. He bit his lip. He'd have to change that.