"How about just, uh, a simple 'I'm sorry for your loss, and I'll be on my way'?" Nikki's husband slapped the picture against Don's chest and strode out, and Don looked down at it in confusion.

Cancer.

The word rang in his head like a gunshot. Nikki had had cancer. He thought of his mother, and how she had looked and felt at the end. He thought about the little clicky pain thing, the morphine activator, and how much using it had eased his mother's agony in those final days. He thought of Nikki, the strong vibrant woman he knew, hiding her disease from her team, trying to continue on like nothing was wrong, as the pain of the disease ravaged her body and ate away at her soul. Would she do it? Would she be in so much pain, feel so hopeless that she would commit suicide? Had his mother ever thought of doing such a thing?

His eyes blurred, and he walked slowly out of the bedroom in a fog, pausing to sign out, indicating he was removing potential evidence, taking the offered receipt, and nodding to the officer on duty. He got back into his car, still clutching the picture. He dropped his head on the steering wheel, let out a breath, and then sat up and backed the car out of the driveway.

Driving. In this city, he was always driving. He was always going from one place to the next, in a rush to get what he needed and move on. There was always another case, always another crime, always the pressure of a solution and a victim, hanging over his head, never time to stop and catch his breath. As he looked to the right before a turn, he thought of Robin sitting in the passenger seat, and realized that he hadn't called her since he had essentially kicked her out of his car two days earlier. He thought of the passion they had shared, and how much he enjoyed her company and craved the closeness that she brought.

He thought of Nikki again, thought of their breakup and her husband's angry suggestion that Don was trying to atone for leaving Nikki years earlier, for hurting her. Was he? Was he trying to make up for the fact that she had loved him and he had left her by finding out the truth about her death?

He picked up his phone to call Megan and let her know that he was heading back to work, but then set it down when he realized that he had subconsciously steered the car toward his brother's house instead.

Why had he left Nikki? Obviously she was able to stay married, and to another agent, nonetheless. What made him, his situation, any different? He thought over his team members, over the people in his office, and realized that he couldn't think of anyone that was currently married. Many were single like him, and many others had been married at one time, but had divorced when the competing pressures of job and family had become too much.

He could think of others that had left, had chosen the family over the job. Could he ever make that decision? Who could love the horrors he faced on a daily basis? Who could come home and admit to a loved one that oh, they had a lousy day at work—they'd seen a decapitated child, a rape victim, the work of a serial killer. How did this even begin to compare to a lousy day at work for a normal person? Why would he want to do that to someone?

It wasn't just that he loved his job. He needed his job, and although he felt selfish for thinking it, his job needed him. He knew he was good, but it was his total devotion to his job that made him a lousy prospect for a relationship.

He couldn't choose. He couldn't take a relationship over his job. He slammed his fist down on the steering wheel in anger and frustration as this realization coursed through him.

Don pulled into his brother's driveway and noted the absence of cars. No one was home. He sighed and went in anyway, wanting a quiet place to sit and think for just a few minutes.

He sat at the table, staring at the picture of him and Nikki, remembering the day, remembering the relationship and its ugly end. What had prompted her to put her service weapon to her head and pull the trigger? Was it the depression over her relationship? Was it the realization that her cancer was untreatable? Was it the pain she was in?

He wished he had been around to receive her call.

Behind him, a voice sounded, starting him out of his reverie. "Oh, she's cute!" Alan exclaimed. "Where was this taken?"

Don jumped, and then relaxed. "New Mexico," he replied.

Don climbed back into his car, thinking of his father's words. "I never would have blamed myself," Alan had said, "and neither should you."

"Neither should you." The words echoed in head, and he picked up his phone to call Megan and let her know he was heading back into the office.