Chapter 18: Honesty

Honesty is such a lonely word.

Everyone is so untrue.

Honesty is hardly ever heard.

And mostly what I need from you.

"Come in, Detective Monroe," Mac called out as Lindsay knocked on the door. "Take a seat."

He came around to the front of the desk and leaned against it. This wasn't meant to be an interrogation, but he could tell from Lindsay's face that she was waiting for a lecture, presumably the one on loyalty and teamwork.

"How are you doing, Lindsay?" His deep voice was quiet, but seemed to startle her nonetheless.

She looked up at him with those deep brown eyes that had so caught Danny Messer, and Mac had to admit, to which even he wasn't immune. Her voice was flat and a little breathless when she answered, "I'm fine, sir."

Mac lifted an eyebrow. Hadn't they gone through this already?

Lindsay flushed as the mocking voice of Messer all those months ago flashed in her memory, "Make sure you call him sir." She looked away from Mac.

He reached out and touched her chin, encouraging her to look at him. "Come on, Linds. What's up?" After a moment's silence, during which Lindsay struggled to put her voice to use, he continued, "You know I saw the letter from Toronto. Did you contact them?"

Lindsay glared up at him, and he hid a smile. Messer was right; she was pretty easy to rile up.

"Of course not! You know how much I wanted to come and work with you, how much I wanted to be in New York. I worked for this, fought for this…" Her voice died away.

"Then why not toss the letter? You haven't answered it yet, have you?" He knew she hadn't; the fact it had been read and re-read told him that. Lindsay's paperwork was always done on time and meticulously (unlike some CSIs he could name). The state of the letter had alerted him to Lindsay's own state.

Lindsay closed her eyes again. Why was everybody being so nice about this? "No, I haven't answered it. It's a good chance, and a fresh start. I guess I haven't been able to let go of the idea that it may be the right thing."

"Have you talked to anyone?" He meant Danny.

"Just Stella." Had he not been paying attention to what was going on? She could hardly get Danny to stay in the room long enough to share their results, much less to actually talk about anything significant.

"I bet I know her response!" Mac chuckled dryly. "She hardly admits there are any places in the States outside of New York, much less places out of the country!"

Lindsay smiled, but felt compelled to defend Stella, who had been oddly, unexpectedly, fiercely supportive. "She said it might be the easy decision, but not the right one."

"What do you think?" More and more often these days, Stella was surprising Mac with her leadership on the team. Perhaps he needed to re-think a few career paths.

Lindsay laughed a little bitterly. "Mac, I had no idea you had a degree in head-shrinkology. You sound just like the last one I was sent to in Montana. I don't know what I think. And before you ask: How do I feel? Angry, confused, tired … mostly tired."

Of what?" He was not going to let this go now.

"Of me. Of this. Of waiting for everything to come smashing down again. It is so much easier to just pack up and go, leave everything behind me. Do you know how many boxes I moved from Montana, Mac?"

He shook his head.

"One. One box with my mother's pictures in it. Everything else I own, I bought in New York. There was nothing to bring with me." She choked a little.

"If I move to Toronto, I'd need a moving van. I have furniture. I have posters of shows I've gone to, clothes I've bought, books, music. I have pictures of … friends, real friends. I have …" a stupid plush toy Danny had won for her at the ball throw on Coney Island when he'd coaxed her out one summer evening. A programme from the opera she had almost seen at the Met. Another from a Mets game she had seen with Hawkes, Stella, Flack and Danny. "Souvenirs. I have remembrances. Not memories, like I do from Montana."

"Dammit," thought Mac as he passed her a tissue. "Tears."