"Bosco," Sully greeted, looking up as I entered the locker room.

I watched his face fall as he looked my features up and down. I imagined I must not have appeared all that presentable. I dropped my coat onto a nearby bench and stepped in front of the mirror. Had I not expected myself to appear so effete and unkempt, I'd have leapt backward at the sight. My hair was tousled and greasy, my eyes bloodshot and laced with dark circles. It only figured - I hadn't gotten any sleep the night before. I'd spent the majority of the time inhaling toxic cleaning astringents; mostly lung-burning bleach as I'd poured them down my shower drain and on my bathroom floor, concealing the presence of blood. It was a weak attempt, and I knew without a doubt if I were to be caught it wouldn't keep me from prison. In fact, the conspicuous scents of cleaning agents were probably more incriminating than the blood itself. It wasn't even an effort to destroy any evidence in such an event; it was more to gain closure for myself. To pretend, for me, that it had never happened. That nothing in the past two days had happened.

The clothes I'd gone to bed in were the same ones I was wearing, and had my sense of smell not long since been destroyed by the chemicals, I'd probably have smelled the detergents all over me.

I'd barely stayed asleep more than an hour or two; the graphic event from the past evening ruthlessly replaying itself over and over in my mind as if it were a tape on repeat.

"You look like hell," he remarked, watching me from behind.

"Yeah," I nodded. "Didn't get that much sleep last night." I felt his eyes burning into the back of my skull, trying to read me; trying to elicit the truth.

"How's Faith?" He questioned, still keeping his gaze.

I shrugged and ran a hand through my hair, trying to flatten the areas where it mutinously flared towards the ceiling. "Not good." I replied flatly. In the mirror, I saw him nod slowly. It wasn't until after I'd spoke that I realized how cold I'd sounded. I softened my voice and turned around, leaning my back against the sink. "She wanted to come to work today but I wouldn't let her."

"No?" he asked. "How'd that go over?"

"Not good," I told him, letting the sink absorb my weight; giving my feet a rest. "She's pissed. Said she'll come back 'whenever the hell she feels like it'."

Sully laughed, attempting to lighten the mood somewhat. "That's her in a nutshell."

"She's not here, though," I pointed out, smiling a little. "She just didn't want me know she was taking my advice." I dropped my expression gradually back into its newly-discovered permanent frown. Dozens and dozens of car accidents, pile-ups, shootings, kidnappings and countless other tragedies had littered my career. This incident, however, topped the list of the unbearable. And in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't even considered the worst. But to me, it was beyond the worst. It was a tragedy far worse than I'd ever experienced. And she hadn't even died.

I did continue to smile inwardly, somewhat, amused at the fact that to some extent she did listen to me; took my advice. She had to make it clear she didn't want to first, of course, but then she'd listen.

Sully nodded. "You know, I was wondering," he started "Is this Walker guy...Matt Walker? From the 38th?"

I nodded. "Yeah…" Well he was Matt Walker from the 38th, anyway. Now he was an unidentifiable John Doe from the city morgue. "Why?"

Sully shrugged. "I don't know. The name really rings a bell, you know? Like I've seen him before. What's he look like?"

"Ah…" I hesitated, trying to control a powerful urge that craved to tell him that the last time I saw Walker he looked like a pile of inedible factory meat with an odd-looking face, but that it was difficult to tell because he was coated five times over with a liquid that eerily resembled blood. Somehow, I managed to refrain myself, but probably only because Sully jumped in again with his own description.

"Tall, dark-hair, strong. Little older than you, I think?" he asked, waiting to see if I'd confirm it.

"Yeah," I nodded, glancing down at my feet as I recalled the prior night. "Yeah that's him…"

A quizzical look seemed to fall over his face. "No kiddin'…" he trailed off.

"What, you knew him?" I asked, unaware of the suspiciousness my past-tense words may have given off.

"Yeah," Sully continued, not taking note of my error. "Used to anyway. Me an' Ty's dad used to have lunch with him during our shifts. He'd meet us there." He shrugged. "Back then he was still in the academy, hardly nineteen I think. Real anxious to get out on the street by himself."

I frowned. I could not possibly be that unlucky, could I? To have murdered someone actually known by those of the five-five? Quickly, I shrugged it off. Either way I didn't give a shit; didn't care if he was revered by the entire city. To me he'd just been a nauseating excuse for a person, and may as well have been the same scum he and his partner arrested every day.

"You friends with him?" I asked, hoping they hadn't been, but trying to convince myself that I didn't care either way.

Sully shook his head. "Not really. I mean, Tyrone knew him from somewhere. A friend's son or something, but we weren't all that close. There was always somethin' about him that seemed off to me. Somethin' not right."

"Like what?" I prompted curiously, looking up.

"I don't know, exactly," Sully continued, squinting his eyes as if trying to remember. "Whatever it was, it just used to make me nervous, you know. That someday he was gonna be out there with a gun."

I shifted my weight against the sink and watched him take a seat on the closest bench. "You ever say anything?" I asked.

"I think Ty kind of sensed it too," he replied, shaking his head. "But there was nothin' we coulda done. Not like we coulda gone to the academy and said 'Hey, this kid seems a little off, you should fail him', you know? I mean, he was a natural at the range; at the books too." Sully sighed. "So we kinda lost touch after awhile. He graduated the academy with flyin' colors, next I hear he's at the 38th – been there ever since. I just figured we'd been too wary about everything - that it was all in our head. We never really talked to him after that. I don't think Ty ever saw him again. Kid didn't even come to Ty's funeral after he was shot. Just kind of up and disappeared. I did run into his partner about a year ago, though. He was still doin' good on the job, apparently, would be a senior on the force by now like you and Faith. Thirteen or fourteen years, I think. Never really trusted his partner either, though. Just seemed like the two of them could really put on a cover, like, they weren't who everyone thought they were."

"That's for sure," I muttered. I slid up on the sink a bit more, hoping it wouldn't fracture under my weight. I took in Sully's words, intrigued and yet unsettled at the fact that he used to know Walker. For a moment, we both sat in silence.

"So have they taken him in yet?" Sully spoke up, catching me off guard with his question.

I froze physically, but my mind was deftly accustomed to being surprised with questions – mostly from being questioned out on the streets – and my brain innately went into an all too common mode. The search-for-an-excuse-as-fast-as-you-can-mode. But this wasn't Lieu. Or worse, IAB. This was Sully. Sully was no stranger to street justice, and he'd find out sooner or later.

Everyone would find out sooner or later. In fact, thinking harder, half of the shift had probably turned on their TVs at least once earlier in the day. If the cops had overlooked the bloody heap scattered not far from Walker's empty apartment, then the 38th was in desperate need of a new police force.

Still shifting my weight against the sink basin, I sucked in a deep breath. I wasn't sure why I was so nervous, but I supposed preparing to confess to pre-meditated murder could get anyone anxious, even if the person you're about to tell is someone who you've installed an unspeakable amount of trust in.

I glanced down at my feet, periodically shifting my gaze back to his burning, waiting stare, and began to speak, my words faltering as I struggled to organize them. "Ah, um…"

Sully took a sudden step toward me, and I lurched backward, nearly toppling into the sink. "Bosco…." He began, his voice an ominous combination of warning and concern.

"She didn't file a report."

He stared at me blankly. "She what?"

I shrugged, trying to minimize the conversation. End it. Or just stall. "Said she didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Draw more attention."

"Big deal? Bosco, this is a big deal!" Sully exclaimed, edging closer and raising his voice.

I raised mine louder, so that I could speak over him. "I know!" I shouted. "I know. I know more than any of you that this is a big deal!"

Sully lowered his voice. "Bosco, his son of a bitch has to pay for----"

"He did pay, Sully!" I shrieked, whisking my coat off the bench and impulsively sending my fist against the nearest locker. The loud reverberation of vibrating and clanging metal rung throughout the almost-empty room. We stared at each other for a second, the sudden clamor scaring us both into silence. I ignored the searing pain in my knuckles, feeling as though I didn't deserve to tend to it. It was merely an inconvenience when compared to what Faith had to be feeling. So I left it hanging at my side, throbbing.

I lowered my voice to a whisper and continued looking Sully straight in the eye. "He did pay." I repeated.

He looked back askance, but had no time to respond before the door swung open and Davis walked in, looking at me with the same forlorn, pitiful expression that Sully had greeted me with. I didn't need the pity; I didn't need the condolences, and I didn't need the comforting. Well, I needed them, I knew; but I didn't deserve them. There was someone else in much greater need of the support.

"How you holdin' up man?" Davis inquired, stepping a bit closer to me. I could tell he was genuinely concerned, but all I wanted was for the two of them to disappear.

"I'm not the one who---" I began angrily, though he quickly cut me off.

"I know. I'm sorry, man, I just…Sorry. So you saw the news, right?"

"What?" I snapped my head up.

"Yeah, they found, uh, um…"

I studied his face, reading as much as I could off his worried expression. If he thought I was going to finish the sentence, he was wrong. I wasn't going to offer a name.

He motioned his hands around, still struggling to find the right words.

"They found a body. A cop. From the 38th," he blurted out finally. "Thought it was Walker. The ME confirmed it about an hour ago."

Davis stopped and sighed exasperatedly, then shifted his eyes from me to Sully and back, a confounded expression growing. I glanced over and met Sul's eyes, which were growing wider by the second. I could almost see his brain putting two and two together as he calculated my previous words and the news that Ty had just given us. Finally he opened his mouth to speak, but was silent. I nodded at Davis, then, still clutching my coat, raced to the door without saying a word. I caught a last look at his horrified face, and then disappeared.

----------------------------------------------------

I slowly came out of a foggy subconscious, having had woken myself up with my own kicking. Struggling. It took a good minute or more for me to realize that my attacker had donned the appearance of three heavy blankets, and was pinning me to the bed. In one last swift kick, I tore the covers from my legs and ankles and watched them collapse into a heap on the floor, then hugged my knees to my chest; shivering in spite of the warm afternoon sunlight that was pouring through the window. I sighed loudly, comforted by the sound of a voice, even if it was simply my own. I looked cautiously around the room, then climbed off the bed and padded gingerly out to the kitchen, still surveying the apartment for any signs of unwelcome life.

"Boz?" I called hopefully, gripping the fridge door. Then catching notice of a nearby clock, I realized he'd long since left for work, as the digital numbers read 3:45. The earlier afternoon quickly flooded back to me after that, and I remembered how we'd argued about me going to work. I'd told him over and over that I was ready; that staying home would simply drive me crazy. He'd been adamant, however, in not letting me. Truth be told, he was right. I wasn't ready to go back. I wasn't sure how long it would be before I was. But what I was more afraid of than going back to work prematurely, was staying here alone.

After giving in to his request to avoid work for now, I'd angrily stomped into his room, crying, and slammed the door for good measure. I had felt like a defiant teenager, demonstrating her resentment toward an instated rule. Bosco hadn't left me on that note, thankfully, but did shortly after I promised him I was okay. After he walked out, I'd rushed to the door to ensure it was locked, and then did the same for both windows. I'd tried to read and watch TV, but I simply couldn't focus. By three, I found myself curled up on his bed, squinting my eyes in a desperate attempt to sleep away the pain. I'd been confronted however, with dreams that had only magnified it.

I peered into the refrigerator, scanning the shelves for something to drink. I spotted a cold water bottle and snatched before making my way to the couch where I sat down. Glancing across the room, I studied each latch on the front door. Locked.

"You're crazy…" I muttered to myself, sensing the paranoia that was yet to die down inside me. There was no reason to be so guarded; Walker was dead. But somehow, as I stared around the lonely room, I didn't find the fact very comforting. I felt watched. Stalked. And unsafe. Suddenly, I leapt from my seat and dove for the remote, fidgeting around with the controls until the TV screen blinked, and turned on. I slammed the volume button, hoping the sound of other people would be of some reassurance.

I settled back into the cushions, surfing the channels for nothing in particular, except noise. Talking. When I reached the local news channel, I caught footage of vivid yellow police tape closing off what looked like an alley-way; uniforms buzzed around, but their voices were muted. The screen panned back to a dark-haired reporter who looked staid, and was speaking matter-of-factly.

"Police have now confirmed that the body of a thirty-nine year old man discovered this morning in an alley off 42nd, is that of New York Police Officer Matt Walker, a veteran of the 38th precinct for over ten years….."

I opened my mouth as the true realization of what he had done hit me full-force. I knew what he'd done; the blood, the confession. But I guess that hearing it from someone else – seeing it on the news – was the real confirmation. Before, I could pretend it didn't matter – that nobody would notice he was even gone, and if they did, they wouldn't miss him; wouldn't care. But as I watched the live coverage, I realized just how real the situation was. I was suddenly realizing exactly what had happened the night before; exactly what he'd done for me.

It reminded me of shattering glass, of blood. Of single shots and then of water, clouded with more blood. Of Cruz and of IAB.

The sharp ring of the phone jolted me from my teary-eyed stare, and I pulled my gaze from the TV, standing to retrieve it and wiping my eyes as I did – as if the absence of tears would make my voice sound less shaky. I pressed the receiver to my ear, half-dreading the voice on the other end.

I squeaked out a chary hello, then listened to nervous breathing on the other end until I finally got a response.

"Faith?"

"Boz?" I choke out, half questioning his identity; half overwhelmed with relief. The sudden thought of him in haunting orange, trapped behind a cell door flashed through my mind.

The TV was still loudly blaring, having had switched to a grey-haired women, sobbing loudly. Walker's mother I presumed, but I could make out little of what she had to say.

"Faith? Hey,"

"Hey," I paused, unsure of what to say. The loud crying in the background and the branded image of him imprisoned was a tearing combination. Never had I felt so overwhelmed. "Aren't you….at…work?"

"No," he said, still whispering. I didn't like the way he was speaking so lowly. His voice lacked reassurance; it lacked confidence…it lacked…Bosco. "I'm almost to the apartment, I just wanted you to know it was me so that when I…"

I jumped as the locks on the door turned and clicked, and the door creaked open. My reflexes had long since rocketed into overdrive, and before I could put two and two together, I screamed and dropped the receiver, watching as plastic splintered from the sides. Reluctantly, I tore my head up to confront whoever had stepped in.

Bosco was gazing at me, shifting his stare from me to the phone that I'd violently flung to the floor, and then to the TV, whose screen still sported a "Breaking News" leaf. He held his open cell phone by his ear, and was slowly lowering it.

I knew that my expression must have been one of sheer terror, because he was looking at me with wide eyes, full of concern and confusion, and I followed his stares back and forth to the TV, my mouth opened in a slight gape.

"Bosco…" I murmured, positive that I was completely losing it. For the past two days, every noise made me jump, every phone ring made me scream, the darkness made me constantly look over my shoulder…a door simply opening made me tremble so much that I could feel my legs buckling from under me.

"Faith…" he said questioningly, still watching me as I slid down to the carpet; my hand that had held the phone shaking. His voice was genuine, but sounded nervous and guarded. He closed the door behind him suddenly, and once again I jumped, sending me the last few inches down to the floor, and into tears.

-------------------------------------------------------------

I turned the key in the door, then pushed it open gently, caught off guard by a loud, terrified scream and the sound of crumpling plastic. Looking up, I saw her standing in a somewhat slouched position, staring at the broken phone laying a few feet away on floor. She seemed unfazed by the loud talking that was blaring from the television, and slowly glanced up to face me. Her eyes were wide, but seemed to soften when she realized it was me. My heart ached at the realization that she had probably thought I was somebody else and was terrified because of it.

I hadn't given her much notice of my entrance, I guessed, when we were on the phone.

She still appeared frantic, however, as I stood there - too shocked by the entire past two days' sequence of events to move or say anything. All I could do was peer at her horrified expression, and then to the TV; the volume turned up so loud, that my ancient speakers crackled under the pressure. A cool air from the hallway brushed against my back, and realizing the door was still ajar, I turned and slammed it. Lately, having someone behind me was especially unsettling.

I didn't realize how loudly I'd closed it until she let out another shriek and collapsed onto the floor; overdue tears pouring down her face.

"Oh…god," I stammered, dropping both my cell phone and keys and racing to her side. "Faith….I'm sorry…"

I collected her into my arms, whispering, and hoping to console her. It was clear, now, that she was simply worsening. Everything had taken its toll on her; as it had me. I was no better, and we were both a complete wreck. It was like trying to put out fire with fire. It was hopeless.

"Look, Faith," I ordered, lifting her head from my arms. "Look. See? It's fine."

She cautiously raised her head, still clutching onto me as if we were dangling from the edge of a cliff.

I strained across the floor carefully, reaching for the remote without making her let go.

"Let's turn this down…." I whispered, pressing the volume buttons. The frantic voices were still drilling into my head. I guess they weren't all that loud, really, but I was running on an hour's worth of sleep and bleach fumes. Everything was louder…so loud…and so bright.

"Why are you home?" she questioned, the crying having stopped somewhat. Her face was now etched with nervousness, amidst what looked like a bit of relief.

I shrugged. "Didn't feel good."

"Why not?" She reached up and placed a hand on my forehead, frowning.

Again, I just shrugged, staring ahead at the TV, the voices now inaudible murmurs. "Just…felt…sick."

Killing someone takes a lot out of you. I figured she'd be the first to know.

"You smell like...bleach," she pointed out flatly, following my stare to the TV.

"Yeah, well this wasn't exactly the scene of the crime. Didn't have any evidence to plant…so I had to clean instead…"

"What?"

"You know what I mean…." I said, my voice hinted with anger, but quiet. I couldn't help feeling a little pissed that I had to hear the truth from Cruz, of all people, as we argued over somebody half-dead.

She just nodded slowly. I wasn't sure if it was because she realized what I was getting at, and didn't want to explain; or if she was slowly building up her extensive list of on why she'd kept me in dark for so long, only to let it all out in one angry, flustered sentence.

She pointed to the TV, changing the subject, at an older woman with brownish-grey hair who was saying something into a microphone. The volume was now to low for us to hear what she was saying. All we could see were tears dripping from her tear-stained eyes.

"That's his mother," she informed. "They keep playing the same clip of her crying…over and over…."

I nodded coldly. "Damn shame."

I didn't take my eyes off the TV; instead continued staring straight ahead at the woman, my eyes stinging with tears, but remorseless. I could feel Faith's eyes burning into the side of me, but I pretended I didn't notice.

"Sully and Davis know," I said finally.

She said nothing, just kept looking at me, taking in the information.

"What about Mann? They know about him?" I asked, watching her shrug out of the corner of my eye.

"Yeah," she sighed.

I nodded briskly. "Hm. Everyone but me, I guess, huh?" I looked at her and laughed bitterly.

She started to retort when the door suddenly rattled from an imperious knock. And then another.

Had she not been so desperately attached to me, she'd have jumped clear through the roof.

"Don't get it," she pleaded, tears welling up in her eyes again.

Silently, I flicked off the TV and started to gather myself to my feet, still gripping the remote tightly…as if it might adopt all my fear and frustration. "I have to….it might be……" I started, then realized exactly who it could be. "Ah…shit.."

I paced in a circle and ran my hand through my hair, feeling it collect a greasy residue. "Shit…shit…." I muttered; my voice fraught with desperation. In about a millisecond, I was going to join her in crying.

I could take little more. I knew too much; I'd done too much. I just couldn't handle it.

In a bout of aggravation, I flung the remote against the door; listening as it collided just as another more impatient knock came from the other side.