"Eleven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-three…"

Lindy muttered her prime numbers under her breath, hoping Uncle John couldn't hear her as he drove her to see her father. She didn't know why, but dread had settled deep into her stomach – even deeper than it had been the day before, when she first went to see her father at the rehab center.

The feeling became even stronger as the car pulled up over the smooth black driveway and they passed the welcome sign; it almost felt like a throbbing, a pulsating – a muscle that had been overworked. Lindy's hand went to her stomach in an effort to soothe herself.

Her efforts were in vain, however, as Uncle John had to stop mid-way in the curving driveway due to two police cars already parked in the front of the building, blocking the way to the parking lot. Police cars weren't a common sight at the rehab center, but they weren't unheard of either. Lindy tried to reassure herself that there were dozens of reasons why the police were there, completely unrelated to her father. Nevertheless, her sense of dread was elevated like the beats of her heart.

Lindy's uncle parked the car directly behind the second police car and the two walked over to a tall, gaunt man with a NYPD badge affixed to his wrinkled white button down shirt. "Is the center closed to the public, officer? My niece and I are here to visit my brother-in-law," Uncle John asked. Lindy was grateful to him for speaking up immediately. She wasn't sure she had the voice to ask at that moment.

The police detective raised his tired eyes to Uncle John and asked for his name. When Uncle John introduced both himself and Lindy, the detective's eyes became more focused, as if he'd just been dosed with coffee.

"We'll need you to come to the station with us, Miss Taylor," the detective told her. "We have some questions for you."

Lindy felt her heart constrict painfully in her chest. "What's this about? Is it my father? Did something happen to him?"

The man sighed. "I can't give you all of the details just yet. All I can say is that he's confessed to a crime, one that we'd been trying to solve for several months now."

"A crime? This has to be some sort of mistake, officer. My father – my dad – he's been addicted to drugs for years, he often hallucinates, he's—"

The detective held up his hand. "We'll make our assessments ourselves, Miss Taylor. For now, please just accompany Officer Salvucci to the station."

Lindy felt the burly hand of the uniformed Officer Salvucci come to rest on her shoulder. Slowly she began to walk towards the flashing police car, then turned her head back. "Uncle John?" she asked pleadingly.

He nodded. "I'll follow you to the station, hon."

After Lindy was seated in the car, she still had to wait a few minutes before they left. She watched the entrance of the rehab center like a hawk, waiting to see something, anything. She sat like that for twenty minutes, and then…she saw him. Her father, being led out of the building, his hands cuffed behind his back. She knew it was him, she recognized him, of course. But the look on his face, the slump of his shoulders – it all felt like some other man she was looking at. It felt like that spark of hope that had once flashed in his face, the potential of the young man in the wedding photo, was gone.


Lindy sat in a sickly green-colored waiting room at the police station for what seemed like hours. Her uncle sat with her for nearly a half hour, then gave in and began making and receiving his work phone calls. She tuned out the white noise of his business conversations and tried not to think of anything in particular – not the current situation, or what was to come. That was the best way for her to maintain her control, she'd found. Thinking – dwelling rather – was what could break her concentration. Concentration led to calmness, which ultimately was the root of her control.

Finally the gaunt, tired detective who'd spoken to them at the rehab center entered the room, and introduced himself as Detective Andrews. He sat across from Lindy after he'd offered her something to drink and she declined.

"Please, just tell me what this is all about," she requested.

Detective Andrews rubbed his eyes and replied, "Your father has confessed to the murder of a man named Efran Gutierrez, Miss Taylor. Do you know who that is?"

Lindy's eyes went wide. "He-he's the brother of my father's dealer, Victor. But-but he's dead? When? What—"

"Did he ever confess to committing the crime?"

"No! No, he told me that it wasn't safe for me to stay with him, but…" Lindy trailed off, feeling like her heart was being ripped out of her chest. "Oh no, this isn't true! I know you must hear this all the time, officer, but my father isn't a violent man. He'd never hurt anyone." She looked at her uncle, hoping that he'd support what she was saying. But Uncle John only shook his head in regret.

Detective Andrews sighed, and said as gently as he could, "Your father was able to provide details of the crime scene that were never released to the press. He told us exactly where to find the murder weapon, which we're looking into now. We have no choice but to hold him in custody."

"I see," Lindy replied, feeling as if she were in a trance. "Then what happens?"

"He'll be assigned an attorney by the state, evaluated for his fitness to stand trial, and then the trial process will begin." Detective Andrews leaned forward confidentially. "This is all preliminary, Miss Taylor. I can't tell you exactly what the outcome will be."

"But he's confessed, and all the pieces fit, don't they?" she asked softly. "He's guilty, isn't he?"

"Innocent until proven guilty, in our system," Detective Andrews said with attempted conviction, but Lindy didn't miss the fact that he didn't look her in the eyes completely.

"Can we see him, Detective?" Uncle John asked. "Could Linda speak with him?"

The police officer shook his head. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Taylor made it adamant that he does not want to speak with, or have any contact with Miss Taylor now or in the future."

Lindy felt her jaw drop when the detective told her this. Uncle John put an arm around her. "It's probably for the best, honey. Really."

"I know this is a difficult time for you, but I need to ask you about the night that Mr. Gutierrez was murdered," Detective Andrews said. "You can take as long as you need to recall the events."

It didn't take that long at all. Lindy answered the detective's questions with an almost robot-like efficiency, painting a picture that, happily for her, proved her innocence, but also helped to further incriminate her father. His years of drug abuse, his inability to pay his dealers, his desperation at being cut off from his supply by Victor – it all pointed to his motive for killing Efran.

And Lindy knew that she was helping to put her father away with each word that fell from her lips, but once she started, she couldn't stop. It was as if all the years of neglect and worry and suffering that he'd given her were finally coming to the surface, bubbling over like a rich stew in a pressure cooker. Towards the end of the interrogation, she realized something – this was what he wanted her to do. This was her father, moving towards being the man that Lindy had always hoped he could one day be: a man who took responsibility for his actions.

Detective Andrews was finally done with her. He thanked her for her time, told her that he'd be in touch. She barely registered his words. She couldn't feel the floor under her as she walked, couldn't feel her uncle's arm steering her out of the waiting room and into the station lobby. Only one thought kept going through her mind: he's gone, my father is gone. My father is gone.

"Linda, hon, let me get you back to the house," a voice said, cutting through her haze.

"No," she heard herself say. "I need to walk." She wrenched herself from her uncle's grasp and kept moving.

She just needed to walk. That's all she needed to do. If she could just keep walking for the rest of her life, she'd be all right.

She could feel it slipping away. That precious control, honed and perfected over many years. Control that saved her when her father squandered their money and she had to go to bed with no dinner. The force that kept her aloft when her 9th grade English teacher humiliated her in front of the other students because she was the only one who didn't have a laptop to bring to the class. Now she couldn't see anything in front of her, just shapes and colors distorted by salty tears. It made her think of something her friend Miles once said about his vision. He was terribly nearsighted, and to him, the world was just swirls of pretty colors colliding together and moving apart. That was now the world to Lindy. She wasn't going to bother brushing the tears away; she just kept moving.

She managed to stumble out of the police station without falling over. She was aware of a low wailing noise in her ears, but it hadn't registered yet that it was coming from her. She kept walking, faltering blind, until she ran into something. She soon realized it wasn't something, but someone. The someone put their arms around her, drawing her close. She began to struggle against it, fighting against its hold, until she felt a familiar voice whisper in her ear, "It's okay, I'm here."

Sobs wracked her body, shaking her from head to toe like an earthquake. She clutched at Kyle's shirt, grabbing handfuls of it while she buried her face in his neck and screamed her anguish. He matched her assault with the gentlest of caresses, stroking her back up and down as if to quiet a child. He didn't say a word – what could you say at a time like that, anyway? – so he just held her while she cried.

Lindy finally got to a point where she couldn't cry anymore – she was like a dishrag that had been wrung out. Her body felt limp to her, and she hung on Kyle heavily. He began to walk her to the car, when he heard a voice call out, "Hey! Wait!"

Kyle turned around to see Lindy's uncle sprinting towards them. "Who are you? Where are you taking her?" John demanded.

Kyle looked down at Lindy, who was clinging to him, shellshocked. "I'm taking her home," he said simply.

"And why should I let you do that?"

Kyle scowled at him. "It's what her father wanted. Are you really going to fight me on this?"

Uncle John relented; after all, he didn't really want the responsibility anyway. Kyle got Lindy into the back of the limo, and they started back to Brooklyn.


As Kyle sat in the car, Lindy in his arms, he thought of his conversation earlier with her father.

"What do you mean, she's never going to see you again? What are you going to do?" he asked the man sharply.

"I'm going to prison," Daniel Taylor told him. "I killed a man, and as long as I keep that to myself, Lindy's life is in danger."

"You realize what this is going to do to her when she finds out?"

"That's why I need you to be there afterwards. I want you to promise me that you'll take care of her. Promise me you'll make her happy – happier than I ever made her."

When he hung up with Lindy's father, he realized that she'd tried to call him when he was on the line. He listened to the voicemail she left him – the emotional confession that she loved him and that he was her life and her home. And he knew that he would have walked to Great Neck – hell, he'd have walked to China if he had to – because she needed him right then and there.

The sun had nearly set when the limo pulled up in front of the house in Brooklyn. Keeping an arm around her waist, Kyle led Lindy out of the car and up the stairs. As they entered the house, Will and Zola left what they were doing and came out to meet them. But Kyle kept leading Lindy up the stairs, throwing a look over his shoulder to his friends that told them that he'd talk to them about it later.

He took her to his room, not hers. His room was cooler, and more comfortable – not that she seemed to be aware of it. Lindy's face still registered quiet shock.

He sat her down on the bed, and pulled off her shoes and socks. He removed her jacket, took her hair out of its ponytail. He pulled back the sheets and laid her down, encasing her in their cool white deepness. Her eyes fluttered briefly, then shut under the promise of sleep.

She looked so small and delicate lying in the bed, and the desire to keep her safe flared inside of him. He began to turn away, only to feel a small warm hand grasp his arm. A hoarse whisper of a word met his ears like an embrace: "Stay."

He could never deny her. Stripping down to his t-shirt and boxers, he climbed into bed next to her, and felt her curl herself around him. Soon he heard her breathing get deep, heavy, and even, and it began to lull him to sleep himself. He'd nearly dropped off when he heard her call him in the darkness.

"Kyle?"

"Hmm?"

"There's nothing I could have done for him, is there?"

Kyle sighed, planting a kiss on her head. "No, Baby. There isn't."