Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan.

Note: I'm sorry. I was hoping I'd be able to update sooner. Life, however, had other plans.

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath is quoted loosely. Plath actually says, "[W]herever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air." Please forgive me for allowing myself to quote this masterpiece.

BugFan4Ever, ruth609, Mexwojo, KJ22, lbcjfan and AnaEvelyn, thank you very much for your reviews. :)

Nigel stood in the doorway for a few moments, taking in – a day later than planned, due to a pile-up – the spacious living room of Jacob Reilly's four-room apartment. He nodded slightly a couple of times, approvingly, while he was eyeing the furniture, especially the big white leather sofa which occupied the central part of the room, and the thick deep burgundy rug with a discreet pattern which, in his expert opinion, had to be Persian. His eyes then fell on the abstract paintings on the white-painted wall, and widened when he recognized a work of Louis Jeffries. Just as he was about to express his impressions by whistling, his companion, who had entered first, turned to glare at him. Apparently, Woody was always in a bad mood these days. The fact that Bug hadn't wanted to come with them, claiming that – since there was no body – that wasn't his job, only added to his edginess.

Stifling a sigh, Nigel broke the silence. "What are we looking for?" He tried to sound enthusiastic.

"If I knew, I would have come alone."

Woody didn't appreciate his friend's attempt. Bug's refusal to help had him more than miffed. Actually, it was the reason behind the refusal that annoyed him. It seemed that Lily was down with the flu, and Bug had offered to bring her some medications and chicken noodle soup. 'He's running after her, and she doesn't give a rat's ass,' Woody thought bitterly, approaching the windows. 'Like she cares if he's bending over backwards for her. I should now.'

He was so absorbed in thought that he didn't even catch Nigel's muttered, "Pleasant as usual."

"Did you dust for prints here the other day?" Woody finally spoke again, pointing at the handle of the French doors.

"As you may recall, Woodrow, I wasn't here," Nigel retorted, taking the necessary equipment from his bag. "Jordan'd drawn the short straw, so she had to pick him up at those wee hours." Assessing the detective's scowl, he quickly amended, "But I guess the CSU people did."

Woody was unnecessarily sharp, as he usually was ever since he'd come back after the shooting. "Guess is not good enough. See if you can get anything." After a moment, he added, "She could have closed the window before she ran out and started to cry." He wasn't giving up on the possibility that the widow had done it; not yet.

"Yes, sir." Nigel all but saluted, rolling his eyes, and then got down to work. "I'd say we've got a good partial of the thumb. And it's bloody," he murmured, taking a photo of the print. "I'll run it against the victim's."

He went back to his bag, and pulled out a palmtop, thanking Slocum silently. The man may be a pompous, self-righteous, prejudiced bastard, but he certainly knew that a morgue needed all kinds of gadgets, especially the cutting-edge ones like this baby, and gave money for them more easily than Macy. Not that he would ever trade Dr. M. for the monster because of whom he had had to wear a wig. He shuddered at the mere thought. The computer beeped then, waking him from his reverie. "It's his, alright," he addressed the detective. As his words didn't provoke any response, he turned to the windows. Nobody was there. "Woody?" he called, approaching the French doors, which were open wide. "Woody?" he repeated, confused, when he saw that Reilly's balcony was empty.

Woody smiled at him from the balcony belonging to the apartment next door. "This is how he got in. There is no other way." His tone was victorious. He motioned for Nigel to see for himself that the apartment on the other side of Reilly's didn't have a balcony.

The criminologist nodded. That mystery was solved. But it opened another one, a bigger one. "Then that's how he got out, too, right?" The question was rhetorical, obviously, as he continued immediately, "Well, why would Jacob Reilly close his French doors after his murderer? And how?"

With a swift movement, Jordan pulled a bottle from her cosmetic bag. Her fingers hovered over the cap for a couple of seconds. Then she sighed and shoved the makeup foundation back into the bag. For the fifth time, at least. Taking a deep breath, she turned her back to the mirror and headed towards the living room. There was no point in fighting the urge because it was impossible to resist it.

She strode to the little cocktail table and grabbed her cell. She pushed number two before she could change her mind. After no more than a ring, she was greeted by the receptionist's chirpy, "Chief Medical Examiner's Office. Emy speaking. How can I help you?"

By that time, her heart rate had accelerated so much that she wasn't able to speak. She snapped the phone shut and concentrated on exhaling and inhaling. When her pulse was back to normal, she pressed her sweaty fingertips to her temples. "Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip…" she kept on murmuring.

What was wrong with her? She didn't have anxiety attacks. Especially not over lying Garret about why she was late, or – in this case – why she wasn't coming to work. Then again, she was always coming to work. When she wasn't on the run, that is. Not that she was going to run away this time. What was the point, anyway? Wherever I was, I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air. Where did she read that? She didn't know, and she didn't care. But it was true. Relocating had never solved any of her problems. On the contrary.

But what could solve her problems? What could help? She didn't know. But she did know that staying in the apartment couldn't. It wasn't safe here. She could only stare at the walls while they were closing in on her, or sleep while the nightmares made her feel nauseated and wake up in sweat. She needed to keep herself busy. If she didn't have time to think, everything was going to be okay. She would forget everything, everyone – Pete, Woody, her dad, her stupidity…

As she re-entered the bathroom, she tried to smother the voice in her head which was constantly whispering that nothing was going to be okay ever again, especially if she continued to pretend everything was fine. Applying the foundation, she quietly hummed to herself to shut the voice off completely.

The eye shadow was next. She was sick of seeing her face in the mirror. She only wanted to get it over with. Why did women put makeup, after all? Because of themselves? Yeah, right. She smiled wryly, proceeding to the eye pencil. They did it to be desirable. And being desirable was the last thing she wanted now. She'd rather be invisible.

"And a little mascara, as usual. You don't want them to think something's wrong," she reminded herself.

When all was done, she looked in the mirror once more. Would her life be any different if she was totally plain? Not that she was a drop-dead gorgeous, but what if she were utterly plain? If men didn't pay attention at her at all? What did they like about her, anyway? It sure as hell wasn't her mind, soul, whatever – not after five minutes of acquaintance. Maybe Max from her dream was right; maybe she was throwing herself at them. She shrugged the thought off. Not now. She forced herself to throw another glance – she needed to know whether she looked different than usual. She didn't. Not even the dark shadows under her eyes were uncommon. The only thing different from her usual self was the clothes. She was wearing a brown turtleneck with a button-down shirt of the same color. She hadn't dressed like that since early college. Late high school, maybe. But this wasn't a fashion statement. This served a real purpose, the purpose of masking her figure as much as possible. At the same time, the clothes weren't too baggy. She didn't want to have to face any questions. Not that anyone but Nigel or Lily would ask, especially not the first time, but… just in case.

Feeling cunning, but not in the least bit content, she took her purse and hurried to work. She was already more than ten minutes late.

"Never had any trouble with him," Mr. O'Neill, the superintendent of Reilly's building told Woody and Nigel. "He moved out yesterday." Nodding in sympathy, he added, "Mr. Reilly's murder had upset him pretty much."

"I bet it had," Nigel interjected, sotto voce.

Woody glowered at him and addressed the super. "Mr. O'Neill, do you happen to know who," he glanced at his notepad, "Mr. Jackson's landlord was?"

"Actually, I do. Mrs. Reilly bought that apartment for her mother, but the old lady didn't want to move from Pennsylvania." He scratched his bald head and allowed himself to mumble, "Such a stubborn old lady." For a moment, his green eyes were hazy as he revisited some not so pleasant memories from the holidays Mrs. Murphy had spent with her daughter's family, always complaining about this or that in the apartment. Then he returned to the present. "Mrs. Reilly started renting the place a couple of months ago." He frowned, trying to concentrate. "In fact, I think Mr. Jackson was her first tenant."

"I don't understand," Meghan Reilly repeated, flipping through a bunch of papers.

"His apartment… Your apartment is clean," Woody tried again, at his wit's end. "Insanely clean. Everything has been wiped clean. There are no fingerprints whatsoever."

"I still don't understand." She singled a sheet out.

Woody sighed exasperatedly, and Nigel cut in, afraid that his friend's temper may manifest itself. "It is in the interest of the investigation to have Mr. Jackson's fingerprints. And this contract seems to be the only way to get them." He smiled a sad little smile at her. Woody was still convinced she had played a part in her husband's murder, but he felt sorry for her. She obviously still hadn't returned to normal.

"Here it is." She handed him the lease agreement. "I hope it helps," she added, raising her pleading puffy eyes to them.

"Thanks," Woody said shortly, while Nigel nodded, the same sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The lease agreement successfully obtained, Nigel and Woody split their ways. The criminologist went to the lab to examine the contract, and the detective hit… well, not the couch, but the armchair in Dr. Stiles's office.

"Surprise," he answered the psychiatrist's question. "It was surprise more than anything. I guess I didn't really think he'd do it. I should have known better." He smiled mirthlessly. "But then I saw the look in his eyes. And I knew… It was like slow motion… I knew what was coming, but I couldn't do anything. I didn't do anything. I just stood there." He shook his head. "I didn't do anything," he repeated quietly.

"You couldn't have done anything, and you know it," Stiles said firmly. "What could you have done in less than a second?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. "You know there was nothing you could have done," he underlined.

He waited for some time, but as Woody didn't go on, he prompted. "What happened next?"

Woody hesitated. Did he really want to relive that memory on purpose? Weren't the nightmares enough? He finally spoke, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Next thing I know, my back's against the wall, I'm in cold sweats and my abdomen's on fire." He paused briefly. "I tried to move, but I couldn't. Through a haze, I heard shots. And yelling. I saw blue everywhere. I was waiting for my life to start unwinding before my eyes."

"Oh, it didn't?" Smiles smiled at him.

He returned the smile. "Guess Hollywood's been lying to us."

"Now, that's a shocker," the doctor retorted. Then he returned to the topic, but kept his tone light. "So, you just went unconscious?"

"Yes."

"Or maybe you didn't."

"Maybe I did."

"Man can keep something to himself for only that long," Stiles cautioned. "Or, he may keep it to himself forever, but it is going to keep eating him up inside."

Woody made a face. "That's getting old, you know."

"Of course it is." Stiles's tone was again annoyingly light, teasing even.

After some time had been spent in – at least for him – uncomfortable silence, Woody spoke again, "So? You're just gonna wait till I tell you?"

"That's the plan."

"What if I never do?" he insisted.

"But you will," the psychiatrist was confident. "If you want to feel better. And you want to. That's why you're here."

'What if I can never feel better?' He couldn't but think that every now and then. Okay, far more often then every now and then. To avoid the thought, he focused on the question. "I didn't see my whole life. I saw her. But at the time, I always saw her. Whenever I closed my eyes." He remained quiet for some time. "Anyhow, I knew I was going to die. That is, I thought I was going to die. And I kept thinking how I couldn't die right away, how I must keep my eyes open until I saw her just once more." He shook his head slightly, muttering something that resembled "Such a fool." His eyes dropped to the floor. Maybe it would be easier if he imagined nobody was listening. "And then I heard her."

He stood and started pacing the room. "I heard panic in her voice, and I forced my eyes open. Not so much to see if that was really her – I knew it was, but to tell her it was okay, to tell her not to worry. But I couldn't speak." His hands clenched into fists. "Oh, but she could speak, alright! She told me she could say what I wanted to hear. So she told me I was 'so much to her'," he spat the last few words out. "Yeah, right, that was exactly what I wanted to hear!" he finished, kicking the chair he had been sitting in. He ran his hands through his hair and then buried his face in them. What surprised both him and Stiles was that he hadn't bolted for the door.

"What did you want to hear?" Stiles sounded politely interesting.

The question ticked him off again. "Oh, I don't know," he answered, trying to add a hint of sarcasm to his voice, "Maybe that she loved me." His voice was dripping with bitterness now. "But no, even when I was on my deathbed, she couldn't say the freaking words!"

He felt stupid, opening himself like that. At the same time, he felt the excruciating need to finish what he had started. He paced for a few more minutes before he continued. "Not that I care. And it's better that she didn't lie. She had said enough lies already. I was nothing to her."

Stiles leaned in. "How do you know?"

"I know."

"How?"

"I know," Woody repeated stubbornly.

"Sure you do." Howard Stiles stifled a sigh. Then he decided to try another path. "Just for the sake of curiosity, are we talking about the same woman here as we did yesterday? You know, the one with an office?" He half-smiled. When the detective just kept circling around the room, he concluded, "So, we are." After some more silence, he added, "You told me yesterday she had feelings for you."

"I said she thought she did."

"I think you know she does," the doctor pressed.

"If you say so."

"So, are you taking revenge now?" Stiles asked for clarification. "Playing hard to get?"

Woody ran a hand across his face. "I'm not playing anything." He sat across the other man again. "I don't want to play anything. I simply don't… love her anymore."

"I see."

But it was clear to Woody that he didn't see, so he tried to explain. "How can you keep pushing away somebody you love? How can you shoo that person out of your hospital room. How can you be deliberately rude to her every time you see her? How can you even think of hurting her back?"

"Love is a powerful emotion," Stiles said, satisfied they were finally going somewhere. "A very complicated one, too. People are complicated. Nothing is ever black-and-white." He stifled another sigh. For, although that fact was pretty obvious, most of his patients overlooked it. "And traumatic events have never made things easier."

After his hour with Dr. Stiles, Woody didn't feel like going home. Instead, he dropped by the morgue to see whether Nigel had anything new. He peeked his head into Trace, but Nigel wasn't there, only Jordan. He felt his heart in his throat. She seemed oblivious of his presence, and he considered simply walking away. The fear that the things would get even more complicated was oppressive. Could they possibly get more complicated? He simply stood there, frozen, for some time. Then he took a deep breath. They needed to talk; he needed to apologize.

"Hey."

She winced a little. "Hey."

It wasn't really a good sign that she hadn't looked up from the test-tubes she was arranging in a rack. He didn't give up, nevertheless. "How are you?"

She wasn't giving up, either. On one-syllable answers, that is. "Fine."

"I heard you were sick." There definitely was a hint of worry in his tone, but that only irritated her further.

"Yeah." What game was he playing? She didn't even want to know.

He thought it would be easier if he didn't have to look into her eyes. But it wasn't. It hurt that she wouldn't even look at him. Not that he blamed her. "Listen, Jordan… About the other day-"

"It's okay," she said curtly.

"I…" he started again, taking a step towards her.

"I said it's okay," her voice had the slightest note of agitation in it. Darn, why wouldn't he just leave it alone? Nothing he could say would make it all right. If he continued to push her, she would fall to pieces. Right here, right now.

"Doesn't seem that way," he muttered almost inaudibly. He approached her, looking at her intently. "I'm sorry, Jordan. I shouldn't have… I was way out of line. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." She took the rack and headed for the mass spectrometer. "Now, if you don't mind… I've got work to do."

But he refused to be dismissed so easily. He was really worried now. "What's wrong, Jordan?"

She almost laughed. 'What isn't?' Out loud, she offered, "You mean besides the fact that my backlog still doesn't take care of itself?"

"Tell me what's wrong, Jordan. Please." He felt it wasn't just what had happened between them two days ago. As if that wasn't enough… There was something else. He was sure of that, although he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Nothing is wrong," she claimed. "Would you now just leave and let me do my job?" Her knuckles turned white on the rack. "This has nothing to do with you. I have nothing to do with you. The world doesn't revolve around you," she reminded him, much or less throwing her self-control out the window. "Just leave me alone! Go away and pretend that I don't exist!"

He ignored her little outburst, though replying seemed tempting. Something serious was wrong, and he needed to know what that was. "What's going on, Jordan?" he pleaded. For a moment, he forgot that their relationship wasn't what it had been. All he could think about was that he had to help her. He gently lifted her chin, making her look at him. "Why can't you look at me?"

She jumped backwards. The rack hit the floor, one of the test-tubes shattering and the blood from it spilling across the floor. She didn't even seem to notice. "Don't touch me! Don't you ever do something like that again!" Her voice and her whole body were shivering. Nobody could make her do anything. Nobody would make her feel helpless ever again. "Don't come near me! Ever again!" she warned him before turning on her heel and storming off.

He still stood in the same spot, dumbfounded, long after she had left.