Chapter 2

For the past 20 minutes, Kim had been sitting in her car in front of Voight's house. Still she wondered if it was really a good idea to come here. Well, maybe she should start her car again and just drive away again. In fact, maybe she should just leave him alone.

But her gut had told her that she had to come here. I mean, that she needed to check on Voight.

Today, when she hadn't seen Voight at Alvin Olinsky's funeral, she had been worried. Al and Voight were old friends. And when he hadn't shown up at the funeral. . . . . But Trudy Platt had tried to ease her worry. Told her it was Meredith Olinsky's wish. Hank Voight was not someone she wanted to see. At least, not today. And not at her husband's funeral. To Meredith Olinsky, Hank Voight was the one to blame for her husband's death. Not the one who had stabbed Al.

Somehow, Kim could understand her. All Meredith wanted was someone to blame. Just someone she could take her anger out on. I mean, someone to blame for Alvin Olinsky's death. But Hank Voight was the wrong person for that. There was nothing he could have done or said regarding Al's death. To prevent his death. And Kim would tell him so.

With a determined step, she walked to the front door and knocked.

It took quite a while before the door swung open. It was opened by Hank Voight.

Surprised, he looked at Kim. He had not expected that she would show up here. Well, that someone would show up here. He had thought that they would now all steer clear of him. And he would not be surprised if in the next few days he would find everyone's transfer requests on his desk. After all, it would be better that way. To all of them. Cause all he brought was pain and death.

So he was all the more surprised to see HER here. Kim Burgess.

"Burgess, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the wake?"

Immediately, Kim could smell the alcohol on Voight's breath. She looked at her sergeant. He was still wearing his uniform. He was missing his tie. And his jacket was open. In his hand he held a bottle. Scotch. And on his other hand, Kim saw a bloody dressing.

"Did you hurt yourself?" asked Kim instead, pointing to his hand.

Voight just shrugged wordlessly. He didn't care. Ah, not for the injury. Nor the pain.

„We should change the dressing", Kim said.

"Maybe", he mumbled and took a step back.

After a moment's hesitation, Kim entered the house. She closed the door behind her. The first thing she noticed was the broken glass. Shattered picture frames. At any rate, Kim was quite startled. About the state of Voight. Oh, and about the mess at her feet.

"The first aid kit is in the bathroom," Voight muttered, leaving Kim alone.

Indecisive, she looked around. Was she supposed to follow him? Or should she wait until he returned? Kim wasn't sure. And then she squatted down and pulled one of the photos out from under the shards. It was a photo of Voight and Al. Both in uniform. And noticeably younger. Kim knew that both men had known each other for many years. The two men had a long friendship.

However, she didn't get to think further about the picture and its significance, or the chaos at her feet, when she heard Voight call out to her, "Burgess."

Kim placed the photo on the small cabinet and walked in the direction from which the voice had come. The kitchen. Voight was sitting at the kitchen table. On the table in front of him, the first-aid kit. And the bottle of scotch. An empty one. Plus a glass, which he was reaching for.

" Don't," Kim said on impulse.

Surprised, Voight stopped mid-motion and looked over at Kim. It was only now that she noticed the pain in his gaze. Pain he had tried to numb with the alcohol. It was a lousy decision.

So Kim just looked at him. Without saying a word. Just waiting.

Then, he set the glass back down on the table.

"Meredith hadn't wanted me to come to his funeral. My friend's funeral."

"I know. Seargant Platt told me."

"She blames me for his death. ' An' maybe she's right in sayin' so. Well, he went to jail for me. To think he's dead now. All because of me."

Kim didn't know what he wanted her to say. As she had sat in her car a moment ago, the words had been on her mind. However, now that he was sitting in front of her, seeing the pain in his gaze, she knew words weren't enough here.

There were no words that would ease his pain. Were able to ease it.

So Kim walked over to the table and opened the first aid kit. All she could do for him was tend to his wound. Neither of them said a word as Kim removed the dressing and cleaned the wound.

" I cut myself on the broken pieces. You know, like, uh, those picture frames," he confessed.

Kim nodded. With her fingertips, she gently stroked his bruised knuckles. She had also seen the blood on the wall. Oh, and she knew the injury on his hand wasn't just from the cut. He must have hit the wall in anger. Out of desperation. And she wouldn't judge him for it.

As she turned away to throw away the old dressing, Voight stopped her. He laid his hand on her forearm.

"Bur-. . . Kim, I . . . I don't deserve this. So this... . . That you' re here."

"Yes, you do," she objected to him, "you should . . . So Sarge, I . . . Well."

Both of them somehow didn't know what to say, because they never would have believed to be in this kind of situation.

"Thank you Kim," he finally said.

Suddenly Voight got up from his chair and stood directly in front of her. He felt as if an inner power caused him to do so. Causing him to want to touch her. In fact, Voight didn't know where this urge was coming from.

He placed the hand that had been resting on her forearm on her cheek. Tenderly he stroked her cheek. He stood so close to her that Kim could feel his breath on her face. She could smell his breath. And the alcohol.

"I am making coffee. You should drink some", and then she took a step back.

Daylight fell through the half-opened curtains the following morning, casting sunlight on the bed.

There was a grumble from the mountain of pillows and blanket. Hank Voight wanted to pull the blanket over his head and block out the sun. Slowly, the smell of fresh coffee and fried bacon drifted into his consciousness. And along with the smell came the memory of last night. Of the alcohol. Way too much alcohol. And Kim Burgess.

Voight rolled onto his back and tried to remember what he had done. What he had said. He had destroyed the pictures in the hallway. Had taken his anger out on them and on the wall. Oh, and then he'd gotten drunk. Until Kim Burgess had shown up at his door.

He remembered that she had tended his wound. That he had been about to kiss her. Other than that, his memory failed him. He didn't know what had happened after that. And neither did he know how he had gotten into bed.

Slowly he sat up in bed. There was no way he could hide here in his bedroom forever. Descending the stairs, he noticed that the broken glass had disappeared. And he heard music coming from the kitchen. The clatter of dishes.

For a moment he stopped, leaning against the doorframe, and watched Kim Burgess as she washed the dishes in his kitchen. Kim Burgess in his kitchen. It felt right. Absolutely right.

Kim sensed that he was standing behind her.

"Do you want breakfast?" she asked him, without turning around.

"I . . . No, I think."

"Hangover?"

"Yes."

" Well, that' s no surprise. You must have drunk half a bottle of scotch, if not more," Kim turned and put a glass of water and a bottle of pills on the table. Painkillers.

Voight's gaze moved back and forth between Kim and the pills on the table.

"Sit down. I made you some breakfast, Sarge," Kim then said. And while she returned her attention to the food on the stove, Voight sat down at the table.

Thoughtfully he looked at Kim. And inside him the question arose again, what had happened last night. Well, in fact, had something happened between Kim and him? If he wanted to know the answer, he had to ask her.

"I did, so yesterday . . . The two of us. . . Is there," Voight searched for the right words. He wanted to know if something had happened between Kim and him last night. You know, something that shouldn't have happened between them.

"I slept on the sofa," Kim replied, guessing what he was about to ask her.

"Good," Voight muttered.

On hearing her words, he had felt something. Within him. A kind of disappointment. At the same time, though, relief. You see, if something had happened between Kim and him, then he wanted to remember it. Briefly, he wondered where those thoughts had come from. She was Kim Burgess. She was part of his unit. Part of the intelligence. He wasn't allowed to think like that about her.

Maybe Al had some advice or explanation for any of this. For these thoughts that suddenly crept into his head.

Just then, he felt like he was punched in the gut. He would never be able to ask Al for advice again.