"I'm sorry, sir, she's been released," the woman at the desk told Lewis when he arrived to see her. Well, good news that, eh? Of course, it was. And not unexpected. He'd stalled in coming. In facing her, in looking into her eyes and seeing her rejection and condemnation. It might as well have been him shoveling that dirt down on her, burying her under his doubts and reservations. If he would have held onto his belief in her…

Would it have made a difference? Would they have arrived at the finish line any faster? Could they have stopped the madness that had put her into that grave? He'd never know.

Because he had doubted her. He'd read those twenty-some year old words, and he'd thought she was like all too many others he ran into in the course of his job. Hiding the truth in fear of shame or guilt, risking the future to cover up the past, lying regardless of the cost. How many had he seen die because people just wouldn't fess up to some indiscretion, mistake, or sin? Too many.

And, in the hurt and anger he'd felt believing even she would lie to him, he'd laid deaths at her feet. Blamed her for the deaths of Ligeia, Rowena, and Mary Gwilliam and the attack on Dr. Jacoby. And all the time, she'd played a straight hand, she'd spoken the truth; he should have believed her, continued to speak up for her before Hathaway and Innocent. He should have seen that she was the one about to be sacrificed on someone else's altar of lies.

Instead, he'd questioned, interrogated—all but accused her even. He could still remember her silence in the street, the look she'd given him as she'd gotten into her car. He hadn't known what to make of it then. He'd feared it was a silent confession; an admission there was something else he should know but that she'd been unwilling to tell him. Or unable… he'd not suspected her of protecting herself then but someone else from the house on Nethermoor Avenue.

He knew better now. She'd been silent in the face of his distrust, his belief that he needed to ask, his lack of faith in her. He'd blamed her, but he had been the betrayer…instead of voicing his doubt, he should have been warning her to be careful, begging her to go somewhere safe, demanding she get out of harm's way. He'd failed her there. Badly.

And then the house. She couldn't have known how long he'd resisted following that line of enquiry. He should have asked her whereabouts from the beginning; he'd known, Hathaway, and Innocent—they'd all known. Hobson, too, if the truth were out, he supposed. Still, it had been a hard thing to do...something he'd regret to the end of his days. He should have left it to Hathaway as the lad had suggested—well, he should have turned the case over as soon as Hobson walked into that house after the girl had died and told him it was where she and Ligeia had lived as students. Innocent or guilty, it was apparent at that moment that she was at least peripherally involved…

He'd had no business keeping the case. But…what was he to do? Remove himself on personal grounds, when there was nothing between the two of them? Least not beyond friendship and work…what would the chief super have made of that? What would Hobson have made of it?

That he fancied her? Well, yeah, he did. He reckoned she wasn't exactly unaware of that. But…it wasn't going anywhere, was it? She was a friendly face, a listening ear, a kind heart, a wise counsellor… not a lover, not a girlfriend, not someone he had any business excusing himself from a case over. And that's how it had been almost from the moment he'd arrived back in Oxford off of special assignment. If it had been going to go anywhere else, and he'd thought it might at times, it would have by now.

No, she saw him as a friend and nothing else. Whatever possibilities he might wish were there—they weren't for her. And he'd have done neither of them a favour by broadcasting that to all and sundry by taking himself off the case. Still, his feelings for her had interfered with the investigation and almost gotten her killed.

So, no, he hadn't been eager to look into her face and see the hurt he'd caused her reflected in her eyes. Hathaway had almost pushed him out the door, insisting on finishing up the last of the interviews and typing up the reports himself.

His sergeant was a bit too much of a romantic for Lewis' tastes. He'd have had the two of them running off to Gretna Green if he could have managed it. Almost as bad as the chief superintendent trying to set him up with all of her divorced, widowed, and single woman friends. Innocent didn't know he fancied the doctor, but Hathaway certainly did…always with a comment and a smirk pushing at him to do something about it.

"Have you told Dr. Hobson? How you feel about her?" Hathaway had asked him one day as they'd left the mortuary after picking up a report.

"Dr. Hobson, as I'm sure you are aware, is a very intelligent, very beautiful woman, Sergeant. A good many men fancy her…she wouldn't welcome me joining the queue I'm sure."

"You never know…"

Well, maybe. But he'd thought it might be better that way. If he forced her to have to come up with a nice and kind way of telling him 'sorry, not interested'…well, he might spoil what they did have. And, though he'd tried not to acknowledge it or give it substance in his awareness, he knew, now when he'd thrown it all away, that he needed it.

He'd been all so alone after Val had died. Miserably alone. Worse than Morse, brooding and drinking himself to an early grave. He wasn't cut out for it. Hobson with her welcoming smile, her readiness to slip out for a natter when he needed to confide in someone or a word of advice, her companionship, had helped fill the hole Val had left in his life. If she'd…well, if she'd fancied being more than just a friend, he would have been more than pleased; but she didn't and he'd accepted that and been thankful for what she was willing to offer him instead.

And now, he'd thrown it all away. And, even so, running through his head like an unending refrain was, "Thank God, she's alive," because he'd feared…been sick with it running through her empty house yelling her name, driving to the old hospital with the understanding of all that had gone and was still going on becoming clear, hearing her screams in the darkness—he'd thought they'd get there too late, that she'd be dead. That he'd be on his own all over again. Keeping her alive had been all he'd thought of then…

Now though, there was the hard and bitter truth to face. He'd distrusted and endangered her, and in doing so…he'd lost her from his life. Even rejoicing in her survival, he mourned her loss as a friend. She'd want no truck with him now that she knew he couldn't be trusted to believe in her. He should have known. He should never have doubted her.

He stepped out of the hospital doors and paused in indecision for a moment. Drive to her house, face the loss of her friendship, be a man…or go back to work. Tell Hathaway she'd gone off home and he reckoned it was best to let her rest. Oh, yeah. That would go over well with the lad, wouldn't it? Hobson or Hathaway?

And that brought him to the knowledge that he could very well still lose Hathaway over this mess as well as Hobson. As much as he needed Hobson's friendship, he needed Hathaway's. Maybe more even. For it was Hathaway who got him through the long hours of work as well as offered companionship through the long evenings. It wouldn't sit well with Hathaway, him not making things right—or at least trying to make things right with Hobson. He'd expect more of Lewis than that.

So. Off to Hobson's then, and best not be slow about it. He couldn't lollygag all day; duty called. And, it would only get worse the longer it took to see her and know whether the damage he'd done to their friendship was irreparable or not. And then there was the fact that he was still sick with it.

That fear and dread that she was hurt. Ahh, he knew the hospital wouldn't have let her go if she wasn't up for it, but…he'd been stuck in the building, holding that out-of-control, poor girl until help arrived, and then—as always, there was much to be done at the scene. There was never time to walk away, to say, "I can't do this now…I'll tell you in the morning what happened here. It'll keep."

And so the ambulance had taken her off before he'd had a chance to see for himself that she really was fine. Hathaway had gone with her, held her hand and murmured words of comfort—please, God, anyway. His sergeant lacked a bit in bedside manner—not in human feeling, but in the expressing of it. Still, Hathaway had gone with her and whether he'd known how to give her the comfort she'd needed or not, he'd been there for her.

It was Lewis who hadn't.