Chapter Three

She emerged into the waiting area, clad in jeans and the dark red sweater he'd bought her as a surprise along with a pair of flats from her personal effects that he'd had boxed up after her incarceration and put in storage. He smiled and forced a deep breath past the bands surrounding his chest. Seeing her in something other than prison orange for the first time in close to a year—it felt like seeing her for the first time.

Her face lit up as she spotted him waiting in the holding area—a concession granted in deference to his position as Head Detective.

"Carlton!"

"Hey Marlowe."

She gave him a smile and a brief touch of her hand to his cheek before she turned her attention to signing release forms, accepting her personal effects, and being issued the check of monies accrued during her work stints. After acknowledging she was aware she had to contact her parole officer within twenty-four hours and that she was not permitted to leave the state, she gathered her things and walked toward him, another smile wreathing her pretty features. A bit less exuberant than he might have expected, but then, they were surrounded by prison personnel and if there was anything they'd wanted, almost more than anything else for the past year, it had been privacy.

Last thing he wanted was their welcome to be observed by a bunch of nosy-assed guards and the prisoners allowed to work in the office.

Outside, she strode unhesitatingly through the gates only pausing when they finally slid shut behind her with a decisive clang. Closing her eyes, she raised her face and breathed deep, the sun gilding her skin with a rosy glow. Even though every day had brought with it an hour in the yard, no doubt the air tasted completely different beyond the gate's perimeters, the heat of the sun feeling even warmer and more comforting.

She'd done what she needed to do and paid the price and Carlton knew she had no regrets, other than the fact that it had kept them from being together.

Well, that was about to change.

At his car, he took her belongings from her, carefully stored them in the back seat, then turned to take her in his arms, free to hold her for the first time since he'd arrested her.

He sighed as her arms came around his waist and she squeezed him tight before turning her face up to him, much like as she'd turned it up to the sun. Unhesitatingly, he found her mouth with his, kissing hard and deep, the embers of what they'd had flickering to life deep within.

After several moments she pulled back, a curious smile on her face as she touched her lips with her fingers.

"Welcome home." He tightened his arms around her waist and smiled, his heart hammering in his chest. "You hungry?"

She smiled and touched his cheek again, her touch impossibly gentle and making his heart beat even harder, leaving him short of breath, as if he'd just finished a marathon.

"Famished."

After another quick kiss—just an innocent brush of lips really—he helped her into the car and rounded the front to the driver's side. As he headed away from the prison for the last time ever—at least in this capacity—he felt himself consumed by a combination of relief, nervousness, anticipation, and because he was him… dread.

"Anywhere you want to go—fast food or five star. If you want to go home and change first, we can do that, but I figured you really wouldn't be up for anything overwhelming and I even have stuff at home that I can fix for us if you'd rather—"

"Carlton—" Her hand lit on his forearm, serving to stem the nervous flow of words. "Five star is definitely not necessary. Why don't we just find somewhere near the beach? I'd really like to smell the sea air again—listen to the waves."

He turned to look at her as he pulled onto the freeway, practically able to navigate the journey in his sleep as often as he'd made this trip. She met his curious gaze with the enigmatic smile that had so entranced him from that life-changing first moment in the bar, then turned to gaze out the window with a wistful expression that made him hurt deep inside.

The beach. Of course.

It made perfect sense. What other place could simultaneously represent both freedom and security? Serenity and wildness?

He fought back the memory of where he'd first heard that description and instead smiled and nodded and put forth several suggestions of where they might go. They settled on a seafood place at Hendry's Beach, adjacent to one of the state parks, so outside of the quiet bustle of the restaurant itself, there was little to get in the way of enjoying their surroundings as they sat at a table on the expansive patio.

They talked easily over their meal, hands occasionally glancing against each other, meeting every so often in a brief clasp. They discussed Marlowe's plans—she'd begun taking college classes while inside and thought she might want to become a librarian.

"Not enough public service in your life with me being a cop?" he joked.

She smiled. "It's quiet. And like you, will let me help people."

"I'd think you would've had your fill of that after spending your whole life taking care of Adrian."

"This would be different," she said around bites of cheesecake. "And besides, I am good at it."

He smiled and sipped his coffee. "Of that I have absolutely no doubt."

After he paid the check, they walked on the beach for a while, occasionally holding hands, but every so often, Marlowe would break free and wander to the water's edge where she let the waves wash over her bare feet. The sun was beginning to sink beyond the horizon when she turned to face him and smiled and it was such a wide, lovely smile, so full of promise and resolution, Carlton once again felt his heart hurt.

"Carlton—"

He began walking toward her but paused at the slight shake of her head.

"What is it?"

"This isn't going to work."

The small, hollow pit with which he'd awakened this morning—that he'd tried to dismiss as nothing more than nerves and anticipation that after so long, this was it, but whose roots ran far deeper and well did he know it—grew until it felt like it was trying to swallow him whole.

"What do you mean?"

But he knew. What's worse, was Marlowe knew.

"You've been so sweet to me, so completely devoted, and I really hoped that things would work out—but we both know things have been… different for a while now."

He wanted to argue. To protest. He was so damned good at it, but… but… yeah. Things had been different. He could pinpoint it to the date. To the hour. If asked, he knew he'd be able to recall the exact minute everything had changed. He'd just thought, with his ability to compartmentalize, that it would have been locked away behind a wall. Exist in a vacuum where it couldn't touch the rest of his life because he simply couldn't allow it to. It would be against all the silent rules they'd sworn to follow.

Guess there had been cracks in the seal, though.

"Do you know you haven't told me you love me for months now?"

The hollowness grew. "That's not true."

"It is." She took a few steps toward him, then turned and dropped to sit on the sand. "I'd say it and you'd smile and you'd say, 'me too' but you haven't said the actual words for a long time. And maybe the words wouldn't matter so much if I felt it from you—the way I used to—but yeah…" She glanced back over her shoulder and her gaze was equal parts hurt and resigned. "That changed, too."

He scrubbed a hand across his face and dropped to sit beside her.

"Marlowe—you and I—it's just… we've been looking forward to this for so long. And now you're out and everything must feel different. I don't think you can make a decision like this without giving it an honest shot. Giving it—giving us—time."

Because he'd insisted they needed time and he'd be damned if he didn't see it through.

Marlowe reached out and took his hand in hers and finally, he allowed himself to acknowledge that yeah, it felt different.

"Oh, Carlton—I've spent a lifetime shackled to Adrian and his needs and the better part of a year in prison. I would have given you the rest of my life if I thought you wanted it, but I can't help but feel as if for the past few months, you've just been treading water. Waiting for… something—some sort of sign, maybe. And maybe you honestly thought that something was me—the me who wasn't shackled to Adrian and who wasn't in prison—but really, I don't think it is. "

Her hand tightened on his. "And I'm sorry, but the absolute last thing I'm willing to give up right now—" Her free hand rose to cup his cheek. "Is time."

He should have been devastated. At the very least, upset. Okay... cold as it sounded, he really should have been relieved.

Instead, he was irrationally pissed off. This was not the way things were supposed to go.

Despite their moment out of time—their one perfect, magical moment—Juliet had still been with Spencer and he'd been with Marlowe and what had happened between them wasn't real. It was the product of stress and fear and anger and desperation. They couldn't trust it. They had to get back to their normal lives and let things happen the way they were meant.

She'd agreed. Or at least she'd nodded and said she understood he needed time. That she wouldn't make unfair requests—she'd done it once before and she'd sworn she wouldn't do it again.

Things had to happen the way they were meant.

And she had kept her promise. With a grace and quiet dignity that had jabbed at his heart more painfully with each passing day. But he'd forced himself to compartmentalize—to build walls that would keep him from doing anything stupid. That would allow things to happen the way they were meant.

But was this how things were meant to happen? Like this? How could it be?

It didn't make sense.

Because if he went to Juliet now—told her what had happened with Marlowe—she would never forgive herself. And that guilt would eat her alive and hurt them. But how could he go to her—be with her—without telling her what had happened with Marlowe?

The final element of the equation—Spencer—didn't concern him. For once. Far as he was concerned, the asshat had abdicated his relationship with Juliet the moment he'd disappeared without a word. Honestly, she hadn't even been that broken up about it—at least not about the apparent dissolution of their relationship. She'd been more angry on Henry's behalf—worried that it would set his recovery back. But the elder Spencer was too used to his idiot son for it to do much more than elevate his blood pressure slightly—and only for a few days. Truth was, she'd been more agitated since he'd returned.

Carlton made a mental note to assign a tail to Spencer—make certain he wasn't harassing Juliet unduly.

It was the only thing he could do—look out for her. Be her friend. Be her lover in the truest sense of the word. The way it meant the most.

Maybe… eventually… taking each day as it came, they could grow closer and ultimately, they could be together.

He fought his way from the fog of this thoughts to find that he'd pulled into his spot at the SBPD. It was happening more and more, lately—so lost in his thoughts he had little recollection of doing… anything. He'd find himself sitting beside a pile of freshly folded laundry or closing the door on the dishwasher he'd just loaded with no memory of having prepared or eaten a meal or pulling into his parking space at the police department. In fact, the only time he felt completely alert and with it, his attention focused on the job at hand, was when he was at work.

When he was with Juliet.

Taking a deep breath, and smelling fresh coffee, he left the car, ventis he'd apparently stopped to pick up in hand. Inside, he set them both on his desk, if only because it gave him a viable excuse to approach her the moment she came in. Not that he needed a viable excuse. They were partners. He could talk to her any damned time he wanted. But he knew the compartmentalization he'd employed of late had also had the unfortunate side effect of creating distance between them. Distance he wasn't sure how to breach without completely busting down the damned walls and taking her in his arms and never letting go.

So he stuck to the tried and true—and nothing was more tried and true between them than coffee. Especially good coffee. Although come to think of it, lately she hadn't seemed all that excited by even good coffee. She smile wanly and take a sip or two and when she got coffee for them, he'd noticed that more and more, she appeared to be drinking tea.

He kept meaning to ask, but then she'd cast him one of those grave looks, the deep emotion that spoke to the same in him banked within the dark blue, and the question would die before it could fully form.

Still, morning coffee had been their ritual for seven years and he hung onto those little bits of normal with the desperation of a drowning man hanging onto a rope.

He strode into the bullpen, whistling softly below his breath and feeling better with each step. At his desk, he went through the routine of hanging up his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, turning on his computer, basically making certain he was ready to face anything the day might bring. The routine, however, would only be fully complete when O'Hara arrived, ready to take her place by his side.

Then, he could face anything the day might bring and beat the ever loving hell out of it. With authority.

He began skimming files, sipping from one of the coffees, idly keeping an eye—an ear—even a nose, because only O'Hara carried that intoxicating combination of vanilla and lavender and fresh air about her—out. Generally, he beat her in by fifteen minutes, but today, fifteen minutes came and went as he sipped slowly. Sipped slower still as another fifteen minutes passed. Pushed the cup away and tapped a pencil against his blotter as he pretended to study a file but in reality, watched the minutes tick by on his computer's clock.

Checked it against the clock on the wall.

Checked it against his watch.

Checked it against his cell phone.

Pulled up an internet window and checked his computer and the wall clock and his watch and his cell phone against Greenwich Mean Time at the Royal Observatory.

This exercise in futility killed another fifteen minutes and rendered O'Hara officially late. At least checking his cell phone allowed him to check his text messages.

Nothing.

Check his email—both personal and work.

Nothing.

Tapping the pencil in ever-increasing agitation, he glanced over at Juliet's desk. Everything was as always, neat and orderly, small tokens that reminded her of people or places off to one side along with a couple of framed pictures. Nevertheless, there hovered around the area an unexpected air of desolation. Without her there it was just… a desk.

Unbidden, he stood and crossed to it, hoping to find some sign of why she might be late. He wouldn't dream of invading her personal space—not like Spencer—but he knew she had a habit of leaving her day planner open on her desk. In case she forgot to tell him about a court appointment or some other event that would keep her from… well, from him, dammit.

The book lay open as expected to the current week—but before he took a closer look, his attention was captured by one of the photographs carefully arranged to the left of her blotter. A picture of the two of them at the last department picnic, flying a kite. Well, Juliet had been flying the kite, a large silk dragon with a massive wingspan, until the winds had picked up, threatening to yank her arms from the sockets because stubborn woman, there was no way she was letting it go. Spencer had had his face buried—literally—in a cherry pie, so Carlton had rushed over and embraced her from behind putting his hands over hers while she braced her back against his chest. Together, they'd slowly regained control of the beast and it was then the photographer had captured them—a perfect moment, flush with victory. She was smiling up at him, all gold, windblown hair and fierce victory, pure joy written in her smile while he'd grinned down, everything in his body language, at least to him, declaring mine. This woman is mine.

Right. If only he'd actually trusted his instincts.

Chest aching at how stupid he'd been—at how often he'd been stupid, but not anymore, dammit—he replaced the picture and returned his attention to the date book. He skimmed the pages, an easy task since there was nothing written on them other than a cryptic 14 inscribed and circled in the upper left corner. Before he could dwell on it overmuch, however, his attention was captured by the Chief's approach.

The one person who might know something.

"Chief!"

She looked up from unlocking her office door. "Good morning, Detective."

"Uh… yeah. Good morning."

With another glance back toward Juliet's desk he followed her into her office, waiting while she put her things down. Finally, she hit him with a pointed stare. "Yes, Detective?"

"Have you heard from O'Hara?"

Her brows drew together. "No. Should I have?"

"I… guess not." He found himself looking back toward her desk once more. Making certain that she hadn't snuck in during the thirty seconds he'd been talking to the Chief. Nope. The desk remained as deserted as ever. He could almost imagine cobwebs forming. "It's just that she's late."

Karen appeared remarkably unconcerned as she stored her weapon and badge in her desk. "No she's not."

Carlton looked up at the clock on Karen's wall and discreetly checked it against his watch. "Uh—"

"She's on leave, Carlton."

The blood rushed from his head so rapidly, he felt an immediate ringing in his ears. Through the tinny, white noise he heard himself asking faintly, "She's what?"

"On leave. She made the request yesterday and I approved it."

He sank into the nearest chair, hanging onto the arms as if it might keep him from sliding to the floor in a graceless heap. Because the Head damned Detective did not slide to the floor, gracelessly or otherwise. No matter how boneless and utterly lacking in oxygen he felt.

"Yesterday?"

When she'd been in the Chief's office, talking to her at length, from what he'd been able to gather. When she'd emerged, she had seemed fine. Or as fine as she'd been for the past few months, which was to say a bit grave, a bit remote, but still there. Still with him.

She'd given no indication that she'd asked for leave. Had just gone about the rest of their day until it was quitting time when she'd gathered her things, much like any other day, and allowed him to walk her to her car, much like any other day.

The only thing that had been different had been at her car—pausing for just a moment and looking up at him.

"Goodnight, Carlton."

"Night, Juliet." On the job it was still O'Hara—always O'Hara—but when they were alone, it was always Juliet. Something that was theirs alone. A tiny, infinitesimal way in which he could be with her.

"See you."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

She'd said "see you." Not "see you tomorrow." And her hand had brushed against his, fingers curling maybe ever so slightly around his before she climbed into her car and smiled again as she drove off.

Saying goodbye.

"Detective, wait!"

Karen's sharp summons brought him to a halt by the door, fingers clutching the jamb.

"She's not at home."

Slowly he turned to face her once more. "Well, then… where is she?"

She had both hands braced on her desk "I'm not at liberty to say."

"You're not at liberty to—" A bitter laugh escaped as he shoved a hand through his hair. "What the hell, Karen. Not at liberty to say? What does that even mean?"

"It means," she said slowly, "that she doesn't want to be found." Holding his gaze, she added in a tone both gentle and deliberate, "It means she needs time, too. And space."

Karen's gaze took on an unmistakable air of sympathy and right then, Carlton understood that she knew what had happened between them. Or at least, that something had.

Frankly, he didn't give a rat's ass that she knew and he sure as hell didn't need her sympathy. He just needed Juliet. His Juliet.

Who'd left because she thought he was with Marlowe.

Juliet had left because she thought it was the right thing to do...

For him.