Chapter Four

"O'Hara."

She kept her head down, eyes burning as she studied the files. Again. Looking for something… anything… they might have missed the first thirty times around. Or forty. She'd lost count.

"O'Hara—" Sharper now, but he damn well knew that voice had ceased having its intended effect on her years ago. Maybe everyone else could be intimidated by the Lassiter bark, but not her. She knew what lay behind.

All too well.

And yet not well enough.

"You need to stop."

"I can't."

"You have to."

Without looking up, she pushed at his chest, sending him stumbling back a step from where he'd come to lean over her at the conference table. That looming trick didn't work worth a damn with her either. At least not in any way that frightened her other than in how very conscious it made her of him.

"I can't, Carlton."

Undeterred, he resumed his position looming over her with the added benefit of slamming a hand over the file she was trying to read. Emphasis on trying. Because everything was blurring into a jumble of symbols and black lines and statements that made absolutely no sense and neglected to provide a single goddamned clue as to where Jerry Carp might have disappeared to after he cold-bloodedly shot his close friend and former partner in the chest at point-blank range.

Carlton's hand gripped her shoulder forcing her to look up into his intent gaze. Even red-rimmed and ringed with dark circles, the blue stood out, searing and fierce.

"We're going to get this son of a bitch, O'Hara. You know we are. But we can't do it if we're operating at anything less than peak efficiency. We've been going for nearly forty hours straight. We both need a break."

She knew that. She knew he was right. But she should be able to continue to operate at peak efficiency. For something like this, she should be able to push past the exhaustion and the fear and the anger—discover untapped reserves.

"Shawn's not taking a break." She didn't think. She knew he'd ignored her directive to sit the case out, despite his assurances that he would. Why she'd imagined he would listen to her, she had no idea. Not as if he'd ever done it before—not even when it was something with the power to hurt her—like shoving her father back into her life. To think he would listen to her now...

Yeah, she'd been a naive idiot. Again.

Carlton lifted an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Yeah, and he's a Red Bull and Froot Loop-fueled idiot who's probably endangering half of Santa Barbara in the process. Besides, it's his father." His voice softened into something approximating sympathy—at least as much as she'd ever heard him express for Shawn. "We're cops. That's not how we operate."

"But it is Henry." And she hated how weak her voice sounded. She wanted to think she'd be this driven if it was anyone, but she knew that was a lie. There was only one other person for whom she'd drive herself this hard. Harder still.

"I know." He straightened and pulled her from the chair, his warm hands cupped beneath her elbows as if knowing she needed that extra bit of support. "And if there's anything Henry is, it's a cop. Which is why he'd expect—not to mention, deserve—us at our best."

Juliet felt herself swaying, exhaustion and a steady diet of coffee leaving her lightheaded. Giving in, she allowed her head to come to rest on Carlton's chest, sighing as she felt one hand gently stroke her hair.

"I'm taking you home."

"Okay." It was as if by allowing herself to physically lean on him what fight remained simply drained away, leaving room to feel his quiet strength and resolve as well as the exhaustion cloaking him. He'd pushed himself every bit as hard—not simply because it was Henry, but because it offended his ironclad officer's code of conduct that another cop had done this. Had betrayed friendship, loyalty, his oath, and the badge in the most base and reprehensible of ways.

Carlton's car was dark and quiet and it would have been so easy for Juliet to allow herself to drift, the traffic lights and occasional headlights streaming past in a gritty, hypnotic blur. Instead, she found herself talking. Not the bright, chirpy, couldn't-stand-to-hear-silence-wanted-to-get-to-know-her-inscrutable-partner chatter of years gone by, but a simple, quiet observation she could share only with him.

"He's obsessed, Carlton. To the point of shutting himself off from everyone and everything. It's like he's convinced only he can find Jerry Carp. Or maybe that only he deserves to find Carp."

The car's interior remained quiet outside of the muffled, sibilant hush of tires against asphalt and Carlton's steady breathing.

"You're trying not to say something."

"Yeah."

"You know you can tell me anything."

He spared her a quick glance, intense silver blue even in the dark. "Can and should are two different things, Juliet."

Warmth suffused her at his use of her given name. Very rarely during the work day did he ever allow himself to use it, but when they were by themselves—also a rare occurrence of late—he would allow it to slip free, the syllables emerging with a low intimacy that wound around her and made her feel… safe. Cherished.

Not for the first time did she curse her own idiocy at agreeing they needed time after the first moment she realized what they could be. Clear as day, she could hear Carlton—

...you don't do this because it's easy. You do it because you have to. Because there's absolutely nothing else you can see yourself doing. Because there's no one else you can see yourself with.

You're not there yet, Juliet.

And he'd been right. She thought.

He had to be right. Right?

But it had been before he met Marlowe. And she'd naively assumed he'd be there—waiting—after she got Shawn out of her system, which she suspected would be sooner rather than later.

But it hadn't been soon enough.

They still had each other though. Every day. In ways both large and small, their trust in each other absolute. Juliet knew that even after Marlowe was released, she would still have more of Carlton than anyone else and selfishly, she was glad.

She wasn't proud of that particular personality trait, but she would own it. At least if she was aware of it, it might keep her from behaving in as damaging a manner as she had before. Because that would cost her what she had of Carlton.

And she couldn't.

Especially now.

At her door she looked up at him. "Tell me."

His shoulders slumped beneath the dark wool of his suit jacket. With a nod, he indicated she should open the door. A weight like a massive stone dropped into the pit of her belly. He wouldn't answer because he was protecting her. As much as he didn't sugarcoat the truth or treat her like a hothouse flower in any other of their everyday interactions, it seemed as if where Shawn was concerned, he'd made some sort of promise to himself. For her.

But he surprised her. Shedding his jacket, he dropped onto her sofa and leaned his head against the back with a tired sigh. Closing his eyes, he waited until he felt her take a seat beside him, then quietly said, "It's not any different from any other case, Juliet, except this one has a slightly more personal component. The simple truth is, Shawn has always believed he's the best—the only—person who can possibly solve a crime. Without fail, he has consistently interfered with and undermined our work—belittled us privately and publicly—in an effort to prove he's unequivocally smarter and better than all of us."

He turned his head and opened his eyes, the expression in them ineffably sad… and angry. "It's always been important to me to solve as many cases as possible—" He rubbed his forehead, clearly weary beyond measure. "It's my job, one to which I've dedicated myself to at the expense of… hell, a lot. But it's a job I'm damned good at and I have an honest desire to serve the city I work for. Shawn only lives to serve himself—at the expense of everyone else."

It wasn't her imagination that his voice dropped further on the word "everyone." The one thing he refrained from saying—that "everyone" included her as well. The Thane Woodson case wasn't so far removed, however, that she couldn't recall Shawn's smug condescension that she'd made an error—had sent an innocent man to jail—and it would be up to him to "fix" it.

She didn't say anything. There wasn't a damned thing she could say that wouldn't reveal her as a fool. So damned foolish to have given him as many chances as she had. That she had given him a chance at all. And the last thing she wanted was Carlton's pity.

"Juliet, don't—"

The brush of his skin against hers—the helpless look he cast at the damp sheen smeared across the pad of his thumb—made her aware of the tears. She swiped the backs of her hands against her cheeks and took in a shuddering breath, attempting to regain control. But the damned tears wouldn't stop—a slow, steady trickle, like a faucet whose washer had finally worn through and that no tightening would fix.

"I didn't mean to make you cry."

She met his gaze, read in the ocean blue the obvious concern and superseding even the concern, the love. So powerful, it left her breathless, not simply from the strength of the love itself, but from the strength of the man bearing it.

She had been such a fool.

To ever doubt.

To not take that chance.

To not realize there wasn't anyone else she could see herself with.

"You didn't make me cry."

His sigh was long and deep as he reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand, using the handkerchief he drew from his pocket with the other to dab gently at the tears and when that wasn't enough, leaning in and touching his lips to her skin.

"Carlton—"

She wanted to say they shouldn't. They couldn't. But she was just so tired and she couldn't lie to herself and above all, she could not lie to this man. Not now.

"Can you do this?" She held his face between her hands, her thumb tracing the line of his mouth, damp with her tears. Looked deep into the eyes that could hide so much, but that couldn't lie—not to her.

Endless moments passed as he studied her as intently as she studied him.

"It's the only thing I can do."

From there it was so easy and so perfect. There was no sweeping her off her feet and carrying her off to her bedroom—no succumbing right there on the couch or frantic writhing on the floor. There was just a simple, quiet acceptance punctuated with a gentle kiss., Carlton standing and offering her his hand, Juliet leading them to her room where they slowly undressed each other, mouths and hands exploring, yet sure with the knowing.

Carlton's body was every mystery and none at all. She'd known how he'd feel beneath her touch, her mouth. Had known how his touch would feel, yet shivered beneath the newness of each caress. Knew the shape and weight of him and welcomed him into her time and again. In the dark of that single night that seemed to go on forever and not long enough, it was simply her and Carlton.

The only way it could be.

She used to welcome dawn, Juliet thought as she lay in bed and watched the sun's slow ascent over the ocean, delicate tendrils of rose-gold light piercing the pearl gray as if reaching out to draw the curtains back on a brand new day. A new beginning—everything fresh and clean, a blank slate on which to draw new designs.

She hated it now. Because it had been dawn and the light it cast on their reality that had brought with it goodbye.

These days, she was far more welcoming of night where she could sink back into the memories, could lull herself into a deep sleep where she could feel Carlton's arms around her, his low voice telling her again and again how much he loved her.

It was at night where she allowed herself to hope.

As if in response, a soft flutter batted against her side, settling only when she turned away from the east facing windows and toward the expanse of glass facing the west, still dusky and tinted a deep blue gray. The color of Carlton's eyes when he was deep in thought or worried or exceptionally tired.

It would appear the alien didn't care much for dawn either.

"Your daddy's a bit of a night owl, too," she murmured. "But he also gets up at the crack of dawn to go running. Truth is, like a lot of cops, he doesn't sleep enough."

She didn't want to dwell on whether or not he might be getting more sleep—or not—of late. The promise she'd made herself the moment the plane had left Santa Barbara was that she would not overthink, she would not dwell, she would not create scenarios over which she had absolutely no control. This time was for her and the baby—time for calm and nurturing—both emotionally and physically. To that end, she'd arrived in Oahu sans computer, phone, anything that might allow Carlton to contact her—since she knew at the very least he'd be furious at her sudden disappearance—or tempt her to break down in turn. Outside of a single call to Karen Vick upon her arrival, letting her know she was fine, she'd isolated herself from her old life completely.

The fluttering remained quiet as she spoke. A habit she'd fallen into from the first moment she'd felt it, the week before—her third on the North Shore of Oahu. Quiet and peaceful, the perfect refuge for her heart and mind. She'd walked the beaches and made the acquaintance of sea turtles and feasted on all manner of fresh tropical fruits—although not pineapples. God, no. Even after her morning sickness had waned, the very idea of pineapples still left her intensely queasy.

Talk about a sign.

Pineapples aside, however, she'd never physically felt—or looked—better. She'd never really given much thought to what kind of pregnant woman she might be. If she'd ever considered it, it had been in the abstract, with the primary thought being as long as the baby was healthy, nothing else mattered. Turned out, however, that wretched morning sickness aside, she was one of those women whom pregnancy suited, skin and hair burnished by the sun, the daily walks in the sea air leaving her glowing with good health.

Juliet could only hope that the obvious care she'd taken of herself—of their baby—would help soften the blow when she returned in a few days' time.

Initially she'd thought maybe she wouldn't even bother returning. She could just stay, after all—be a cop here and raise her baby in this magical place, far away from the madness and even further from the pain she knew she'd feel if Carlton had decided that what he wanted was a life with Marlowe. She'd never admit it to anyone except maybe Carlton, but truth was, she wasn't as strong as he was. She couldn't bear witness to the life that might have been hers. Better to just disappear and hope in time, she could forget.

Even as quickly as that thought had flitted into her mind though, she'd just as quickly dismissed it. She couldn't do that to Carlton—disappear without a word—and besides, how could she even imagine she could forget him? Forget what they'd had or what they could have had? For one thing, she would have the constant reminder of a moment that not only did she not regret, but that she had no interest in forgetting, ever. Besides—the simple truth was she missed him so damned much. As much as she'd needed this time away, she'd missed every cranky, awkward, loving inch of Carlton Lassiter with everything she had, desperate for night to come so she could sink back into the welcome embrace of her memories.

She needed to see him. Even if he was furious with her, which she had no doubt he would be—the scowl pulling his dark eyebrows down into the straight line, bisected by the deep slash, his eyes turned that stormy hurt blue—she needed to see him.

Whatever happened, she needed to see him—at least one more time.

Slowly, she smoothed the thin cotton of her camisole over her small, yet obviously rounded belly.

Whatever happened, she needed to let him see her.