Seven hundred and twenty nine days, twenty-three hours and twelve minutes and twenty-nine minutes.
Tom Croydon stared at the closed door to PJ's office. He'd tried to talk to the detective when he arrived that morning, but PJ's expression made it all too painfully aware that he didn't want to talk. And so, Tom had watched as PJ shut the door behind him, and could only imagine the pain the man must have been feeling. Tom had loved Maggie Doyle like she was a daughter. A strong, vibrant, energetic daughter, ready to take on the world and beat it at its own game. Maggie Doyle had more energy and honestly than anyone Tom had ever known, and he both respected and loved her for those qualities. This agonizing thing was, that it was those very qualities that had got her killed.
It had been inevitable, so inevitable that PJ and Maggie would eventually get together. A blind man would have been able to see the sparks that arced between those two, the intense emotions, the want, the need and the desire. It had taken a while before those emotions had spilled to the surface, and true to the way they worked, they had only surfaced under protest. They'd tried to keep it hidden, a nod to the rules and regulations that simply didn't understand how they felt about their jobs, and more importantly about each other. They'd tried to keep it a secret, but it had all spilled out, cut open by the very thing that had killed her in the end. Her honesty, her curiosity – her quest to do the right thing.
The first time, the first time he'd thought she was dead – and an ironic smile lightly graced Tom's lips at that thought – the first time had been when she had been taken into Witness Protection. She'd come a little too close to uncovering the truth about some dirty cops. Some lowdown, skin-crawlingly corrupt cops. She had vanished, spirited away until it had all been sorted and the way was clear for her to resurface.
PJ had not handled it well. Her car, her still smoking burnt out car had acted as a precipice for the total disintegration of PJ's heart. His public and oh so visible collapse had only revealed what most of his colleagues either knew in their hearts or suspected. PJ had loved her with an all consuming, powerful adoration, he lived for her smile, her touch, and she returned the passion.
And then, as a consequence of Maggie opening that woeful can of worms, it had all come back with a vengeance, and she had been shot dead, the man holding the gun none other than her own brother, Mick. She had died a dreadful death in the arms of the man who loved her so much, her blood staining his heart as it laced that cold concrete floor with her life. PJ had collapsed inwardly, his only focus in life to find those responsible and to ensure that they paid for ending his future, for taking Maggie from those who needed her so much, who loved her so much.
And he had achieved that, he had brought them to justice – and it had made no difference. His eyes were still lifeless, lacking the passion they once held. He went about his duties methodically, routinely, but it wasn't him. PJ Hasham, Patrick Joseph Hasham, the man with the impish smile, the sneaky sense of humour, the team player – he was gone. Maggie had taken him with her. Left in his place was a shell of a man, a Detective who got the job done and went home to an empty house and a broken heart.
Seven hundred and twenty nine days, twenty-three hours and thirty four minutes and seven seconds.