Thanks again to all who have read and reviewed, sharing not only compliments but encouragement and insight as well. While the first eight or nine chapters of this story have been easy to write, as I looked forward, I realized I had no idea exactly where I should go with it, and it caused me so much trouble that I thought I might have to consider the untenable possibility of just giving the thing up. It was a simple story when I started it, but nothing is as it seems with these two, except for their propensity to make everything harder than it has to be. It's a very good thing, then, that I do not own them or anything connected to them. They would drive me insane. Good news is, I woke up this morning with a thought. I'm not a deep writer, so I still won't do it justice in my own opinion, but I intend to stick it out to the end and be satisfied. At the risk of redundance, thanks for your encouragement because without it, I just didn't see the point.

9. WHAT IS NORMAL ANYWAY?

For the next three and a half weeks, they saw or at least spoke to one another every day. He never slept in her bed again, but they fell asleep on the couch twice, and sometimes he crashed there, but only if she invited him. He stayed in the CBI attic if a case went really late, but he didn't rest very well there. Some nights he opted for the hotel, but it didn't seem as nice anymore. And he always, always called her on Sunday.

There was only one rough patch. They had just finished watching "Desk Set", arguing over who was the sneakier, Katharine Hepburn or Spencer Tracy, when out of the blue he asked her about her Red John nightmares.

"I don't want to talk about it."

She looked away from him, her jaw set firm and determined.

"It might help."

"You first." He caught a glimpse of something sharp and hot in her eyes. It threw him momentarily, and he realized she hadn't been angry with him in a long time. He hadn't felt that guilty tug and the need to apologize for something that he would have done again in a heartbeat if the situation were repeated. It wasn't that her spirit was broken—far from it. She had been more animated, more lively and . . . there were a slew of other adjectives that came to mind. He frowned at his reverie. This wasn't like him. The hot and sharp thing had disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she lowered her gaze. Now she did look a little broken.

"How would it help? I know how you feel about it, and you know how I feel about it. Only one thing can make it better, and that's not likely. I don't want to fight, so I don't want to talk about it."

"I wish you could understand—"

"I do understand. I just don't agree. Now drop it or leave."

She walked into the kitchen and gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white. He walked quietly toward her, stopping at the doorway. He wished he could promise her that everything would be all right, say he'd changed his mind and that he wouldn't do what he'd said, but she was right—it wasn't likely.

"How do you feel about Shakespeare?"

"What?" She was irritated. It was one of his favorite manipulation techniques—talking about something trite then taking you into a conversational minefield then back to the inane. Something he did for the sake of control. She wondered if he was doing it on purpose, wondered if he even knew he did it sometimes or if it was as natural to him as walking in his skin then decided she didn't care as long as they weren't talking about Red John anymore.

"Shakespeare. There's a new theatre—The Starlight—opening on the river in May. The first performance is 'Twelfth Night'. Do you think you'd want to go?"

She turned around and looked at him like he was crazy and expelled a clipped, exasperated sigh.

" . . . Okay?"

"Not a resounding yes, but I'll take it. Really, Lisbon, with such unadulterated enthusiasm and verve, it's remarkable your door is not being knocked down by potential suitors."

"You're such an idiot."

"I've decided to consider that a term of endearment."

"Well then, you're gonna love my next word for you."

"'O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!'"

"Good grief," she groaned.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

A few days later he picked her up for her first day back at work. It was now the end of March, and still a bit chill at nights. Mid-winter was having trouble giving way to Spring. Her ribs still required taping, and the cast wasn't due to come off for another two weeks, so she was on restricted duty.

"Ready to go back?"

"Egad, yes."

"You were going a little stir crazy. Still, you've never looked more rested."

"I watched all my dvds at least twice, and I've gotten fat on omelets."

"Now that you mention it, you have filled out a bit."

"Shut up and drive, Jane."

"Yes, ma'am."

She would never tell him, but she hit the gym every day while the others were out. Two weeks later, the cast and tape came off, and a week after that the doctor pronounced her fit and released her to resume her normal activities. The next day she tackled a 180-pound runner. When she stood up, her side hurt. Jane said harsh and unpleasant words, almost accusing her of hurting herself on purpose and always pushing herself to the forefront so that everyone would know who was the best and who was the toughest and who was the boss. He was so angry he wouldn't ride back with her. At eight o'clock, he stood at her open office door and knocked on the frame, waiting for her permission to enter. She didn't turn away from her computer. He didn't know why he had said those silly, childish things. He wanted to fix this.

"How's your rib?"

"It wasn't my rib. It was a twinge in my side."

"Where your rib is."

"The doctor released me for normal activity."

"Woman, what you do isn't normal. Not for a woman your size anyway."

She sat back in her chair and looked at him. She knew he was just being protective, trying to watch out for her, but something about it just couldn't sit right with her. She didn't want someone watching out for her. She didn't need it and didn't want to be made to feel like she did. All she could see right now was that he was concerned for her, and he was sorry for how he had acted. Her look softened as she considered him.

"Jane. I can't not do my job."

"How about you make Rigsby the designated tackle? Just for the next month."

"That's not how it works. You know that. Things happen fast, we warn them not to run, they always do, and we have to stop them the best we can."

Feeling forgiven for acting like such a jerk earlier, he sat down in the chair facing her across her desk.

"Jane, what's this really about?"

He went round-eyed, pushing out his bottom lip as he tapped his fingertips together, arcing his gaze around and up toward the ceiling.

"Just want you to be all right. That's all."

His eyes suddenly lowered to the papers on her desk, and his expression became one of feigned impatience. Deflecting again. He had been doing that a lot lately. There really was so much she had figured out about him. If only he knew. She suddenly wondered why he didn't. Her train of thought was nearly derailed again with his sudden turn in their conversation.

"Are you almost ready to go home?" Again, she decided to just go with it.

"In a bit. I have to finish this report then sign these requisitions." She motioned toward a stack of papers that looked to be about sixty sheets high before she turned back to her computer screen.

"Are you going to sign all of those?"

"Yep."

"And all they need is your signature?"

"Yep."

He reached across her desk and pulled the top form off the stack. Taking one of her pens, he wrote across the bottom of the page.

"Hey! You can't-!"

He held the paper up in front of her with a flourish. Her eyes went to the bottom line and settled on a flawless forgery of her signature then immediately narrowed at him.

"How long have you been doing that?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I haven't been doing anything. I've seen you sign your name hundreds of times. It's merely a matter of paying attention."

"Are you telling me you've never forged my signature? On anything? Ever?"

"No."

"Jane."

"I have never forged your signature on anything. I have a very strong desire to live, and while you may doubt the truth of that on a day-to-day basis, forging your signature would be too far out there even for me."

She closed her eyes briefly then slid the stack across the desk at him and turned back to her computer, mumbling as she did so.

"What was that?"

"Grape. The flavor of the kool-aid. It's grape."

"You cannot seriously be likening this to drinking the kool-aid!"

"What would you call it then?"

"Succumbing to my charms?"

"I'd rather be poisoned."

She turned back to her computer, and they continued to work in silence. Pleased he'd been able to achieve the desired shift in conversation, he signed the rest of the requisition forms, surreptitiously watching her as he flipped from one page to the next. In the past weeks, he felt like he had gotten a rare glimpse of the real Teresa Lisbon. He thought he knew her, that she was easy to read, and for the most part the latter was true. But he realized that, until recently, he had always seen her filtered through professionalism, stress, irritation with everything and everyone that got in the way of doing her job. She lived behind walls and defenses, and while she was functioning at very close to one hundred percent, what she had suffered recently had pulled the filter away and brought the defenses down for the time being. And he had been the one privileged to see it. She had let him, with or without realizing, really see her. She was warm and forgiving, easy and intriguing, kind and funny. He had known all of this, of course, but only from a distance and through a glass darkly. Now he had gotten a very close look from a much better vantage, and he knew it should concern him, but—try as he might—he couldn't bring himself to look away.