Chapter 4

Mary knew that all good things could never last. Everything went to hell, eventually.

She knew that she was hard to deal with and that she was better at pushing people away than just about anything else, but Mary had expected to be friends with Marshall forever. She counted on him to keep her sane when her world kept crashing down on her.

She had been mad at Marshall when he had blown her off when she was trying to tell him something important but she had been willing to forgive him when he called to check on her and their conversation seemed so normal. Almost like the conversations they had before Abigail had come along.

But Mary's world was crashing down on her now and Marshall wasn't there to keep her sane. Mary stared at the phone for a long second.

Even Marshall can't wait to get away from you. The careless words that Stan had thrown at her burned through her mind. She couldn't really believe them when Stan had said them, but Marshall's actions had proven that Stan was right. Her best friend was fading away. And Mary couldn't even bring herself to blame him.

Shit. I totally screwed it up this time. Marshall cursed himself in language he usually saved for the most idiotic witnesses. Mary must think that Abigail was more important to him than she was. Mary had never been able to see that all his love had always, would always, be for her and only her.

Running back to his desk, Marshall grabbed his keys and suit jacket and ran out the door.

"Marshall. Where the hell do you think you're going!" Stan shouted.

Marshall turned around. "Long story, Stan. The gist of it is that I'm a complete moron. I just completely fucked it up with Mary. I've got to talk to her now."

Stan knew that a lot of Mary's anger stemmed from how much time Marshall had been spending with Abigail. Stan knew that Marshall had the right to his own relationship, but he just wished Marshall had chosen another time to start dating Abigail. Stan also suspected that Marshall was only really dating Abigail to make Mary jealous. Mary had the cynicism, the wit, the sarcasm, and the deep, wonderful heart that Marshall needed.

Stan didn't hesitate. "Go talk to her Marshall. And tell her to come in tomorrow. I was too harsh on her."

"Got it, chief," Marshall said as he jogged out the door.

Delia, sitting at her desk, shook her head. Things were certainly unorthodox at this office. She wasn't sure that she liked or understood why so much revolved around Mary Shannon.

Marshall forced himself to drive calmly but quickly to Mary's house.

Pulling into her driveway, he walked to her door hurriedly. Marshall pounded on the door. "Mary, it's me. We need to talk. Now."

All was still and Marshall couldn't hear any movement in the house. "Mary, I know you're in there. Open up the door, we need to talk."

Silence met his demand. "Mary, please," Marshall pleaded desperately.

Marshall knew that Mary wouldn't welcome his intrusion, but he opened Mary's door with the key she had entrusted him with years ago.

The living room was empty, as was the kitchen. Marshall moved silently through her house. The door to Mary's bedroom was open and Marshall could see that Mary was putting a pile of something in one of her dresser drawers.

Sensing a presence behind her, Mary whirled around, gun in hand. "Jesus, Mann. What the hell are you doing in my house? Get out."

"Mary," Marshall begged, "I know I've been an idiot. I know that I've been ignoring you and that you need my help right now. Just listen…"

Mary interrupted quietly, "I would rather not speak to you right now." And then she left the room calmly, in a very un-Mary-like fashion. Marshall heard her go out the door. Heard her car start up and pull out of the driveway. He knew he couldn't follow her.

Marshall stood there for ten minutes, alone in his partner's house. The place that was hers. Her place of comfort, a place to hide from the world. Marshall started to leave, but was unable to resist looking in the drawer that Mary had been rummaging in when he entered. Marshall knew that he was intruding on Mary's privacy, but he needed to see if the drawer could provide any clues as how to regain Mary's trust.

It was the bottom drawer on her dresser. Digging through its contents, Marshall found sweaters and t-shirts. Just as he was about to abandon his search, Marshall's fingertips brushed against something smooth. He pulled out a pile of photographs.

On the top was an image of a man Marshall supposed must be Mary's father, holding her on his shoulders, with an infant Brandi in the stroller right next to him. Marshall flipped through the pile. The first few pictures were all of Mary and her father. But the rest of the photos were what shattered his heart.

The photos were of him. There he was with Mary at the Christmas party. Mary and Marshall when he had convinced her to go bowling with him. Mary and Marshall hanging out by the pool. Marshall sleeping on her couch. Marshall with his birthday cake.

The last photo showed Mary and Marshall laughing together on just an ordinary day. The photo somehow captured the deep connection between the two partners. Stan had taken the photo and gave it to Marshall. Marshall had put it in his top desk drawer but it went missing one day.

Marshall had become very upset because he feared that he had accidently thrown away the photograph. The next time he went to Mary's house, though, he saw the photo displayed prominently in her living room. Neither Mary nor Marshall ever mentioned the incident. Marshall himself had a similar picture in his living room.

The photo was a public testimony to their friendship. And now it and all the other images of him were consigned to the bottom drawer. Marshall knew that this meant that Mary thought their friendship had irrevocably ended. She thought that she would have to add Marshall's abandonment of her to the wounds that already scarred her.

But what scared Marshall the most was that his image was now grouped with that of Mary's father, the man who left his wife and kids to fend for himself. The man who robbed banks and ruined lives. The man whom Mary could never forgive.

Marshall sat down on the bed – Mary's bed. He felt like crying, but even tears escaped him.