Chapter 31

By the time Roy arrived at Johnny's apartment, the young man had lost count of the number of cans of beer he had consumed. Standing outside the apartment door, Roy could hear the noise from the game on Johnny's television set. He knocked, hearing the sounds of his partner walking inside the small apartment.

Johnny opened the door, invited Roy inside, then turned around and attempted another jump shot, sending yet another empty beer can flying across the room and crashing on the floor beside the trash can.

"Awww, damn it! How th' hell'd Kelly… do it?" Johnny asked in a slurring voice, turning back around to face his guest and nearly losing his balance.

"Whoa, buddy," Roy said, trying to steady his stumbling partner without spilling the large cup of coffee he was carrying in his hand. "I think Chet was stone cold sober when he made the game-winning shot."

Johnny arched an eyebrow in Roy's direction, feeling the effects of the alcohol as he struggled to steady his vision. "How'd you know? You had a… bum ankle."

Roy took Johnny by the elbow and guided him towards the sofa. "Take a seat, Junior, before you end up with a bum ankle yourself. Besides, I was able to hobble back out of the locker room, remember?"

Johnny jerked his arm away from Roy's grasp. "Lemme go," he groused, deliberately avoiding the hot drink Roy was offering, preferring one of the luke-warm beers from his coffee table instead. He fell heavily into his favorite chair, pulling the tab from the can and allowing the aluminum ring to linger on his index finger.

Roy, feeling frustrated by Johnny's lack of concern about his level of intoxication, tried to take the beer away from his slurping partner.

"C'mon, Roy! Get y'own d-drink," he stammered.

"How many have you had? You smell like a damn brewery!"

Johnny snickered. "On'y a c'uple…," he grinned his lopsided grin at his partner. "You know e'ery drunk's on'y had a c'uple."

Roy, annoyed, got up and walked into the kitchen. He counted the empty beer cans lying around the trash can. Only one flattened can had seemed to find its way into the waste container.

"If my math is right, you're on your second six-pack." Roy waited for a moment, seeing his friend beginning to squirm around as he struggled to stand up once again.

Johnny pushed his way out of the recliner, holding onto the furniture as he stumbled down the hallway. "10-4, Ram-Rampart," he stuttered. "Start… IV o'… brew-brewsky an'…," he hesitated, flipping on the light in his bathroom, "an' tran'port t' the… the latrine," he snickered, closing the door behind him.

Roy picked up the discarded cans, making sure to properly dispose of them, then walked back into the living room. While he waited for Johnny to return to watch the rest of the game, and hopefully sober up, he saw the open journal and the sloppy handwriting he barely recognized.

Roy knew it was wrong, but while Johnny continued bumping around in his bathroom, Roy positioned the journal to better allow him to read a few sentences of the private thoughts of his partner – and he didn't like what he read.

Johnny stumbled out of the doorway of his bathroom, humming and singing his way down the short hallway, unaware that Roy had read the last few lines he had written. When he saw the open journal, he quickly shut it, dropping it beside his chair, away from his partner.

"Johnny?"

"Hmm?" the other man hummed his response, his demeanor suddenly growing sullen as he sank back into his chair.

"What happened at Iris' house tonight?"

"Nothin'," Johnny spat out, slumping down lower into his chair, staring at the commercial on his television set. He did not want to rehash the scene at the dinner table.

"Something did. When we worked off shift this morning, you were excited to be going over there. Now you're back home, drunk off your ass, and…" Roy managed to stop himself before he mentioned what he had read in the journal. "So… something must've gone wrong."

"Me… a'right? I wen' w'ong," Johnny said, his voice wavering.

Roy spent the next hour and a half trying to talk to Johnny as the younger man faded in and out of an alcohol-induced daze, and between stumbling trips to the bathroom. Between the garbled bits of information that Johnny mumbled as the alcohol overtook his lucidity, Roy managed to pick up enough to have an idea of what was haunting his partner.

When Johnny's head began to loll toward his chest and soft snores wafted across the room, Roy knew it was time to help him get more comfortable so he could sleep it off.

"Time for bed, Junior."

Roy hoisted Johnny into a partially standing position, lifting one of Johnny's arms around his shoulder, allowing the lighter man to lean into him as they made their way down the hall to Johnny's bedroom. Roy undressed him, leaving him in only his boxers and tee shirt, then rolled the thin man onto his stomach to prevent aspiration. He sat on the edge of Johnny's bed for several long minutes, until he knew his friend was asleep. He knew he couldn't leave his best friend alone in his current condition, so he made his way back to the kitchen and called Joanne. As soon as he had assured her that he would be home early enough to shower and change for his double shift the next morning, he turned off the television set, not caring which team had won the game, and settled onto the sofa for the night. He glanced over at the journal that was leaning against Johnny's chair. Did it hold the secret to Johnny's sudden change in behavior? Should he violate Johnny's trust and read more of his most private thoughts?

Roy rolled onto his side, unwilling to continue his inner struggle regarding the journal. He needed to trust his friend. Johnny had assured him that he would call Roy if he were to ever have any other thoughts of suicide. Now it was time to take Johnny at his word. Closing his eyes and uttering a silent prayer for the man snoring in the back bedroom, Roy slowly drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later, just before the first streaks of dawn made their way above the horizon, Johnny awoke with a sense of urgency. With a pounding headache, he rolled out of bed, bumping into the doorframe of his bedroom until he was able to orient himself to his surroundings.

Roy was startled awake by the sound of Johnny hitting the wall on his way to the bathroom. He immediately bolted from the sofa and rushed to his partner's aid. Johnny grunted in surprise, his eyes wide.

"John-Johnny!" Roy said in a raised voice, managing to bring Johnny out of his sleepy haze. He saw the groggy look on Johnny's face morph into confusion and then finally turning into recognition.

"R-Roy?"

"Yeah, it's me… Take it easy."

"Whacha doin' 'ere?"

"Well, right now, I'm helping you get to the bathroom," Roy said, flipping on the light in the short hallway. "Come on," he said, ushering Johnny in the right direction, noticing how his red-rimmed eyes squinted at the harsh bright light.

Johnny allowed himself to be led to the bathroom, refusing Roy's help beyond the threshold.

Roy waited outside the door, until he heard the sound of Johnny's relief, then leaned closer to the closed door so that his voice could be heard. "Need some aspirin?"

"Ugh… yeah," the other man groaned, flushing the toilet. He grimaced at the noise that seemed much louder than usual, then washed his hands and made his way back to his bedroom. His head was throbbing as he pulled open the middle drawer of his chest of drawers, digging through it in search of a pair of gym shorts.

When Johnny made it out to the living room, he saw the blanket with the Native American motif crumbled at one end of the sofa. His memory began to return and he sat down heavily in his recliner. "Aww, man. What was I thinkin'?"

Roy returned with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin, leaving the light on in the kitchen so the two could see each other without the brightness of the living room light.

"Only you can answer that one," Roy responded.

Johnny nearly gagged as the bitter pills began to dissolve on their way down his throat. He swallowed the rest of the water in an attempt to rid his throat of the awful taste. He set the empty glass down beside his recliner and noticed the journal. Immediately an overwhelming sense of dread seemed to suck the air out of his lungs. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he picked up the journal, tossing it onto the coffee table.

"Guess you read it, huh?"

Roy fought the urge to respond in a smart aleck way. "No… I respect you too much, Johnny. Those are your private thoughts. I won't violate your trust – ever. I'm here, if you want to tell me, but I… I didn't read it," he said, nodding in the direction of the journal. His comment wasn't entirely true, but he had only read a few sentences, not the whole journal.

Johnny stared at his knees, exhaling audibly. Should he tell Roy? Would the man still be his best friend if he knew the true depth of Johnny's failure?

"I, uh… I've got to go back… to Selma in a… a couple o' weeks."

"Why so soon?" Roy asked, worried for his partner. Was it too soon for Johnny to face the stress of the trial? He had barely recovered physically from his near-death experience at Tehachapi.

"You, ah, you 'member those pictures?"

Roy knew exactly which pictures Johnny was talking about. "Yes."

"Well, the FBI managed to… to develop 'em. Seems I'm the key witness now," he said with a nervous chuckle. "I'll prob'ly end up givin' a … a deposition."

"Why?"

Johnny ran a hand through his mussed up hair. "I think the DA is tryin' to avoid a trial."

"You mean he wants to offer Waite a deal?" Roy questioned, feeling confused. With the pictures, it should be an open and shut case.

Johnny rubbed his temples, yawning. "I guess… Aww, hell, I dunno what he's doin'."

"Are you sure you're ready to go back there?"

Johnny sat silently for a long moment. It was the same question he had been asking himself since he had gotten the call from Crockett. "Doubt it…" Johnny paused, exhaling loudly as he scrubbed his face with both hands. "Roy, I… I still can't remember."

Roy realized that Johnny was opening up to him and wanted to keep him talking. "Can't remember what you saw that morning, or what?"

"Yea… What I saw," Johnny replied, his eyes growing glassy as they stared at nothing in particular. "I… 'member the smell o' the water, the sounds o'… of fists hittin' Phillip… I even remember the…," he snorted at the oddity, "the taste o' the place."

Roy knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. "Taste?"

"Yea… Stupid, huh? I remember the taste of rottin' wood and gritty dirt, or somethin' like that in my mouth, but… not what I saw."

Roy didn't know what to make of Johnny's memory, but he knew he needed to encourage his struggling friend. "No… No it isn't stupid, Johnny. It's your brain just trying to put the pieces of a traumatic event back together when it would really rather keep the memory hidden."

Johnny tilted his head like a dog trying to figure out the origins of a curious sound. "Think so?"

"Yea… I do. I mean, I'm not a psychologist, but I know that our brains are great at protecting us. How many people have we pulled out of car accidents who were conscious or semi, at least, but when we see them later on in the hospital, they don't remember who we are?"

"Or that they were even in an accident," Johnny added, realizing that his partner was right. Even though Roy wasn't the first person to tell him that, it was the first time the statement really clicked with Johnny. Roy had put it into a context that Johnny fully understood, making the younger man feel better.

"Have you seen the photographs?"

Johnny shook his head. "No… Not sure I wanna."

"It might help you remember more details," Roy suggested.

The two men continued talking until daylight began to appear. Roy had hoped that Johnny would tell him more about what had happened at Iris' house, but it didn't happen. Johnny was keeping those details to himself. Roy knew not to push, but he decided that he needed to make a phone call as soon as he was sure that Ron Crockett was awake.

"Well, I've got to go, Johnny. I'm working a double, remember?"

"Yea, sorry I can't share the over-time with you, but I really need to go by Robertson's office for that appointment, especially since I'm gonna be testifying a lot sooner than I thought."

"What time is your appointment?" Roy asked, hoping the innocent sounding question wouldn't reveal his intentions.

"Eleven."

Roy looked at his watch. "Maybe you should try to get a little more sleep, then," he suggested, pushing himself into a standing position.

Johnny followed him to the door. "Roy, I… I want to… thank you for… for your continued babysitting service," he said with a snorting grin. He hoped Roy understood how he really felt without him having to say the words out loud.

"You'd do it for me," the older man stated, patting his friend on the shoulder. "I hope your session goes well, and… Call me any time, okay?"

"I will," Johnny agreed, closing the door behind Roy as the other man left the apartment.

Johnny's headache was easing and even though he wanted to go back to bed, he picked up his journal instead. Flipping to the last page he had written on, he read over the last few sentences. The writing was hard to read, even by Johnny himself, but he could feel the desperation in his words as he read them over and over again.

"I let them down… I let my people down," he read out loud, slamming the journal shut. He knew he needed to take the book with him to his appointment and let his psychologist read it, but he was ashamed of himself, more ashamed than he had felt in over ten years. His deeds had been exposed by Iris. No matter that she hadn't intended to hurt him, she had brought out his greatest failure - not the failure to save Phillip's life, but the fact that he had allowed history to be repeated. He had allowed white men to push him off his land in Montana, separate him from his family, and live his life hiding in plain sight in the bustling city of Los Angeles, the opposite of the quiet, rural reservation on which he had been born.

He thought back to his early days at the station and the antics of Chet, when the Irishman had made comments about Johnny's Native American heritage. The others had thought Johnny had reacted too strongly, seemingly siding with Chet. Had he been too sensitive to Chet's comments? He didn't think so. He inhaled deeply, cleansing his lungs, sending oxygen to his brain. It all made sense now. He had reacted so strongly to Chet's peace pipe and hatchet comments because he was feeling guilty – guilty for failing to stand up to the bullying of the Ku Klux Klan, guilty for allowing himself to be treated much the way his ancestors had been treated over a century earlier. And now his father knew the truth. John Gage was a coward, not only for not intervening in the attack on Phillip Campbell, but for running and hiding from the KKK instead of standing up and facing them like the warrior his father had taught him to be when he was a young boy.

E!

Before Roy left home for his OT shift, he called Ronald Crockett and shared with him the things that Johnny had told him earlier.

"Roy, I did keep copies of the pictures for Johnny, but I haven't given them to him, yet," the dark- skinned detective sighed. "I really didn't know if it was a good idea, or not."

"Well, I know he's going to see Dr. Robertson today, and I know that Johnny's really anxious about going back to Selma because he can't remember what he saw. Maybe if Dr. Robertson had the pictures, he could help Johnny with his recall," Roy suggested.

"Hmmm, I hadn't thought about that, but you make a good point." Ron jotted down a few notes in his pocket memo pad, then ended the call with Roy. He had a very busy day ahead, and he needed to get in to see Dr. Robertson before Johnny's eleven o'clock appointment.

E!

By 9:00 am, Beverly Marsh had arrived at The Wellhouse to prepare for her weekly group session with former residents who still needed some support during their transition back into free living. She sat at her desk, pouring over progress reports for the ladies who were scheduled to attend. One name in particular caught her attention – Lexi Lopez.

Lexi, the sister of Marco Lopez, had made a miraculous recovery from 'the life' and she had credited it to her faith, her family, and her deepening relationship with Mike Stoker. Beverly knew how important all three were in the recovery of the ladies, but rarely did a resident find herself secure in all three areas. Beverly had no family support, and very little religious faith, but she had been growing more resilient since Marco had entered her life. She had always thought that she was a strong woman, and many other people told her she was, but it was the love and acceptance of a man, a truly good person, who had recently helped her in her recovery, more than anything else. Perhaps it was the fact that she was accepted by a man as more than just an object, or maybe it was being treated like a normal woman and not a woman with a sordid past. But mostly, it was the fact that Marco Lopez loved her… And she loved him.

The hardest part of her recovery had been learning to trust again, especially to trust a man. Men had hurt her, both physically and emotionally. Now she was in a relationship that fostered trust and faith, but she wasn't being honest with Marco.

She had avoided intimacy with him for over two weeks now, and yet he hadn't pressured her at all. She knew that he was worried about their relationship, he had even said so, but again she had avoided the difficult conversation. How much longer would he be willing to continue in a one-sided relationship? She needed just a few more days to find out if she was pregnant with his child, but keeping that information from him wasn't doing either of them any good.

Beverly stared at the telephone on her desk. The topic for today's group session was trust. Maybe it was time for her to take her own advice. Maybe it was time to take a huge leap forward in her own recovery and actually trust a man – totally trust him not to hurt her, not to abandon her in her time of need.

She reached for the phone, took a cleansing breath, and dialed the number she knew by heart. If she didn't do it right now, she might not do it at all.

E!

Marco was gathering up the supplies he needed to complete his laundry tasks for the day. He would be going back on shift tomorrow and needed to clean his apartment while he had a chance. He had just separated his dirty clothes into two groups when he heard his telephone ringing.

He dropped his dark clothes into the laundry basket then answered the telephone. "Hello?"

"Marco?"

"Hey, Beverly, how are you feeling?" he asked, still concerned for her seemingly continuous headaches.

"Um, better, actually." She felt her pulse rate quicken and knew she had to forge forward. "I was, uh, wondering if you wanted to grab a bite to eat for lunch at the Pourhouse?"

Marco felt his heart leap into his throat. It was the first time in a couple of weeks that she had initiated anything with him. "Yes, that sounds nice. I'm just doing a little housekeeping this morning, and…" he paused, remembering that she was at work. "I, um, I thought you had group today?"

"I do, but… We'll be finished by 11:30 am so I can get there by noon," she said, hoping she didn't sound as nervous as she felt.

"I'd really like to see you, babe," Marco added, hoping that their relationship was getting past its current rocky period. He still didn't know what he had done, but he knew he wanted to be close to her again.

"I'd like that, too," she said, feeling her eyes stinging. "I… I owe you an apology."

Marco closed his eyes, saying a quick 'thank you' prayer. "No… You haven't been feeling well. That happens to all of us."

"Well… Regardless, I… I want to see you and, um, maybe get us back… on track," she said in a husky whisper, her voice cracking in spite of her best efforts to keep her emotions in check.

"Me, too. I love you, Bev," he said, sucking in a deep breath.

"I love you, too. I'll, um, I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

"I'll be there."

When Beverly hung up the phone, she allowed her hand to cover her lower abdomen. In just a few hours she would put herself through one of the toughest tests she had faced since escaping from the world of prostitution. She would be allowing herself to become vulnerable to a man by sharing something with him that might end their relationship, but she knew she needed to do it. She would do it, and regardless of the outcome, she would be stronger for it.

E!

"Mr. Gage?"

Johnny looked up at Dr. Robertson who was standing in the open doorway of his office. He closed up his journal, having taken the opportunity to continue his writing assignment while he waited for his session, and headed towards the office.

"Hey, Doc," he said, feeling just as anxious during this visit as he had on his first one. He had decided to tell his psychologist about his impending return to Selma, and ask for any advice the doctor might be able to give him.

"Have a seat," Dr. Robertson said, gesturing into the room. When Johnny seated himself in the chair nearest the large desk, the doctor surprised him by sitting down beside him, not in his large leather chair. "So, how's the assignment going?"

"Good," Johnny said, holding up the journal. "It's really helping me… I think."

"In what way?"

"Well, by writing down the details, it… It almost seems like it's a story or somethin', you know, like it happened to somebody else."

"So are you remembering more details?" the psychologist asked, stretching out his arm to pick up a large envelope from off the corner of his desk.

"Yea… kinda…," Johnny thumbed through the pages, looking for a particular passage he had written. Running his middle finger down the page, he tapped it when he found what he was looking for. "Yea, here it is… I remembered the sound of three doors slamming, car doors, I mean."

"Is this when you were hiding along the bank of the river?"

"Yea," Johnny replied, disliking his behavior being referred to as hiding, but that was in fact what he had been doing.

"Excellent," the psychologist responded. "Anything else?"

Johnny shook his head, quickly closing the journal before the other man could read what he had written.

"Naw, but… Well, see I…," he sighed, wishing he could string his words together in a complete sentence without sounding like a fidgeting little boy. It was exactly what he was afraid might happen when it was time to give his testimony.

"Take your time, John. I'm not rushing you."

Johnny looked over at the older man. "You aren't, but… The DA in Selma is."

"Oh?"

"I'm going back there in a week or so to testify, er… Well, to give a deposition, or somethin'," Johnny said, rubbing his nose nervously.

Dr. Robertson watched the non-verbal cues his patient was giving him and he didn't like what he saw. "You're concerned about testifying?"

"Yea… I…," Johnny hesitated, cracking his knuckles. "I'm… I can't remember all the details."

Dr. Robertson shifted in his seat, clearing his throat as he turned the envelope over in his hands. "You told me last week that your memories are auditory and olfactory, but… not visual, right?"

Johnny swallowed hard, sucking in his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before answering. "Yea… I can… I can even remember the taste of… of rotten wood and gritty stuff in my mouth, but… but I can't remember anything I actually saw."

"John," Dr. Robertson opened up the envelope, removing the photos he had been given earlier. "I had a visitor before you arrived," he quickly held up his hand to silence his patient in order to allow him to completely explain what had happened when the detective had dropped by his office. "Don't worry, I told you that what you share with me is confidential unless you're a danger to yourself, or others. You've given me no reason to violate that confidentiality."

Johnny held his breath, wondering who had visited his psychologist. Only a few people even knew he was seeing one.

"A Lieutenant Ronald Crockett brought these to me this morning." He held up the pictures, turning them so that Johnny couldn't see the images on the front. "I neither confirmed nor denied that you're my patient, but he seemed pretty certain that you were and that you had an appointment today at 11:00 am."

"Sonofabitch," Johnny mumbled, leaning his elbows onto his knees. "Roy musta told 'im. Nobody else knew."

"Well, it doesn't really matter who told him, as long as it didn't come from one of my employees. Anyway," he continued, holding up the pictures again. "He gave me these photos, and said that he thought you might want to see them before you go to Selma; thought maybe they would trigger some memories for you."

Johnny felt his jaw grow slack.

"Now, whether or not you look at them is entirely up to you. I will not make that decision for you. I must tell you though… they're graphic. I do think you need to view them before you go back to Alabama. I'd hate for your first time seeing them to be under oath. But when, or even if you do, it's going to be on your time."

Johnny stared at the white squares the psychologist held up in his hand. He felt his respiration rate increase and the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Could he handle seeing the images again? Would that cause a deluge of unwanted images to flood his system, overwhelming him?

"I… I dunno," he whispered, his eyes locked onto the pictures. "I-I need to see 'em, but… I… I…"

"It's okay to say it, John. You're afraid, and rightfully so. There's no shame in not wanting to return to such a horrific time in your life."

Johnny tried to lick his lips, but found his tongue was dry. "But… I've got to do it… soon."

Dr. Robertson recognized Johnny's symptoms and quickly spoke up. "John, listen to me… Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. You're going to hyperventilate."

Johnny did as he was instructed, having given the same instructions to his own patients countless times. As he forced his breathing to slow down, Dr. Robertson walked him through several progressive relaxation exercises, explaining how to use them when he was feeling anxious.

"You can do these exercises anytime you need to relax, John. They really do help." Dr. Robertson leaned back in his chair, silently watching his patient for a few moments. "I'd like to spend a few moments discussing what triggered your reaction. Is that okay with you?"

Johnny nodded his agreement, squinting his eyes closed tightly as he pondered where to begin. Deciding to simply jump in, he went on to discuss his concerns about testifying with the psychologist, being careful not to mention his parents. He wasn't ready to disclose his fears of facing his father. He felt a sense of relief as the session was coming to a close. He was surprising himself with how much he had shared with this man in only two sessions.

"You're doing very well, John. Painful emotions and memories are difficult to discuss, but you've managed to progress much faster than I had even hoped." He waited for Johnny's reaction, and caught a glimpse of crimson light up his cheekbones. "We have a few more minutes so I must ask you again. Do you want to see them?" he asked, holding up the photographs.

"Maybe a couple of them."

"Okay, why don't I pick out a couple of the more benign ones and we'll start there?"

Johnny nodded his agreement. He held his breath as he was given the first picture. Immediately he was transported back in time to the banks of the Alabama River in the early spring of 1965. He stared at the black and white photograph, feeling the cool morning air rushing across his scalp, the smell of the stale water, and once again the rotten taste that rested upon his lips. Everything was familiar about the scenery, but that's all he saw – just the scenery, no images of the atrocities that had occurred there.

Johnny set the picture aside and held out his hand for the next one. Again, the black and white images morphed into the colors he remembered seeing that morning, including the pale misty fog as it clung to the surface of the water. There in the upper left corner of the photograph he could see the image of a pick-up truck backing down the earthen boat ramp.

As Johnny stared at the picture, he heard the voices of two men talking. He heard the distinct sounds of the two doors of the vehicle slamming shut and then, in the distance, the sound of a third one.

"There were two vehicles there," the paramedic said softly, the sounds drifting from the past into his present. "Two men were in the first vehicle, the pick-up truck, and then… a third person was in the other one. And…," another sound startled him, cutting its way through his memory. "A trunk…"

"Trunk?" the psychologist questioned, encouraging his patient to continue.

"Yea… I heard the sound of… of a trunk slamming shut… so, the second vehicle had to have been a car, must o' been the deputy's car." Johnny looked up, his eyes widening. "He got somethin' out o' his trunk."

"Something?"

Johnny ran his fingers beneath his chin, still staring at the images on the black and white photograph. "It was Father Mitchell. I remember hearin' him say somethin' 'bout a priest." Johnny continued searching his memory for the one item that was hiding from him. "Collar… He called him a… collar-wearin' piece o' white trash."

The words still echoed in Johnny's ears. How was it that he had forgotten them all these years when now they rang loud and clear?

"He…," Johnny paused, staring at the rug on the floor, but not seeing it. "He didn't pronounce 'white' the way that you or I would say it, though."

"Oh?" Dr. Robertson didn't want to say too much. His patient was remembering far more details than he had hoped this early in his therapy.

"Yea… Like it didn't have a 't' in it. It sounded more like his word was interrupted; you know, like he was pronouncing the 'w-h-i-', but then didn't add the 't' and 'e'. It was like he was pronouncing 'white trash' so the two words ran together."

"Can you say it the way you heard it?"

"Um… It was… whi-trash."

Johnny's mind continued to relay details about that morning that his brain had hidden deep many years before. He reached for one picture after another, remembering sounds such as a lone car passing over the bridge above him, the sound of a dog barking in the distance. He even remembered the sound of a rooster crowing as the sky became brighter. Yet the one thing he tried hardest to understand never revealed itself to him – why did he recall the taste of rotten wood and dirt, and why couldn't he remember seeing the images that now appeared in the photographs he had taken that morning?

By the time Johnny seemed to return to the present, another half hour had passed. He glanced at his watch, seeing the time and his eyes widened.

"I'm sorry, Doc."

The psychologist held up his hand to silence his patient. "We were making quite a bit of progress. I don't mind our sessions going over when there isn't someone else waiting to see me."

"But your lunch…"

"I can eat quickly," the older man said with a smile. "And I'm not charging you for the over time."

Johnny stood up, extending his hand to the kindly doctor. "Thanks… I really appreciate your help."

"You're welcome, John. Don't forget to schedule another session on your way out," the psychologist said, opening the door for his patient.

Johnny nodded his agreement then headed for the receptionist's desk, hoping that he could get at least one more session in before he had to return to the scene of the crime that had changed his life forever.

E!

Marco and Beverly ate their meal, both of them feeling the tension between them. Marco had anticipated that the lunch would go much smoother; now he was more worried than ever. He patted his lips with his napkin, then gently laid it on the table beside his plate. He looked over at Beverly's half-eaten lunch and sighed.

"Beverly," he said, reaching across the table to hold her hand. He felt the slight flinch as his hand grasped hers and his heart sank. "I think we need to talk."

Beverly's green eyes looked up at his brown ones. Her heart was thudding inside of her chest; she cleared her throat to find her voice. "Ahem, yes… I… I need to tell you something."

Marco knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. Had he misunderstood her during their phone call earlier? Hadn't she said that she wanted to get their relationship back on track? Had she changed her mind? Was she about to break his heart by ending their relationship?

"Marco… Will you come over to my apartment for a little while? I don't want to, um, to discuss it here."

Marco inhaled deeply, reaching for the check, then standing up. He reached out his hand to assist Beverly to a standing position, scooting her chair back beneath the table and following her to the cash register. While he paid for their meal, he couldn't help but notice the sparkling ring on the cashier's finger. He had hoped to give one to Beverly very soon, but now he wasn't sure. After accepting his change from the cashier, he picked up a toothpick, lodging it in the corner of his mouth. He needed something to settle his nerves and chewing on a toothpick usually seemed to help.

Stepping into the noon day sun, Beverly removed her sunglasses from the top of her head, placing them over her eyes as she walked across the parking lot. She heard Marco's footsteps behind her and she fought a brief battle with her stomach to keep her lunch down. When she reached her car, she turned around, facing the man she loved more than life itself. Fear of what lay ahead seemed to be following her as closely as her own shadow. She briefly looked up at him.

"See you in a minute?"

"I'm right behind you," he replied, closing her car door as soon as she was securely inside. He watched her crank up the car and slowly drive away, then turned to his own burgundy sedan. Whatever she was about to tell him, he was sure that their relationship would never be the same.

E!

Mike Stoker pulled his pickup truck into the driveway of The Wellhouse, running much later than he had intended. He had told Lexi that he would be a little late picking her up from her group session because he was taking the Captain's exam at headquarters, but the exam had taken much longer than he had anticipated.

When he saw the shrouded look on Lexi's face as she approached his vehicle, he felt horrible. He knew that she was upset with him, but there was nothing he could do but apologize. As she opened the door and slid in beside him, he reached out his hand to grip hers, thankful when she returned his gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry, Lexi. The test took a lot longer than I thought it would," he said. "Let me make it up to you by buying you lunch, okay?"

Lexi stared into her lap, thinking back over the group session. Her silence made Mike even more remorseful.

"Lexi? I'm sorry, alright? There was nothing I could do, baby. The only way that I can move up in the department is by passing the captain's exam. Please try to understand," he pleaded, backing out into the highway.

Lexi looked over at Mike, her face a mixture of emotions. "I know; I understand," she said softly.

Mike stared straight ahead, making sure to focus on his driving. "Okay… Um, where do you want to eat?" he asked, still trying to understand her solemn mood.

"Can we just grab some tacos and go over to your place? I…," she hesitated, knowing that the two of them needed to talk about where their relationship was heading, if anywhere. She had to share with him what had been bothering her for a while. She needed to follow the advice of her group counselor; it was time she talked to Mike openly about her feelings and concerns. It was time she trusted him completely by asking him the question she really didn't want him to answer.