Allison pulled up to the curb, Will's old apartment building towering over them. "You ready?" She asked, looking over to her friend. Will sat straight up, looking directly ahead with her jaw clenched. She was dressed for labor: jeans and boots with a sweater that barely covered the bulge of her pistol strapped at her hip.
They both came prepared, knowing if Frank Maddox was home, they may just need them. All the guys were busy. Tapp and Sing were looking into some street gang that was starting to expand their turf southside. Matthews and Fisk were guarding Angelina and Peter. Even their FBI backup had to fly back to D.C. for the week, some political event needed their presence.
And Hoffman was off-limits, according to Will. She wouldn't talk about him. She refused to explain why she had to get her things at that moment. It couldn't wait. "Not a moment longer," she had said when she had gotten home that night.
Word was it had something to do with the spider incident. It was one hell of a rumor to get off duty to. Not knowing gnawed her insides and Will wouldn't throw her a bone.
The sky was dark. There was an electric stench in the air. Wisps of snow fluttered onto the windshield. "Let's get this over with." Will was the first out of the car, leading them to the elevators and up the five stories.
Allison had been on high alert, scanning the hallways as they made their way to the residence. She had her hand resting on her holster, bracing for whatever bullshit this evening would throw their way.
Will took out her keys, the metal clinking as she put one into the door's lock. The sound of the lock disengaging and the mild surprise glimmering in her eyes made her pause. "I thought he'd change the locks by now."
Allison bit her lip, not liking that. It meant he had expected her to come back, after all he had done to her.
Will opened the door and called in. "Frank? It's me." She was the first in, inching through the foyer. "I'm getting my things. Are you here?" After some tense breaths, she softly murmured, "Guess not."
The place had a sour, musty smell to it. It was freezing. A window must have been left open. There was trash, beer cans, and glass bottles everywhere she turned. Stepping over some trash bags, she kept surveying the area while Will had gone into the living room. The sound of metal and glass being rummaged through made the hairs on the back of her neck stand.
The sooner they got out of there, the better. It felt like a fungus was creeping into her veins. This made her look over to Will again, needing her close by her. A window was open in the living room, the wind blowing through the stained curtains and keeping the place frigid.
Will was squatting by the bookshelf, a leather-bound book in her hands as she flipped through the pages briefly. Satisfied, she slapped the book shut and stood up. "I just need my jewelry box and then we're done." She briskly walked across the room and through the kitchen, going toward the bedroom.
She paused, looking into the room before letting out a disgusted noise. "Oh God. You don't want to see this."
"I'll take your word on it." Allison called back, the urge to leave rising up her chest. "You find it? Let's get out of here." She stepped into the kitchen, glancing down at the plates on the counter. It was a good thing it was winter. The bug count was much lower despite the fuzzy mold rainbowing the various dishes.
She saw a flicker in the corner of her eye and she swung around, going for her weapon.
He was just there.
She saw a swift sideways movement and, suddenly, sharp, intense darkness whacked into her. Everything simply faded.
Wilhelmina Maddox
She heard the wet THUNK and was instantly on alert. She had just picked up the small box buried under discarded towels and was suddenly drawn with her gun pointed at the doorway. Her heart was racing. She had to remind herself to take slow, deep breaths.
"Frank," she reached for her phone, dialing the station. "What did you do?"
Silence. She cautiously approached the doorway. "Ally? You okay?"
She burst through the door, sweeping her corners before pointing her gun to the kitchen. She saw Allison face down on the kitchen floor, brown waves with crimson fluids spread in a crumpled heap. "Frank!" She raised her voice.
"Metropolitan Police Department," the voice of the dispatcher sounded on her phone, just barely heard over the sound of her beating heart.
"Officer Down. Back up needed at 425 East Madison Street. Apartment 503B. This is Will Maddox. Assailant armed and dangerous." She took another step, about to cross the threshold of the hallway into the kitchen.
"Hang tight, we'll be there in five - ,"
She ducked as soon as she saw the flash of movement, the sound of the bat striking the sheetrock exploded over her. She spun as she landed on her ass as she looked up to see Frank hulking over her, bloodshot eyes and snarling teeth roaring.
He swung downwards and she rolled over quickly, just barely missing the head strike. It had gotten her bun, her hair snagged on the floorboards. She kicked her heel into his knee, feeling the joint pop.
He let out a scream and swung again, this time hitting its mark as she raised her arm up to shield her face. She felt her arm break, white-hot pain searing through her body as she let out a pained yowl.
"You fucking bitch!" He screamed as he collapsed onto her, grabbing her by the fistfuls of hair and slamming her head against the floor.
The world was rocking and shaking as she kept ramming into the hardwood. She knew she was toast. He was straddling her, ramming his fists into her cheeks. Her eyes. Everything hurt but she couldn't tell if she was dying or if this was a nightmare. She heard bits and pieces of his voice. Cursing her. Calling her every disgusting thing in the English language. And she felt he was right. Why would he be doing this if he wasn't right?
She felt it stop all of a sudden. He was panting over her. There was something wet in her mouth. Sweat? Blood?
"I'm going to kill you," he was whispering nearby. She recognized the words. But they were just words. "I need to. Look what you made me do."
How had she ended up there?
She had never imagined it would all end like this.
A scuffle in the distance. Her gun. Where was her gun? She had it in her hands. She tried to move her fingers. Just feel for it. Her hand grappled into the ether. Nothing.
But she could move. She could fucking move. But it hurt. It hurt so fucking much.
She heard footsteps and then a sharp pressure in her stomach. She let out a low groan. It was the worst pain she had ever experienced. He had just stomped onto her stomach. She was coughing, throwing up copper and bile. Air. She needed air.
She was going to die there.
The footsteps faded again, broken glass and the sound of paper crumpling was grating on her aching head. She felt warm water fall down the sides of her temples. Despite all the damage, her eyes somehow could still shed tears. She didn't want to die. He was going to kill her. But she didn't want this.
Then get up. This wasn't a real voice. Something deep and primal. Something she'd never experienced before. He's gone. Get. Up. She listened.
She forced herself to roll, despite how much it hurt. But pain meant she was still fucking alive. She could still fucking go. She pulled herself to her elbows, wincing as her weight dug into the nerves of her broken arm. She needed to get to her feet. Run.
Find your gun. Grab a weapon. So many thoughts were bombarding through her. What was the right choice?
The window. Fire escape.
Of course. One of her eyes was swollen shut. The other, she could just barely see out of. But she knew this place. She had lived in it for years. This was once her house.
Frank's back was to her, bent over in the living room. She needed to just run for it. The window. The window was open. She limped and moved as fast as she could.
"No you don't!" He snarled as she toppled forward, falling out. She felt his grip on her ankle but she kicked again. She must have hit him because he let out a pained cry. She fell onto the frozen metal grates, pulling the bars with her bare hands. They stung from freezing onto the black iron but she pulled herself up on the railings. She was on the fire escape. Outside.
She let out a strangled scream at the top of her lungs.
"Shut the fuck up!" He was crawling out the window after her, his voice and breath so close. She tried to go down one level, the stairs slippery and the structure trembling under them as they raced down the spiral.
She was just out of his reach but barely.
And then her head was wrenched back. She felt her chin point towards the sky as his fingers dug into her neck. She was choking. Bright yellow splotches danced across her vision like strobe lights.
She didn't want to fucking die. She wanted to live.
She pulled her good arm behind her, reaching for his face. She clawed and dug her fingers for any vulnerable points, feeling the warm softness of his eyeball as she pressed her thumb into it.
His grip weakened and she jerked forward, losing her balance as she felt herself topple off the railing.
She was falling. The drop a sudden freedom that made her almost believe she was flying.
But this was short-lived. She knew this was the end. She just knew.
And then she felt points and needles shoot up her spine as she collided with uneven solids. Some soft. Some hard. And it fucking hurt.
But pain meant life. Pain meant she wasn't dead yet. She had to force her one eye open to look up. She was staring up at the black stairs framed in dark blue. A dumpster.
Of all the places to land, she landed in the fucking dumpster. And Frank was glaring down at her, still, a monster that wouldn't stop.
A police siren sang, calling for her. It gave her a fresh dose of adrenaline. She took a sharp breath.
Keep moving.
Sitting up was almost impossible. She had to pull herself up with an exhausted weakness that made her feel like her bones had turned to lead. Her head was just a bowling ball of broken glass and pins.
She forced herself over the dumpster and she crumpled onto the icy concrete, crawling out onto the public sidewalk.
"Oh my god," a voice was heard. She reached forward, seeing shadows in the distance. They must have been people. Good people. People who would help.
She held out her hand and someone warm took it. And relief washed over her as she began to cry.
Mark Hoffman
Knox and him were snickering at the TV as Dennis the Menace played in the background. In between sips of whiskey and the fog of smoke, it had been an alright evening. Now, it was well past midnight, and the two of them had started flipping through channels and decided to watch some reruns that old Vernon had watched in his youth.
He felt his pager go off on his belt. He went to check it, surprised anyone had bothered. He had decided to leave his cell at the office, never quite used to carrying it around like he was expected to.
It was Angie. He got to his feet while Knox kept cackling as the boy on the screen left a bucket of paint under his neighbor's ladder, ready to see the shenanigans unfold as the adult descended down the steps.
Hoffman dialed Angie's number, wondering what she could possibly want this late in the evening.
She picked up after the first ring. "Mark. Will's in the hospital."
He froze. "What happened?" But he knew.
"Frank."
The confirmation made him grow hot with hate, the phone beginning to shake in his fist. "Where?"
"Mercy General." Her voice was hoarse. She must have been crying. "It's bad, Mark."
"I'm on my way." He hung up, baring his teeth.
"Everything all right?" Knox had muted the TV and was wheeling into the kitchen.
"My partner's in the hospital." He was already retrieving his coat from the kitchen chair. "I need to go."
He was looking for his car keys, having tossed them on the kitchen table.
"Will she live?" He asked the right question. Not what happened. Not who did it. But the only thing that mattered. Will she live?
"I don't know."
"I'm coming, then."
He didn't bother to argue. It would have been futile anyway. Besides, Hoffman didn't want to be alone. Not at that moment. "Then bundle up. It's snowing."
He drove fast, turning on his hidden police lights as he made his way through the quiet city streets. Knox kept silent and the only sound was the whoosh of the heater blasting onto them and the sound of his own loud breathing.
Once they parked at the hospital, he got the wheelchair set up steered Knox quickly through the sliding doors and into the warmth and fumes of rubbing alcohol. Emergency Care was surprisingly quiet. He recognized the group of familiar faces waiting amongst the chairs and outdated magazines. Tapp and Sing nodded as they stayed seated with their backs in the corner, clearly on guard duty. Angelina and Peter, rose with tear-streaked and tired faces. Kerry was with them, her head wrapped in gauze with a purple bruise on the side of her cheek. Two of their uniforms were there, whom he recognized were part of the Domestic Violence Unit.
"Mark," Angie buried her face into his chest and hugged him tightly.
"Can we see her?" He looked over to the nurse behind the check-in counter, who was giving them a pitying frown.
"Not yet. They said she's in critical condition. She fell several stories." Angie let out a huff, resisting a sob.
He pushed her. Lava boiled under his chest.
"He got the drop on me, Hoffman. I'm sorry." Kerry had avoided his eyes, the glistening of angry tears at the edge of her lashes glimmered under the fluorescent light. "I fucked up."
"Hey now," Vernon's gruff voice broke though, "Don't go blaming yourself, Kerry."
She blinked, her lips parting as she gaped. "Knox. I - I didn't see you."
"Kerry, don't tell me you've softened that tough-gal image after these short years." He pushed his wheels and nodded towards Tapp. "Come over here, missy. Let's give them a moment."
Kerry and Knox went out of earshot, Hoffman keeping his eyes on his sister. "Did they say how bad it's going to be?"
"They just need to set her arm and leg. And do some X-Rays. They're only letting family see her."
"She doesn't have anyone here," he growled, shoving a fist into his pocket. Fucking Frank had a right to see her and not they? It was fucked. "When are non-relatives allowed?"
"In a few moments," a doctor arrived, draped in lab coat and clipboard in hand. "She's conscious and insists you all will be permitted or she will 'crawl out of this hospital' if she has to." He didn't sound impressed as he clicked his pen. "She refuses to give a statement until we've allowed all visitors. She said she wanted to speak to," he looked down at his clipboard, "Allison Kerry, Mark and Angelina Hoffman. I'm assuming that's you three?"
He smirked, relief washing through him. It sounded like she was going to be fine. "Lead the way."
The doctor led them through doors and hallways. "I must warn you. Her appearance. It may come as a shock." He was looking at Angelina as he said this, barely flicking his glance towards Mark or Allison, who wore her badge around her neck in a silver chain.
He pulled back a curtain and Angelina gasped. He refused to shut his eyes, though the urge struck him.
The person lying in the hospital bed did not look like his partner. The only part that had been constant was the red curls pulled back with thick bandages wrapped around her forehead. Eyes swollen shut, tubes in her nose, arms, and a cast on her left wrist with blood staining the white, it would have been just another victim in a crime he was investigating on the job if he did not know it was her.
He kept his face still as he went to her side. He put a hand against her good one, letting his warmth seep into the cool skin. He found himself in the past, the familiar smells and sounds of the hospital and the soft sobs of Angelina making him feel like a young man again, saying goodbye to his mother.
He swallowed hard. "Will."
"Mark." Her voice was rough and soft. One eye opened slightly and a glimmer of amber in between pink flesh glimmered up at him. "Sorry about today."
He squinted. "What do you mean?"
"I know you didn't leave those roses. I was an idiot." Her face was a bloated mass but he thought he saw a small curl of a smile. "I broke his knee." Her fingers curled over his hand.
"You're not an idiot," he dumbly replied. "And good." He squeezed her hand back. "Hang in there, Will."
"Plan to." She looked up at the ceiling and he saw a tear slide down her cheek. "Mark?"
"What?"
"Promise me," her voice trailed off, visibly wincing from pain.
He leaned close. Deja vu. "Don't strain yourself, all right?"
"I'm not. Just." She let out a whisper, "Promise me you won't go do something stupid. With Frank."
Despite it all. Despite all this shit. She still had to do things the right way. His vision was reddening and he had to restrain himself from squeezing her hand too tightly. "I can't promise that."
"Please. Try. Let Domestics take care of it."
"He almost killed you." He knew damn well that a multi-story fall didn't beat a person up this badly.
"And there's plenty of evidence to lock him up. Please. Don't do something stupid. I know you." Her tone said more. I know what you're capable of. Now she was squeezing his fingers, small hands with shaky strength.
"Fine. Promise." He wanted to promise her the moon if it would just help her heal up. "Just rest. I'll be here."
"Thank you." There was relief in her voice. A trust that he feared.
Angelina knelt down, softly crying as she put a hand on Will's face. He left the two women there, taking an awkward step back as they knelt beside their friend. He looked away, uncertain of what he should do.
The doctor had returned to shoo them back to the waiting room, now with the two Domestics officers at his back. Hoffman knew this was when they took Will's statement. There'd be a manhunt, if Frank had decided to run. Hoffman was itching to join them but kept the urge pushed down as he returned to the waiting area with Angie and Kerry, seated while they all sat in a depressed quiet that was only broken with the distant phone ringing and intercom pages for doctors to report to the scene.
"Dr. Denlon, ICU. Denlon, ICU."
He pulled up a random pamphlet, some addiction rehab clinic, that he half-heartedly studied, as he took in the people around him. Kerry was rubbing her bandage, staring down at her feet, while Sing had a hand on her shoulder in comfort. Tapp and Knox were having a conversation, old friends catching up on lost time in respectful and solemn expressions. And Angelina was wiping tears while Peter rubbed her back.
Hoffman's pager went off again. He checked, the number making his throat go dry. No. Not now. But he couldn't ignore it.
He got up, approaching the front desk. "Mind if I use your phone?" The nurse pointed at a nearby payphone booth. Hoffman went to make the call.
Putting in change, he licked his lips as the phone rang. He silently wished for it to just be a check-in. He'd known what happened. Doesn't mean I got to do anything but report.
"Markie-boy," the nasal voice grated on his ears. "Give me the news on Red. She going to pull through?"
He clenched his jaw. "She'll live."
"She'll heal up? Had I known she'd go back to that piece of shit, I'd have sent some boys over to keep her in one piece. Broke my heart when I heard what happened. So I've decided to take care of it."
"Yeah?" Hoffman inhaled sharply, his nostrils flared. "You know where he is?"
"Oh, better. Come to my place. I'm feeling generous. Promise you won't be disappointed."
Hoffman looked over to the waiting room, locking eyes with Tapp and Knox, who both were watching him with an intelligence laced with tragic knowing. Tapp glared at him with a superior smirk.
"I'm on my way." He hung up and left without saying goodbye.
Rosello's home smelled of expensive things like Cuban cigars, leather, and walnut furniture. He always felt like the lounge hall was a symbol of everything Rosello was: overcompensation and death.
There were more stuffed animals than he'd seen in their city zoo before it was shut down. He stared at the big elephant head, a fleeting sadness rushed through him. To see something so grand and innocent fall victim to a worm like Toni Rosello just stung.
"Ah, Markie-boy," Toni strode in, wrapped in a mustard paisley smoking jacket and a thick cigar in his teeth. "Punctual, I see." He let out his hyena laugh, yellowed teeth bared. "Come, Olaf is warming up our guest."
Rosello had a peculiar walk. Hoffman had never noticed, but he waddled because of his pot-belly, an awkward gait that he felt oddly glad he had. It made him seem more flawed. Finally, something that made him feel a bit superior to the slimy bastard.
He kept getting whiffs of the cigar as Rosello continued down the hallways of dark woods and extravagant wallpaper. The carpet under their feet felt expensive and Hoffman almost felt guilty for tracking the snow and dirt onto it. Almost.
Rosello opened a large door and below, stone steps led to the basement. Or really, an archaic renovated basement with an interior designer that was clearly well versed in victorian sado-masochism. The place looked like a torture-porn dungeon.
Graystone walls and sconces on the walls made Hoffman feel like he was on a theme park ride or on some movie scene of Dracula. The sound of the soles of their shoes on the stone stairs echoed off the walls.
A low moan was heard, coming in the distance. Hoffman already knew who it was, his stomach rolling as he pursed his lips with distaste.
Reaching the basement floor, the sight of the Frank Griffin curled in the fetal position as Olaf held a cow prod in his hand, brought the first pleasant spark in Hoffman's heart. He looked on as Olaf pressed the end of the electric leads into the back of Frank's neck and squeezed the trigger. The click of current and the sudden cries coming out of the man's mouth made Rosello giggle.
"Oh, that's cute. Let me have that," Rosello held out his hand and Olaf obediently placed the grip respectfully into the man's palm. Rosello hoisted it and pushed it into Frank's face and the man seized, limbs flying as he twitched and writhed.
"Please," he let out a strangled sob, "Stop!"
"What do you think, Markie-boy?" Rosello turned to him, intense with curiosity. "You can do whatever you want. I, sure as hell ain't calling the cops on you." He let out a laugh at his joke, a chorus of hyenas howling off with the dungeon echo.
He took a step towards the pathetic lump on the floor, who was crying like a baby. "Please," he whispered, looking up at him with desperation. "Don't let them do this to me. You're a cop. You're supposed to be one of the good guys." He was on his knees, grabbing the pant legs of his trousers. "Please."
Hoffman knelt down, squatting to get a better look at this embarrassment of a man. He looked up with wet brown eyes and his small nose; this was a creature that had been gifted kindness and love in this shit world, only to disregard and intentionally harm this gift with the stillness of a child who never knew anything but comfort.
He grabbed the man by the side of the neck, his rough hands touching skin as soft as a baby's. He pictured Will, the pastries and coffee she'd offer every morning; the times she'd tell Grissom he was running papers when he was really late for work. Her smile. He thought of how she had kept her faith in him for much longer than most; how she kept believing he could still be good. And then seeing her in that hospital bed.
Promise me.
He promised he wouldn't do anything stupid. He remembered that.
And with Rosello pulling the strings, there was little room for stupidity.
If anything, this was the smartest decision. Demonstration of loyalty and revenge, all in one sweet action.
He pulled at the man's ear, twisting it with all his might. Frank let out a gurgling screech that just pissed him off more. He slammed the man down into the cool rock while pressing into his neck, pulling out his knife. He'd start small. Just a bit of flesh. Compared to what he did to Will, this was a pittance.
He took out his serrated knife, the one Angie had given him last Christmas.
And he began sawing off Frank Griffin's ear. Blood was flowing out of the man's head and the sight of it excited him. This felt the way justice should feel. Overwhelmingly satisfying. Almost orgasmic. He was breathing huskily as he kept slicing into the flesh, the screams making the hairs on his neck stand and his mouth water.
The sound of a happy hyena melded with the screams and Hoffman found himself smiling as the ear was finally sheared off the man's head.
Angelina Hoffman
She pulled the leaves out of the vase of fake flowers resting on her mother's tombstone, sighing at how unkept it seemed. She hadn't come to visit her parents in years, life taking over and just making everything so busy. Eric Matthews and Allison Kerry were standing a respectful distance away, leaning against their car and huddled close.
Peter was taking a small brush across her father's nameplate, cleaning off the hardening snow so they could see the dates and name clearly.
She knew it didn't really matter, but the act felt good. It felt ritualistic and gave her something to do.
Mark had not gotten back to her when she left several voicemails for him. He had just stormed out the other night at the hospital and she worried he would drink himself into some trouble, like he was prone to do. A part of her wanted to join him, but she kept herself confined in her apartment and a bottle of wine.
The ache of loneliness hit her, as she imagined how Mark was handling the news. Apparently, Frank Griffin had gotten away. This news must have been driving her brother insane. It was one of his pet peeves, when the bad guy got away. Ever since the hit-and-run that killed their parents.
She took in a deep breath of the frigid air. Turning to her fiance, she rested her cheek against his shoulder. At least she had Peter, who was always a comfort and there for her. She couldn't imagine a world without him.
"I wish they could have met you," she commented as she looked down at her parents' graves.
"Me too. Do you think they'd have liked me?"
"I know my mom would have loved you. My Dad?"
"Yeah?" Peter turned, alarmed. "What would he have thought?"
"Well, you know how Mark is. He gets that from our Dad. He had an old-school attitude on what made a man so I think he would have taken a bit to warm up to you. But in the end, he'd of realized that you would be the best man a woman would be lucky to have," Angie beamed up at him and kissed him on his nose."
"Whew," Peter let out a relieved laugh, "I can't imagine a man scarier than Mark."
"Oh, Dad was much worse. Mark is a flower girl next to him."
"Yikes," Peter smiled in thought. "Speaking of flower girls."
"Yes?"
"What do you think of my cousin's daughter as the flower girl?"
"Oh, I was thinking Mark would be the flower girl. That's why I brought it up," Angie teased, "Sure. Sounds like a plan."
"Six more months."
"Not soon enough." Angie looked up at her fiance, "I can't wait to be Mrs. Angelina Acomb."
"Well, soon-to-be Mrs. Acomb," Peter wrapped an arm around her, "shall we return to the warm car? We'll freeze to death at this rate."
"Let's." Angie mentally said her farewell to her parents and they left the cemetery.
Peter Strahm
When he had heard about what happened, he had made some phone calls and burned an I.O.U. that Erickson owed him so he could take the next flight back to the city. His thoughts lingered heavily onto Will, sorrow heavy on him like pressure plates pushing into him.
Lindsey had to stay behind, sending her warmest regards in the form of a teddy bear and a Get Well Soon card. He was currently in a taxi, being taken directly to the hospital. He was not sure of the details, only that Will had been attacked and narrowly escaped.
He was sure she'd elaborate if she wanted to. He'd offer his services for trauma counseling, if needed. Though, it always was a gray line due to his more personal interests in her.
When he pulled up to the freshly plowed hospital entrance, he recognized Detective Eric Matthews smoking and shivering outside the doors, by an ashtray. "Can you believe they won't let me smoke in there?" Matthews shook his head with disdain.
"Last PSA said those things kill and this is a hospital," Strahm gave a good natured grin. "Times are changing."
"For the worst," Matthews took another drag. "Mad Max was moved out of ICU and is now in Primary. Third floor. Forget the room number but it's to your right getting off the elevators."
"Thanks."
"Cute bear," Matthews kept eye contact with Strahm, a cool gaze that felt penetrating.
"It's from Perez," Strahm felt an urge to go on the defensive.
"Ah," suddenly Matthews was less intense. "I'm sure she'll like that. She's looking a lot better than when it happened. But she's pretty banged up. It's hard to see."
Strahm nodded, his imagination all too canny that he doubted he'd be shocked. He made his way to the third floor, walking by nurses as he finally reached the room.
Recognizing the nameplate on the door, he knocked before entering. It was a private room, the TV turned on to the news, but muted.
"Strahm?"
He smiled, pretending it wasn't as bad as it looked. Her eyes were swollen and purple, both looking up at him in surprise. It didn't look like her. It was like a bad alien creature that had her voice.
"Hey, Will," Strahm took a seat. "Lindsey wished she could have flown up but she's being held back." He put the bear on the table beside her and the sealed envelope. "Kerry told us. How're you holding up?"
"I feel good. They gave me some wicked strong painkillers. I feel ready to go home." Her voice was muffled and thick like honey.
The cast on her wrist and her elevated leg in plaster made him assume that would not be the case. There were little parts of her freckled skin that didn't have purple or yellowish-green blemishes. Most of her was covered in bandages or floral hospital fabrics.
"Glad you seem in good spirits." He wasn't good at pretending to be thrilled. He tried to smile but it felt like he was just tensing his cheeks.
"You don't have to do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to look happy. I know I look gross." She turned to him with misty eyes. "But you know, I don't feel sad. Not in the slightest. It's over. I'm alive."
He nodded, feeling himself mentally retreat into clinical listening mode. "It will take time to process the trauma." He hated the words as soon as they tumbled out of his mouth but it was too late. He had just made things awkward.
They sat in silence, staring at the TV as it spoke of the latest housing projects being constructed. "Four Walls Build A Home". Cute slogan. Some big-shot engineer was designing affordable apartments with a key focus on sustainable communities to help cut back on the homeless rates in the city. An admirable mission.
"Strahm," Will's voice was throaty, "that offer you gave last we spoke. Is it still on the table?"
He turned to her, analyzing the stare. "Of course."
"Can we start now?"
Peter cleared his throat and turned to the door. The slightest knot in his throat and the tinge of guilt in his stomach made him almost regret offering. It was frowned upon to give counseling to people you knew professionally. It was a potential conflict.
But he had offered, albeit out of a pitiful attempt to flirt and his savior complex he had trouble managing. He had to reap what he sowed, so to speak.
He went to shut the door. Once it clicked, he turned and provided his full attention. "Where do you want to start?"
"Just one thing."
Peter returned to the chair by her side. A tear was falling down her cheek, dropping onto the pastel fabric of her hospital gown.
"After everything he's done. Why don't I hate him?"
He blinked. "I'm assuming by 'him' you mean…?"
"Frank. My husband."
Ah. The word crushed him flat, catching him off guard. He hadn't realized she was married. Never wore the ring. He could have read more into that but kept his composure. "After everything he's done, you feel like you should hate him. Is that correct?" He had to reorient the conversation. This was a delicate matter.
"I should. I know this. I know that I should have left him after the first time. So why didn't I?"
"You know what they say. Hindsight." He leaned forward, wanting to reach out to comfort her but kept a healthy distance. "What were some reasons you stayed in the past?"
She looked up at the ceiling, ashamed. "I love him. Loved him." She wiped her cheek with her good hand. "I'm not helpless. I'm not. I could have kicked his ass at any point."
Strahm felt a real smile pull at that. "I'm sure."
She shot him an angry glare. "And it's my fault for letting it get this far, isn't it?"
She was baiting him. He recognized the pleading question. The need for assurance. "You are not responsible for the violence your partner chose to do. Let's make that clear."
She swallowed. "Funny. Hoffman thought otherwise."
Her other partner. "Well, Hoffman sounds like an idiot."
She giggled at that. It was like church bells ringing. And he decided to commit.
"What else did Hoffman think? About your situation and your husband?"
She shook her head. "He didn't like it. But he kept quiet, usually."
"Must have been hard, not being able to talk about it with your partner."
She let out a half-laugh. "Well, it's honestly harder to talk about it than to pretend it's not a problem." She flinched, shutting her eyes tight as she cradled her broken arm to her chest.
He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. A strong urge to protect and defend wrapped its electric arms around him. His heart pounded in his ears. "Do you need the nurse?"
"No." She hissed, "I'm fine." She shook her head. "I just want to move on. Get back to work."
Ah. The layers were peeling back. Maddox was a textbook workaholic. He was the same. It was a decent coping mechanism. He swallowed as the memory of her face surfaced. He didn't want to think about her right now. Not ever.
"Frank will go to jail. I'll have to sit through the trial. And hopefully, he's locked up."
"I'm sure he'll be convicted. They haven't caught him yet?"
"Not yet. They would have told me. Hoffman would have told me." She turned with a doubtful shadow in her eyes. "But there's a chance he could walk. The DA is shit here. Domestics rarely get a conviction here."
Like a mold spreading in his lungs, he felt sick. "He'll have the book thrown at him. Despite how crooked your department is, there's no way they'd let this guy walk. You're a cop. You all look after each other."
"No. I don't want some back alley deal. None of that. I want him locked away the right way."
Peter couldn't help but crack a smile. "Yeah. Don't we all." He wanted to fix this. "I can help out. Make sure the paperwork's filed right. Make some phone calls, maybe get some attorneys from out of state to keep the DA straight."
There was a pregnant pause. They stared at each other and he wondered what was with the hesitation. "We're not in a personal relationship, so there's no real conflict if I participate. Also, it's related to the Rosello case. I heard about the earrings found on your lookalike. I'm assuming Frank must have either pawned it off or has some link with Rosello that needs to be looked at."
"You know what? Sure." She nodded. "I trust you won't be doing anything shady?"
"Of course not. You see, we at the Bureau have something called standards." He pulled a teasing smile, hoping she'd take it well. "Unlike you dirty cops."
She laughed, then winced. "Ow. And thanks."
"Sure thing." His mind was running wild. He'd need to investigate where her husband was last seen. Despite his lack of personal relations, it certainly was about to get more personal from now.
