Chapter 9: Doubts and Fears
Jess sat on the couch across from Ruby, the room feeling unusually quiet. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above was almost soothing, but there was an underlying unease gnawing at Jess's thoughts, pulling her focus away from the comforting rhythm.
"How's everything going?" Ruby asked, her voice gentle, but there was a quiet urgency in her tone. Her eyes were kind, yet Jess could tell Ruby was hoping for more than just the typical polite response.
"Good," Jess replied, though the word felt hollow as soon as it left her mouth. Truthfully, things had been going well in some ways—progress had been made—but the weight of everything still felt heavy on her shoulders.
She paused, gathering her thoughts. The two months since the shooting had been a whirlwind of physical pain, frustration, and small victories that didn't feel quite as victorious as they should. "I've restarted physical therapy after the infection... you know, after it set me back," she explained, glancing at Ruby for reassurance. Ruby nodded, her expression encouraging.
Jess had expected to feel defeated when she had to take a break from therapy, but the reality had been worse than she'd imagined.
"I felt like I'd taken huge steps backward when I had to stop," Jess added, her voice tinged with frustration. "I really thought I'd be back to work by now... after a month, at least. But the infection, the delay—it just... everything stalled." She shook her head, as if trying to clear the weight of those weeks off her shoulders.
Ruby scribbled something down, but Jess barely noticed. The words felt like they had been locked inside her for far too long. Time had slipped by so slowly, and it hadn't been kind to her. After the first month, she had been eager—no, desperate—to get back to the job she loved. She wanted normalcy, the rush of purpose. But the setbacks kept coming.
Two weeks ago, Jess had restarted her physical therapy with a renewed sense of determination. She was hell-bent on catching up, pushing herself harder than she ever had before. Every session felt grueling and painful, both physically and mentally exhausting, but she gave it everything she had. The road had been tough, but with each step, she was one step closer to being cleared to return to work.
"I've been working my butt off to get cleared," Jess admitted, her voice steadying with the weight of her words. "Physically, mentally... I need this. I have to get back to work. Not just because I want to, but because I need to, you know? Disability pay... it's just not the same as a regular paycheck."
The financial strain had become a constant shadow in her life. It wasn't just about the bills—though they were piling up—it was about her identity, her sense of purpose. The days of lounging on the couch, endlessly watching daytime shows in sweatpants, were draining her. She hated it. Hated feeling so... useless. Her body ached from the constant therapy, and though the progress was real, the thought of never returning to work, of not being able to contribute the way she used to, gnawed at her.
Ruby, whose calm presence seemed to balance Jess's growing anxiety, leaned forward slightly. "Do you think you'll get cleared soon?" she asked gently.
A small smile tugged at Jess's lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I see Dr. Morris this week for a follow-up," she said, her voice more hopeful now. "I'm hoping to get cleared then."
Ruby raised an eyebrow. "And if you don't?" she asked, the concern clear in her voice.
Jess froze for a moment, the weight of the question pressing heavily on her chest. She hadn't allowed herself to entertain that possibility. "There is no 'if I don't,'" she replied firmly, though the sharpness in her tone was a mix of determination and fear. "I have no backup plan. I have to get cleared. I can't watch another daytime show. I'm sick of sitting on my couch in sweats. Like I said—mentally, I need this."
Ruby gave her a soft, understanding look, but it didn't hide the truth that hung in the air. "Jess, I get it," Ruby said quietly. "You've worked incredibly hard, and you've come so far. I'm proud of you. But while it's taken longer than you thought, you need to understand that there's still a chance you might not be cleared just yet. I need you to mentally prepare yourself for that."
The words hit Jess like a punch to the gut. Her chest tightened, and she looked away for a moment, blinking rapidly to keep the sudden wave of emotion at bay.
Ruby continued, her tone compassionate but firm. "It's important to be prepared for any outcome. I know you want this so badly, and I truly believe you're going to get there. But sometimes, the healing process takes longer than we expect."
Jess nodded, though it felt like the weight of those words was pushing down on her more than she could bear. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," she muttered, almost to herself.
Ruby reached over and squeezed her hand gently, her eyes soft. "Just know that no matter what, you've made it this far. That counts for something."
Jess forced a small smile, but it was more for Ruby's sake than her own. "Yeah... I guess you're right."
Jess left her session feeling worse than when she arrived. Therapy was supposed to help, not make her feel more uncertain. The seeds of doubt Ruby had planted in her mind were already taking root, and they would gnaw at her until she saw Dr. Morris. Her thoughts felt scattered, each step heavier than the last as she made her way up the stairs from Ruby's office.
She pushed open the door to the precinct, the familiar sights of the bullpen greeting her. It looked the same as always—yet somehow different since the shooting. The sterile hum of the lights, the low murmur of voices, even the scent of stale coffee—it all felt like a strange mix of normalcy and unfamiliarity. Would she ever feel the same here again? Would she ever feel normal again?
"Hey, you." Flack's voice cut through her thoughts, warm and familiar. Jess turned, and a small, knowing smile tugged at his lips.
She smiled back, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease just a little. Flack had that uncanny ability to make everything feel a bit more bearable.
"Hey back," Jess said, leaning in for a light kiss.
Don returned the kiss with a soft, reassuring smile before they broke apart and headed toward the locker room. "How was your session?" Don asked, his tone cautious.
"Exhausting," Jess replied as she sat on the bench. a weary edge to her voice. "Maybe I'll stop going soon."
Don eyed her with concern. "You think that's wise?"
"I don't have to go," she reminded him, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone. "I already passed my psych evaluation."
Don raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. He leaned against the edge of her locker, crossing his arms. "Just because you passed the evaluation doesn't mean everything's fine, Jess. You don't have to pretend it is."
Jess's jaw tightened, and she shot him a look. "I'm not pretending anything, Don," she replied sharply, her voice low. "I'm just... I'm done talking about it. Therapy is supposed to help, but it just feels like more of the same. I'm over it."
Don's expression softened, but there was still concern in his eyes. "I get it. I really do. But you can't just shut it all down. Talking about it isn't a weakness, Jess. You've been through a lot, and you don't have to handle it all on your own."
Jess clenched her fists, her frustration building. "I am handling it," she snapped, her gaze turning away from him. "I'm not the kind of person who needs to sit in some office, rehashing the same stuff over and over again. I just want to get back to my life, Don. I just want things to be normal again."
Don took a step closer, his tone gentle but firm. "You can't just pretend it's not there, Jess. It doesn't go away just because you ignore it."
"I'm not ignoring it," she shot back, her voice rising slightly. "I've been dealing with it, in my own way. But I don't need someone else telling me how to do it. I'm not broken, Don. I don't need fixing."
There was a silence between them, thick with unspoken words. Jess felt the weight of her own defensiveness, but she wasn't ready to back down. She had been on the receiving end of too many people telling her what she should feel or what she should do. She was done with it.
Don exhaled, his face softening, but his voice still tinged with concern. "I'm not saying you're broken, Jess. But you don't have to go through this alone. You don't have to push everyone away just because you don't want to talk about it."
She turned to face him, eyes flashing with a mixture of frustration and hurt. "I'm not pushing anyone away," she muttered, the defensiveness still in her voice, though it was quieter now. "I just need to do this on my own. I need to feel like myself again. I don't need someone else telling me what's wrong with me. I already know what's wrong."
Don watched her for a long moment, then placed his hand on hers, his touch firm but comforting. "Jess, I'm not trying to fix you. I'm just here to be with you through it. But I need you to hear me—taking it on alone doesn't make you stronger. It makes you exhausted. You're allowed to let people in."
Jess met his gaze, her chest tightening. She hated that he was right, and it stung to admit it. "I don't want to be weak," she muttered, though it sounded almost like a confession.
Don's eyes softened. "You're not weak. You're just human." He squeezed her hand, his voice quieter now. "And you don't have to go through this by yourself."
Jess sighed, her defensiveness finally starting to wear down, but she wasn't ready to let it all go. "I just want to be me again," she said, quieter now, a bit of vulnerability creeping through her tone. "But… thanks, Don. For being here."
Don nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Always."
Not long after his conversation with Jess, Don was called out to a crime scene. He had said his goodbyes to Jess, assuring her they were good, that everything was fine. She was heading home for a bit, then going for a run, which he knew was her way of clearing her head. It was the same for him too, really—he could tell she needed that space, even if she didn't admit it aloud.
But as he drove to the scene, the words he had said to her lingered in his mind. He had meant every word when he told her she didn't have to go through everything alone, that she could lean on him. He had meant it, but a nagging feeling kept crawling to the back of his mind. He had barely acknowledged how he was feeling. Sure, he'd had a few light conversations with Jess—brief chats about the shooting but nothing real. Nothing deep. It was easier that way, wasn't it?
Don glanced out the window of his car, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. He hadn't talked about what had happened with Cade. The guilt. The confusion. The anger. It was all still there, buried deep. He hadn't talked about how the shooting had affected him either—how every time a siren blared or a loud noise cut through the air, his heart skipped a beat, his body tensed, and his mind raced back to that day. He could still see Jess on the floor bleeding, the way time had seemed to slow down, the rush of adrenaline, the fear.
He hadn't sought therapy. He hadn't even really considered wasn't required not like Jess. But what good would it do? He'd always been the type to bottle things up, to keep his head down and power through. That's what he told himself, anyway. But in the quiet moments, when it was just him alone with his thoughts, it didn't feel so simple. It didn't feel like "powering through." It felt like breaking.
But what if opening up would only make it worse? What if talking about it would make it all feel real in a way he wasn't ready for? He wasn't sure. Maybe, in his mind, the best way to handle it was to keep moving—do his job, stay busy. Don't give the past too much space, or it might swallow you whole.
He could hear the sirens ahead, and he forced himself to push all of that to the back of his mind. He had work to do. He'd deal with everything later. Right now, there was a crime scene to handle.
Don and Mac stood across from Deborah Carter in the interrogation room, staring her down. It seemed like an open-and-shut case. She had already admitted to killing her husband, claiming it was because he had cheated on her. Simple, right? Except that Stella had called, her voice sharp with urgency. They'd found evidence that another woman had been in the room with her and her husband at the time of the murder.
"What the hell is wrong with you people?" Deborah spat, her voice laced with venom. "There was no one else in that apartment."
"You're lying, Deborah," Mac replied matter-of-factly, his voice steady. "We found partial DNA from another woman on the handle of the knife used to kill your husband."
Deborah's eyes widened, but she quickly composed herself. "It could have been touched by any number of people before that night. I entertain a lot," she reasoned, a forced calmness in her voice.
Don stood with his arms crossed, a scowl etched across his face as he listened. He didn't get it. Why lie? Why not just admit someone else had been there?
"That same woman's DNA was found in a bite impression on a roll we took from your table," Mac continued, not missing a beat.
Don stepped forward slightly, frustration mounting. "Maybe you can explain to us how another woman's DNA wound up on a piece of bread from your oven."
Deborah leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a sarcastic smile. "Maybe your staff was hungry," she shot back, her tone dripping with contempt.
"Yeah," Don muttered under his breath, irritation sharpening his words.
Deborah leaned forward slightly, looking almost amused by the situation. "I'm sorry, this is priceless. You have a confession, a motive, a murder weapon that probably has my fingerprints all over it, and you're still not satisfied?"
Mac's patience was wearing thin. He leaned over the table, his voice low but firm. "Look, I'm giving you one more chance to help yourself. Someone else was in that room with you. Who are you protecting?"
Deborah didn't flinch. "I told you everything I know," she said flatly.
"I want her name," Mac demanded, his voice a little sharper now.
Deborah's gaze shifted toward Don, who still stood leaning against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. She took a moment before speaking again. "Okay, you want a name… Amanda… Bannister. Park Avenue. My attorney."
Mac sighed in frustration, leaning back. "Maybe a few hours in a 6x8 cell will improve your memory."
Deborah just smirked, unfazed by the threat. "Get her out of here," Mac told Don dismissively, before exiting the room.
Don stood there, arms still crossed, barely able to suppress the anger bubbling under the surface. He looked at Deborah—cold, detached, unapologetic—and couldn't help but feel a growing disgust. But still, something in her words lingered in his mind. Maybe it wasn't just about protecting someone else. Maybe it was something deeper, darker.
Don found himself staring at her again. The words just came out, a question that had been floating around in his mind.
"If you could go back to that moment, just you and him in that apartment," Don started, his voice low and steady. "Would you do it again? Would you stick the knife in his chest?"
Her cold, emotionless gaze met his, and without hesitation, she responded, her voice almost chilling in its finality. "All 17 times," she said, her tone flat. "Regret's a waste of time, Detective."
Don's jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed. Regret's a waste of time. He couldn't shake her words. They echoed in his head as if they had been meant for him. She wasn't the only one who had regrets. He had plenty of his own.
"Right," Don muttered softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned his back to her, the weight of her answer lingering in the room.
He walked over to Deborah, his hands moving to cuff her. "You can't change the past," she said, her voice flat and unbothered as she slouched in her chair.
Don stood in front of her now, holding the cuffs in his hands. He felt the weight of his own past decisions pressing on him as he spoke. "Stand up," he commanded.
Deborah reluctantly pushed herself up from the chair, her movements slow, calculating.
"Turn around," Don said, his voice firm but low.
She did as instructed, and Don placed the cuffs on her wrists with mechanical precision. His hands worked efficiently, but there was a coldness in the way he moved, a certain detachment that mirrored her own.
"As much as you may think you're okay," he said quietly, tightening the cuffs, "when you close your eyes at night, it's gonna haunt you."
Deborah's eyes flickered toward him for just a moment, but she didn't respond. There was no sign of guilt, no remorse. Just the same cold indifference.
Don's voice dropped, almost a whisper now as he added, "I speak from experience."
His voice took on an even sharper edge. "Let's go."
As he led her out of the room, he couldn't shake the feeling that her indifference to the past was a lie—just like the lies she had told about that night. But as he handed her over to a uniform for booking, Don couldn't help but wonder if there was something in her that reminded him too much of himself.
Jess lay flat on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. She hated this, the doubt that had started to creep into every corner of her thoughts. She had never felt this way before. She prided herself on being strong, independent, unshakable—but now, everything felt different. The shooting had left more than just physical scars; it had planted seeds of doubt and fear that now tangled with every step she took.
Loud noises made her flinch, a sudden startle that made her feel exposed, vulnerable. She couldn't even walk down the street to Tilley's diner, never mind step inside. And Ruby's words? They had only added to the chaos swirling inside her. "You may not get cleared. You need a backup plan." Ruby had said them with such concern, but all it did was dig the knife deeper, stirring a fear Jess wasn't sure she was ready to face.
"No," Jess muttered to herself, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. She couldn't let herself get stuck here. She had to get cleared. She had to prove to herself that she could do this, that she hadn't lost herself in the aftermath.
Opening her eyes, Jess turned her gaze to her arm. The scarred skin had started to heal, the deep cuts and bruises fading over time. The numbness she had lived with for so long was gone, but that didn't mean everything was back to normal.
She didn't have full range of motion yet, and holding things was still a challenge. Jess knew that she wasn't 100 percent. But was she enough? She hoped and prayed it would be. She had to be.
Her mind wandered back to the day of the shooting. The memories had slowly started to return, parts still hazy, but more came back every day. She could feel the weight of it all—the terror, the panic, the urgency. But what stayed with her most was that moment, when she had to choose between the light and the darkness. She hadn't realized it then, but the light had meant death. The light had promised escape, peace. And when she had stood there, teetering on the edge, she had made her choice. She had chosen the darkness.
Now, more than ever, she wondered if it had been the right choice. She looked at her life now—the brokenness, the fear that clung to her like a second skin—and questioned if it was worth it. Was this life, fractured and filled with shadows, better than the alternative? Was living in this constant state of fear, of self-doubt, of weakness, worth the price she'd paid for staying alive?
She shook her head. The dark side she had entered felt like an endless spiral, a place she didn't know how to escape. But she had to escape. Her thoughts churned in the darkness, trying to find a way back to herself.
Would she hurt herself? No. She couldn't. She wouldn't. Not after everything she had survived. But the question still lingered in her mind, like an unwelcome shadow—was she even strong enough to climb out of this hole?
Jess closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. She wasn't ready to face it all, not yet, but she couldn't keep running from it either. She had to get cleared. She had to be strong enough to face her own darkness, to make peace with it before it consumed her completely. And more than anything, she needed to prove to herself that she could walk forward, one step at a time, even if the road was uncertain and broken.
Don and Lindsay exited their car, weapons drawn, and quietly approached Marcia Vasquez as she moved towards the WorldSend van. Vasquez placed the package inside and closed the door, heading back to the driver's side. Don moved towards the driver's side, halting just a few centimeters away. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. The usual adrenaline rush was tainted by a gnawing anxiety, a lingering echo of the shooting.
He moved again, his grip on the gun uncomfortably tight. Rounding the corner, he aimed at the empty driver's seat, Lindsay mirroring his action on the passenger side. Vasquez was gone.
Lindsay and Don exchanged a perplexed glance as the van's rear doors swung open, and Vasquez leaped out, sprinting down the street. Don reacted instantly, vaulting over a taxi cab, Lindsay following closely. They reached the street's end, but Vasquez was nowhere to be seen. Don turned to Lindsay, about to speak, when he spotted Vasquez through the restaurant window beside them. "Got her! Got her!" he called out.
Don headed one way, Lindsay the other, covering the exits. Vasquez burst through the restaurant, shoving bystanders aside, scattering food. "Move!" she screamed.
Don rounded the corner, just as Vasquez disappeared into the kitchen. "Don't move!" he yelled, spotting Vasquez grabbing a knife from the wall. She brandished it, pointing it at him. Gun drawn, he repeated, "Drop it now! You don't want to do this! Put the knife down!"
"Shoot me! Shoot me!" she screamed, advancing on Don with the knife. "Or I'll kill you!"
"Don't move! Drop it now!" Don yelled, his hand trembling on the gun. His mind raced, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wasn't sure he could pull the trigger. The diner, the boiler room, the flash of gunfire—it was all a chaotic blur.
Lindsay entered the restaurant through the back entrance, her movements swift and fluid, a shadow in the chaos. Her eyes quickly scanned the room—Don was frozen, his gun aimed at Vasquez, but his hand was trembling, his gaze locked on the advancing suspect. The knife in Vasquez's hand gleamed dangerously as she closed the distance, a frantic, wild look in her eyes.
Lindsay didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, she surged forward, closing the gap between them. With a powerful shove, she tackled Vasquez to the ground, knocking the knife out of her hand with a sharp kick. It skittered across the floor, out of reach. Lindsay quickly cuffed the suspect, securing her wrists with practiced ease.
Don stood at the edge of the scene, still holding his weapon, his breathing ragged. The tension in his posture was palpable, but his mind was clearly elsewhere—caught between relief and something much darker. His eyes locked onto Lindsay's, and in that moment, she saw the storm behind them.
"You okay?" Lindsay asked, her voice soft but tinged with concern. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the remnants of whatever had shaken him during that standoff. His hands were still trembling, his knuckles white around the grip of his gun.
Don lowered his weapon, the weight of it suddenly too much to bear. His hand shook, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. "Yeah," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Yeah, I'm... I'm okay."
Don stepped out of the interrogation room, the weight of the conversation with Vasquez still lingering in his mind. The words she had thrown at him echoed over and over: "You are a damn coward." It stung more than he wanted to admit. He should have pulled the trigger. Every ounce of his training and experience screamed that he should've acted, but when the moment came, he couldn't. He just couldn't.
He stood at his desk, staring blankly at the paperwork in front of him, but his thoughts were miles away. He couldn't focus on the case; his mind kept drifting back to earlier that day, to that moment in the restaurant. The reason he had hesitated. Don knew why.
His focus was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. It was Mac, and he wasn't here for a casual conversation.
"Don," Mac's voice was gentle, but there was something else behind it—something more personal. Don braced himself. He could feel the lecture coming. Great. Just what I need.
Mac paused in front of him, his eyes searching Don's face, noting the tension, the distance. Lindsay's confession to Mac about the situation earlier—how Vasquez could have killed Don, how Don had frozen—had clearly shaken him. Mac wasn't just his boss at this moment; he was his friend, and he was worried.
"Everything okay with you?" Mac asked, his tone careful, not judgmental, but concerned.
Don gave a quick nod, his voice flat. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"I'm not convinced," Mac said, his voice low but firm. He took a step closer, looking at Don with a mix of concern and something deeper, something that spoke to their shared history.
Don shifted uncomfortably, his fingers absentmindedly tucking his badge under his shirt. He didn't want to deal with this, didn't want to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, Mac was right to be worried. He cleared his throat and tried to play it off, his voice casual. "Why do you need to be? Did I do something wrong?"
"It's what you didn't do," Mac replied, his words sharp but filled with a quiet frustration. "You froze, Don. That hesitation—that could've gotten you killed."
Don's jaw tightened. He fought the urge to snap back, to deflect. Instead, he snorted bitterly. "Am I being second-guessed for not killing someone? I thought that was a good thing."
"It is, if it was a choice," Mac stated, his voice steady, but there was an edge of concern underneath. "But you didn't have one. People are worried about you. The past few months haven't been easy— with the shooting and Jess. I know it's been hard." His voice softened, but the worry didn't leave.
Don felt a flicker of annoyance flare in his chest. "Tell people I said thanks, but I can take care of myself." He tried to brush it off, but the words felt empty, even to him.
"I wish that was true," Mac said, his voice now holding a weight of its own. "If it wasn't for Lindsay saving your ass today, we might be having this conversation in an emergency room… or maybe not at all."
The silence between them thickened. Don felt his throat tighten, his pulse quickening. He wanted to argue, to say something to dismiss the reality that Mac had just laid out. But the truth of it—of how close he had come to not making it out of there—was too raw to deny.
He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he stood up straighter, looking past Mac toward the door, the desire to end the conversation growing. Enough. I don't need anyone's pity.
"Unless you want to make this official," Don muttered, his voice cool, "I got nothing else to say."
Mac's eyes softened, but he didn't push it. "Just be careful, Don. People care about you. I care about you."
With a terse nod, Don walked away, the weight of Mac's words heavy on his shoulders. He wanted to brush it off, to ignore the concern from his team, from his friend. But it lingered, gnawing at him. He had to find a way to move past it.
Don walked into the bathroom, the fluorescent lights above flickering as he stepped inside. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and reached for the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. The rush of it against his skin was sharp, but it did little to clear the fog in his mind. He felt drained—physically, mentally, emotionally.
He was so done with the day. So done with the case. It had been one thing after another, and now all he could think about was getting home to Jess. The thought of her—safe, warm, and waiting for him—was the only thing keeping him tethered to some sense of normalcy. If I could just get there, he thought, maybe then everything will feel like it makes sense again.
He sighed deeply, leaning against the sink, his eyes staring at his reflection in the mirror. God, what a mess.
There was something eating at him, something he couldn't shake. It wasn't just the case or the shooting—it was what happened in the restaurant. The hesitation. The guilt. The burden of not pulling the trigger when he had every reason to. That moment had been a choice, but it didn't feel like one anymore. He hadn't just hesitated; he'd frozen. And that thought gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.
But as much as he wanted to push it all away, to bury it like he had so many other things, there was a part of him—deep down—that knew he couldn't. He couldn't just pretend it didn't matter. He had to confront it, face it head-on. And maybe, just maybe, the only way to silence the demons that were haunting him was to be honest with Jess. To finally tell her everything that happened, the fear, the hesitation, and the decision he couldn't take back.
He needed to tell her. Not just for her, but for himself. Maybe that's the only way I'll get some peace.
Another heavy sigh escaped his chest, and for the first time all day, he felt a sense of clarity. He wasn't sure how Jess would take it, or how the words would come out. But he couldn't keep carrying this weight alone.
Wiping his face with a towel, he glanced at his reflection one last time. "It's time," he muttered to himself, before turning and walking out of the bathroom, heading for the door.
It was time to go home. To face what was left of the day—and to face the one person who could help him make sense of it all.
Disclaimer:
Anything recognized or referenced in this chapter is based on the CSI: NY episode S6, E4 "Dead Reckoning." This is a work of fiction inspired by the events of the show, and is not an official continuation or adaptation of the episode. All characters, situations, and storylines are used in accordance with the creative liberties taken in this fanfiction.