Page 33 of The Broken Places

“I could drop some off to you on the way home. Half an hour or so?”

“Thanks, but Agent Mars is here, and as soon as he leaves, I’m heading to bed.”

“Oh.” She paused as if Agent Mars being there had taken her by surprise. And maybe it had. Maybe she shouldn’t have said it, but her guard was down at the moment and she’d simply told the truth. “Okay, no problem. Anyway, we were all worried when we heard what happened. Heal up quick, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks for calling, Adella.”

She hung up and glanced at Ambrose sitting on the other end of the couch as he took a tentative sip of the steaming tea. He set it down and looked over at her before picking up their conversation. “What about you, Lennon? Have you ever been married?”

She took a sip of tea, too, and then set it down on a coaster on the side table next to her. “Me? No. Single and satisfied. But ... I’m not opposed to marriage if the right man comes along.” And her mom and dad definitely weren’t opposed. Even if they weren’t pushy about it, she saw the flare of hope in their eyes every time she mentioned going on a date. And she knew it was solely because happiness had been ripped away from her and they wanted nothing more than for her to find it again. Because they loved her. Because they didn’t want her story to end in heartbreak. “I was engaged once,” she said. She immediately pressed her lips together, almost shocked by the admission. She hadn’t meant to say it, and certainly wasn’t in the habit of disclosing that fact to anyone, much less the hard-to-read FBI agent she’d so recently met.

When she looked over at Ambrose, she found him playing idly with the tag at the end of the tea bag and studying her. “What happened?”

Their eyes held, and something she had no idea how to describe moved between them. “I ... he died,” she finally said.

“I’m sorry.”

She gave her head a small shake and was tempted to administer a few hard taps to her cheek, as though she’d temporarily gone into a fugue state and needed to be physically jolted out of it. She picked up her tea and took another sip just to stall. Once she’d placed it back down, she said, “It’s ... thank you. It was a long time ago.”Thirteen years and three months and only yesterday.“And we were young.”

“Things that happen when we’re young have the most impact on our lives.”

She looked away. She had to. There was something in those eyes of his that she didn’t want to look into. She’d seen it before in the gazes of the victims she’d met. Hurt. And it embarrassed her because he was hurting for her and he didn’t need to. She didn’t want it. It was too much. She’d felt like a victim today. She still did, and she didn’t want to be reminded of another time when she’d felt like a victim too. “You’re full of wisdom, aren’t you?”

He gave her a small tilt of his lips, but his eyes remained serious. There had been sarcasm in her tone, and she’d said it to push back against the uncomfortable feelings he brought out in her. It wasn’t like her to do that, and it made her feel bad. “I’m sorry. No, you’re right. It was hard. It changed me. But, well, time heals all wounds, as they say.” She barely held back a cringe. She hated that saying, and it wasn’t even true. In fact, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Time buffed away the raw edges, yes, but underneath those edges were layers of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens, and they were as rough as sandpaper. If you rubbed against them too hard and too often, you would make yourself raw. You would bleed.

“How long ago did he die?” Ambrose asked.

“Thirteen years ago.” She sighed, still surprised by her own candor. “He was my high school boyfriend. He proposed to me the summer after we graduated. We were going to get married after college.” The whole future had stretched out before them, and when he died, that future had died along with him. She’d been adrift, with no idea where to go from there, the path that had once been so clear suddenly covered indense fog. As dense as that which could swallow the entire city so that, from certain vantage points, you couldn’t see it at all. Entire buildings. Entire lives. Gone. Lost in the mist. “I was going to be a teacher,” she told him. “I hadn’t even decided exactly what kind. I wanted to teach kids to read, but I also wanted to teach art history, or maybe music.” She’d pictured it, her classroom, the way she’d decorate it in bright colors, the little faces that would gaze up at her with awe as she filled their minds with words and art and beauty. Not the most exciting of dreams, perhaps. But just the thought of it had warmed her heart and made her purpose feel so clear. “I’d completed a year toward my teaching degree. Tanner was majoring in criminal justice. The teacher and the inspector. What a beautifully simple life. And then ... then it all blew up.”

“You switched majors?”

She nodded. “It seemed right at the time. I can’t even remember why it felt so right.” Maybe it’d just been something todowhen, in every other way, she’d felt so utterly helpless.Devastated.

“You did what he never got a chance to do.” He tilted his head, seeming thoughtful, a little sad.

“I did. I tried to fill his void.” It seemed so stupid now. So ill-conceived and irrational. She’d set herself up for a mighty fall. But at the time, she’d clung to it. The empty place where he’d once been had felt like a deep, dark pit that she was desperate to fill. And somewhere inside, it’d seemed like herdutyto a world that had been suddenly deprived of his impact. Deprived at least in part because ofher. It’d seemed like maybe it would serve to heal her heart in some way too. What had she imagined? That she couldbecomehim, in some sense? No. Instead, all it had done was make it obvious that no one could replace Tanner as a force of good in the world. Least of all her. Instead of filling his void, she’d made a mockery of what he’d intended to do. She turned her gaze to Ambrose. “I’m scared more often than not. Sick. Distraught. I care far too much to be useful.”Why am I telling him all this?

“I’m not sure that’s possible, Lennon.”

“It is. It is possible because it makes me shit at my job. I relate. I spin stories in my head about what they felt. I picture them dressingin the clothes I find them in, not having any idea it’s going to be the last outfit they ever wear. I hate the blood and the gore. I keep vomit bags in my car just in case, and I’ve used them more often than I want to admit.”

“Your empathy isn’t a bad thing. And it probably means you see things others don’t. It can be a strength. But it hurts you.”

His voice was so even, and he didn’t sound judgmental, only understanding. And God, she appreciated it, but it also made her want to cry again. As if she didn’t already look pathetic enough as it was. As if he would have shown up here tonight if he knew she was going to sob all over him. She let out a long, shaky breath, meaning to stop. But the words just kept coming. “I didn’t love being a cop. I never said that to anyone. I thought being an inspector would mean I’d sit at a desk and pore through files and it’d be better. Easier. God, Tanner must be laughing down at me. He’d find it funny, he really would. I tried to take over his life, and I suck at it.” Would he, though? Would he think that? Or was it her judging herself too harshly? Because Tanner had always been far more forgiving of her faults than she was, and it was one of the many reasons she’d felt so valued by him. And she didn’t want to lose another part of him by misremembering that.

A small smile drifted over Ambrose’s lips. “You don’t suck at it,” he said.

“Okay, I don’t suck at it. But ...” She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m tired and I had a hard day. I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

“There are other jobs at the department that are more desk jobs than the one you’re doing,” he said. “Have you thought about applying for one of them?”

“Yes ... maybe.” She had thought about it, but then she’d felt like a phony. How could she lead others to do a job when she couldn’t do it herself? No, the better option was to transfer to a department where she’d be less exposed to horrific crime scenes and stories that ripped her heart out. But she still hadn’t quite worked up the courage or ... whatever it was she needed to work up to not feel like a quitter. As if indoing so, she’d be letting go of the last piece of Tanner she’d managed to preserve.

Ambrose scooted a little closer, and he reached out and tentatively took her hand. “Lennon, you also have to realize that what happened to you today ... no one would have handled that well, not even the most hardened cop.”

“I know. You’re right.”

“Maybe you’re a little too hard on yourself sometimes,” he said. “Maybe it’s more abnormal and worrisome not to be affected by other people’s blood and suffering.”

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