Talk to Me

by Stephanie Reid

  Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he cleared his throat. “I gather you know who I am.” At her affirmative nod, he went on, feeling awkward. “I’ve wanted to speak with you for over a year now, but the police department’s legal counsel discouraged me from contacting you. Downright forbade it, actually.”

  Ruth’s head tilted to the side, her thick blonde hair grazing her shoulder. “Why did you want to speak with me?” she asked gently.

  “I wanted to tell you…that I’m sorry—”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said quickly.

  “I understand, but I still wanted to offer my condolences. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been—and probably still is—for you to lose your son like that.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse, eyes shining.

  “I just wish there was some way I could have known…”

  “I know. Me too,” she whispered.

  Now that he was talking, he couldn’t seem to stop, the words just tumbling out. “His case—it’s always stuck with me, and not just because of the shooting, but because as we investigated later, it seemed so out of character for him.” He cleared his throat, working past the tightness he felt there each time he glanced at her sorrowful face. “Everyone we interviewed, every teacher, every friend, they all said he was a good, kind kid. Nobody we talked to could fathom why he would rob a convenience store. And of course, we never considered suicide…That seemed out of character as well.”

  Ruth nodded, her face contorted with the effort of holding back emotion.

  “Mitchell was a good kid, and I’m just so sorry…” He couldn’t go on. His throat closed off completely, and he pressed his fist to his mouth, trying to keep himself contained.

  She reached across the space separating their chairs and gently squeezed his forearm. “It’s okay. I know.”

  Mac nodded, sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly. She knew. She knew he was sorry. She knew he’d done what he’d had to do. And she understood. His relief made him feel almost weightless.

  “And I’m so sorry about the lawsuit. About everything.” She took a deep breath and swiped the tears from her cheeks. “I didn’t understand it either. I never saw the signs of trouble or depression. I couldn’t make sense of it, and I think that’s what drove me so crazy. I just didn’t understand. I wanted to understand. I wanted to have someone to blame, someone to point the finger at, and I’m sorry that someone was you.”

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “No, it’s not. I was blaming you because I didn’t want to admit how terribly I’d failed as his mother. When we thought it was a robbery, I wracked my brain trying to think of where I’d gone wrong. I’d taught him the difference between right and wrong, hadn’t I? Why had he stooped so low?” She leaned forward, grabbing a tissue from the coffee table and pressing it to her eyes. “And then,” she said brokenly. “When I found his note—when I realized that he’d staged a situation in which he knew he’d be killed…” She trailed off for a moment, her gaze focused on some unseen point behind him. “I just can’t forgive myself for not seeing the signs. If I had thought for even one second that he was depressed or suicidal, I would have gotten him help.” Her brown eyes met Mac’s, beseeching him to believe her. “I would have done something.”

  “Of course you would have,” he said reassuringly. “You know, I’ve investigated more suicides than I’d care to count, and if there’s one thing I’ve noticed it’s that sometimes people try the hardest to protect the ones they love the most, hiding their pain because they don’t want to burden others. My guess is you didn’t see the signs because Mitchell was hiding them well, trying to protect you.”

  She nodded and then shook her head, appearing conflicted, as if she was both comforted and troubled by that notion. “But I was his mother. I was supposed to be protecting him.”

  It seemed they would never make sense of it. It was the confusion that followed every suicide he’d ever dealt with. Ruth may never fully get over her son’s death, but hopefully with time she would find a way to accept her new reality. The reality of a world without Mitchell.

  The mantle clock ticked away the seconds while a companionable silence, heavy with questions that would never be answered, filled the room. Mac gazed out the window, suddenly wishing he could tell Emily about this conversation. About this closure he’d found.

  “Thank you for coming here today,” Ruth said. “I’m relieved I could personally apologize for that stupid lawsuit.”

  “No need to apologize,” he said, standing up, preparing to leave. “Truly.”

  She took a cleansing breath, her expression brightening as she stood, proving that she had practice pulling herself out of her sorrow and stepping back into her life. Grabbing his coat from the hall closet, she handed it to him. “I hope you’ll tell Emily I said hello. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks because I decided to take some time off to visit my family up north.”

  He could certainly understand her need to escape after she’d found Mitchell’s note. “Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t seen or talked to her for a few weeks. You may have to tell her yourself,” he said and shrugged into his jacket.

  “Really?” She tilted her head to the side, her eyebrows drawn together. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’d hoped after the last time I spoke to her that she wouldn’t let working with me get in the way of your relationship.”

  “No, no, it’s not that.” With one eyebrow raised, Ruth looked unconvinced, and not wanting her to think it was her fault, he said more than he usually would have shared. “I think Emily needs to be with someone she can fix, and I’m afraid I’m not that someone.”

  “Huh,” she said.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with the scrutiny of her thoughtful gaze.

  “You know,” she said, her tone deceptively light. “People who go into counseling as a profession, they have to have certain qualities. They’re good listeners, empathetic, they want to help people. They don’t stop being those things when they step out of their office at the end of the day.”

  Mac nodded, not sure how to respond.

  Ruth’s voice lowered to an understanding whisper. “Just like you don’t stop being a cop when you take off the uniform. Like when you’re off duty and you stumble upon someone holding up a convenience store. You respond as a police officer, and you protect the people inside.”

  She’d made her point, her words showing him that she understood and forgave his actions the night her son had died, while simultaneously reminding him that some things weren’t easily compartmentalized.

  The first point left him feeling lighter than he had in a year, whereas the second had him questioning everything he’d believed about Emily.

  * * *

  After a sleepless night filled with restless thoughts, Mac decided he’d done admirably well tolerating the welcome-backs and good-natured ribbing he’d received from his coworkers upon walking into the PD that morning. It was Friday and he wouldn’t be returning to his shift until Sunday, but he had a few things he’d wanted to get in order and one important letter he needed to deliver to the chief.

  He’d purposefully stopped by in the morning to avoid running into Sean, who worked second shift. They hadn’t spoken since the day he’d kicked him out of his hospital room, and Mac wasn’t sure how their reunion would go—wasn’t even sure how he wanted it to go.

  He’d ignored two phone messages from Sean and several others from Emily. He’d punched the delete button before even listening to them and after a few days the calls had stopped. He’d thought he was relieved, but after talking to Ruth yesterday, tiny fissures of doubt were threatening to crack his resolve. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d misjudged Emily—that he’d let his pride distort his perception of what had existed between them.

  It didn’t help that he’d been cooped up in his apartment all this time where memories of her were imprinted in every room. He couldn’t stand i
n his kitchen without thinking of her cooking dinner for him, or pass through his living room without remembering the way it felt to hold her on his lap while they’d laid bare their innermost thoughts. And nowhere was he more haunted by memories of her than his bedroom, where the pillow she’d used had held the scent of her shampoo for days after he’d returned home. He’d lain in bed night after night, his body aching for her, while his brain fired warning signals, reminding him it was dangerous to need her so badly.

  Walking down the back stairwell of the PD after he’d dropped his letter off to the chief, he tried to brush aside a growing feeling of anxiety.

  Sean had been worried about him, had cared enough to want to help, even if his idea of help had been a touch misguided and more than a tad idiotic. Perhaps he owed Sean an apology, or at least his forgiveness.

  Stepping out into the parking lot, he squinted against the bright sun, which was shining cheerily despite the biting cold of the morning air. He hunched his shoulders against the wind, burrowing deeper into the confines of his Gore-Tex jacket, and walked past the row of squad cars to his where his SUV was parked.

  He drew up short when he noticed Sean pulling his heavy black duty bag out of his squad car. Sean looked up, meeting Mac’s gaze, his eyes widening briefly in surprise.

  “You’re back,” he said. It was more a statement of fact than a welcoming.

  “I’m not on shift until Sunday, just stopped by with some paperwork today.”

  Sean nodded, but didn’t quite make eye contact.

  “I thought you were working seconds,” Mac said.

  Sean hitched the strap of his duty bag—filled with all manner of gear and ticket books—higher onto his shoulder and answered coolly, “Peters called in sick and I picked up the overtime.”

  Mac nodded. “Right. Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” He started toward his car.

  “McAvoy!”

  He pivoted back to face Sean, who had stepped up onto the sidewalk.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, and I’m guessing you haven’t listened to any of my messages, but I’m going to say this now and get it off my chest.” Sean paused, as if he was testing to see if Mac would walk away or stay and listen. “I’m sorry for going behind your back and asking Emily to talk to you. I should have just come to you with my concerns. But I assumed you would just tell me you were fine like you always do.”

  Not knowing what to say and sensing Sean wasn’t finished, Mac gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

  “If you’ve gotta be pissed at someone, gotta hold on to your anger to save your pride, then fine. Be mad at me, but leave Emily out of it. Because whatever happened between you two, whatever was said, it had nothing to do with what I asked of her and everything to do with the fact that she cares about you.”

  Mac’s gut twisted, anxiety spreading through his chest, leaving every nerve feeling raw and exposed. First Ruth, now Sean, both of them saying that Emily must have cared about him. Could it be that he’d meant more to her than just another soul needing to be healed?

  “And you’re fucking it up, man,” Sean said, his tone a mix of sympathy and frustration. “You haven’t returned her calls, and she’s giving up on you.” He let Mac mull that over for a moment before adding, “I warned you that if you ever hurt her, I’d have to hurt you. And much as I’d like to knock some sense into that thick head of yours, I’d much rather you just make it right. You need to talk to her.”

  Sean was right—he’d been slowly coming to that conclusion ever since talking to Ruth, but hearing Sean say Emily was giving up on him, well, frankly, it scared the shit out of him.

  He squinted against the sun glaring off the squad car windshield and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold air. “Do you think she’d even want to see me?”

  Sean let out a small chuckle, evidently relieved that Mac was even considering it. “I’d be prepared to grovel if I was you.”

  “She’s pretty upset then?”

  “You could say that. She’s a tough cookie. She’s been going about her life, going through the motions. But she’s not happy, not by a long shot.”

  Shame—hot, thick and suffocating—poured over Mac. He’d been thinking only of himself, of his own stupid pride, never considering for a moment what his remoteness was doing to Emily. Actually, he hadn’t believed she really loved him, hadn’t believed that she needed him the same way he needed her, and consequently hadn’t thought she’d be all that affected by his rejection. But now, Sean was telling him that she wasn’t happy. And it was his fault. He was surrounded by a self-loathing so deep he was in danger of drowning in it.

  “I’ll talk to her,” he said quietly.

  “Good,” Sean said and turned back toward the police department.

  “Sean.”

  “Yeah?” Sean stopped, turning to face Mac.

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For asking your sister to talk to me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  She had said gerbera daisies were her favorite. Mac had no idea what a gerbera daisy was, but he’d asked the florist if she had any in blue. He’d wanted something that would match the cerulean color of her eyes. He’d been told that gerberas came in just about any color, but that this time of year he’d be unlikely to find blue. In the end, after a ridiculous amount of consideration, he’d settled for a seasonal selection of reds, oranges, and yellows.

  Standing in front of her apartment door, clutching the flowers in his hand, he tried to calibrate his grip to keep from crushing them. But he was abnormally nervous, and despite his best efforts, he feared he would soon snap the sturdy stems.

  He knocked on the door.

  Maybe he should cover the peephole with his finger. If Emily saw him, he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she refused to open the door. But that was her right, and so he stayed his hand and looked directly into the small dark hole.

  He knocked once more.

  Muffled laughter and voices in low tones sounded from within the apartment. Shit. His stomach sank and his jaw tightened. Of course she wouldn’t be alone on a Friday night. How could he have thought that a beautiful, courageous woman like Emily would just sit at home alone and wait around for his stupid ass?

  She opened the door, a ready smile on her face that froze and melted into a grim line when she realized it was him.

  “Mac,” she said, clearly surprised, but not pleased.

  He tried to mute the sound of censure in his voice. “You should really check the peephole before you answer the door. What if I had been someone like Carl or Ted?” He couldn’t help worrying about her. After everything that had happened, how could she be so careless with her own safety?

  She didn’t acknowledge his advice. “What do you want, Mac?”

  He hadn’t come here to argue. He’d come to do whatever it took to get her back, and he was fully prepared to beg, grovel, and plead.

  “I brought you these,” he said, handing her the bouquet and realizing the tissue paper surrounding it was damp from his sweaty palms. “Do you think I might come inside so we could talk for a minute?”

  She took the flowers, and he thought he caught a slight warming of her gaze, but it quickly cooled to a guarded stare. Blocking the doorway, she didn’t open it any further than it took to stand in the entrance. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of someone moving in the living room behind her.

  “Listen, Mac. This really isn’t a good time.”

  His heart sank. There was someone else.

  He had no one to blame but himself. He’d let his pride drive a wedge between them and fucked up the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  She stepped back and started to close the door, but his hand shot out, his palm pushing back against the heavy door, refusing to give up without a fight.

  “It will only take a minute.” That was a lie. It would take exactly as long as it took for him to convince her that although he’d been a compl
ete ass, he was willing to do whatever she required to earn her forgiveness, to prove himself worthy of her love. And until he’d accomplished that, nothing short of a fully armed SWAT team could drag him away.

  “I have a guest over. This is not the time.” Again, she tried to shut the door.

  “Emily,” he said, hating the desperation in voice, but unwilling to give up.

  He would face whoever she had inside. And do his best to scare the bastard off. He wasn’t proud of what he was willing to do, but it was necessary. She was necessary. To his life. To his future.

  He held the door and his eye contact with her, hoping she saw the determination in his gaze.

  “Aunt Emily, who’s at the door?”

  Hannah nudged her way in front of Emily and opened the door. “Mac!” she shouted.

  So, this was Emily’s guest. Thank you, Jesus. It was far preferable to the date he’d been imagining her with.

  “Did you come to have a sleepover with us, too?” she asked.

  “No.” Emily answered quickly, and Mac choked on a surprised laugh.

  Unaware of the tension crackling between her aunt and Mac, Hannah jumped around in her bright pink plaid pajamas. “Oh, but Mac, you should stay. We’re having so much fun! Auntie painted my toenails. Look, they’re pink!”

  Emily rolled her eyes heavenward, evidently giving up, and allowed Mac to enter the apartment.

  “They match your p.j.’s,” Mac said, smiling.

  “I know,” Hannah said. “We’re having a pink party. Everything is pink. My toenails, my lip-gloss, my pajamas. We even had pink ma-gritas, but mine was no-more-holic.”

  He sent Emily a confused glance, and she grudgingly smiled at her niece. “She means a non-alcoholic margarita.”

  “Right! That’s what I said.” Hannah bounced up and down, a four-foot human pogo.

  With another smile he knew was all for Hannah and not for him, Emily said, “No alcohol, but plenty of sugar apparently.”

  Hannah noticed the flowers in Emily’s hands. “Those are pretty,” she said to Mac. “But they’re not pink.”