by Amy Valenti
For the first half an hour, the back of my neck prickled as I listened for the arrival of the elevator, for the sound of breathing, a rustle of clothing—anything that might have indicated Pierce's arrival. As the minutes passed, I slowly began to relax, but around noon the elevator pinged again, and every muscle in my body tensed.
"How's the evidence coming along?” Detective Erica Beaumont asked, and I sighed, though I didn't know whether it was with relief or disappointment. I offered her a weary smile.
"Getting there. I should have something for you in about thirty minutes."
The detective held out a coffee cup, and I took it gratefully.
"Thanks. I know caffeine's just gonna make me jumpier, but I was starting to feel the lack."
"Pierce is on his way back from interviewing the victim's parents,” Beaumont said, as if she knew how nervous I was.
I checked my computer monitor before speaking, my voice low and hesitant. “Do you think he's just gonna avoid me from now on?"
Beaumont took a second to consider before answering, and I was glad she wasn't just pulling a generic reassurance from her mind.
"From now on? Probably not. For the time being? I'd say he's planning to give you some space."
I took a sip of my drink, my brow furrowed. “What if I don't want space?"
"You want to persuade him to reconsider,” Beaumont said, her expression cautious. “Faye, you do remember who you're talking about, here?"
"How could I not?” I said, pacing across the room. “I dunno, Erica... I just can't sit back and accept this, not without some kind of explanation—"
"I don't want to see you get hurt any more, Faye. None of us do. Just...be careful.” Touching my shoulder gently, Beaumont headed for the door.
Alone once more, I tried to throw myself back into my work, but the idea of confronting Pierce wouldn't leave me alone. Acting on impulse, I dropped the printout I'd been studying and made for the elevator.
The doors shut, sealing me inside, and the elevator remained on that floor while I tried to figure out where Pierce's next stop would be when he got back to the precinct. It had been long enough since the body had been discovered that I was pretty sure he'd head over to see Bill Clarke, the medical examiner. Unless he had a suspect to escort to interrogation...
The silence and stillness gave me time to think, and that was something I'd been studiously trying to avoid since last weekend's breakdown. Part of me wondered if I was crazy for standing in an elevator, trying to decide which floor my ex was likely to be on so I could ambush him to talk about the breakup. I pushed the thoughts aside, squaring my shoulders with determination. If I was going to accept the situation, I at least needed to know why.
It did me no good to obsess over a decision I'd already made. Sighing, I reached out to the elevator buttons, about to choose a floor, but the elevator began to rise of its own accord, summoned by someone upstairs. My stomach turned with nervous, intuitive anticipation—it might be someone else, but what if it was him? Too soon, the movement stilled, the familiar chime sounded and the doors began to open.
I took a deep breath and looked up, straight into Pierce's eyes.
* * * *
Time seemed to freeze. He stared down at me, I gazed up at him. For a moment, it was almost as if nothing had changed between us—I was quietly waiting for a reaction from him.
It was the same, and yet infinitely different.
He stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, then he rounded on me.
"God damn it, Faye!"
Stung, I struggled to keep my composure.
"I want to talk to you."
Pierce kept his distance, his countenance somewhere between ambivalent and furious. I couldn't make sense of him, and I could feel tears of frustration approaching as he answered.
"Not a good idea."
"Why?” I demanded, my voice cracking, betraying me. “One minute things were fine, and the next, you...” I couldn't finish the sentence. “Don't I deserve an explanation?"
"No.” The point-blank refusal cut me to the bone, and for the first time anger began to seethe through my blood.
"I don't accept that."
Pierce's voice hardly changed, but I could tell he was exhausted and irritable. “You used to trust me more than this, Faye."
"I used to have a reason to."
Okay, maybe that had been a little harsh, but wait... He almost looked guilty, and that was way more in character for Pierce than the way he'd been acting before. Encouraged, I stepped forward, one hand raised to place against his chest, but his face shut down and the moment was lost.
There was nothing left to say. Defeated, I hit the button that would take me back to the lab, and the elevator descended, seeming to take forever. When the doors opened, I stepped into the corridor without a backwards glance, escaping with as much dignity as I could. He didn't follow me.
I'd cried so many tears for Pierce over the past week that I had no more to shed. Though it hurt as much now as it had before, I sealed the feeling away where it couldn't distract me, turned up the music and got back to the tasks I was paid to do. I didn't enjoy the science as much as I usually did—I couldn't afford to let any emotion in today.
At six o’ clock I began to slow down, getting ready to pack up and leave for the night as soon as I got the okay from upstairs. Not long after that, Santoro, Layton and Beaumont filed in, Santoro carrying two cups of coffee, and my shoulders slumped.
"Don't tell me. This case is urgent, and I'm pulling an all-nighter."
"Pizza's on its way,” Santoro confirmed, holding out the extra drink he carried to placate me. “Sorry, Faye. I know this is the last place you wanna be."
I shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee. “At least there's plenty to keep me busy. If I went home I'd have too much to think about."
We took time out to eat pizza in the lab's break room, throwing around theories about the current case that ranged from plausible to downright ridiculous.
"I keep telling you guys, the aliens are out there. People are so arrogant to think we're the only technologically advanced species in the universe—"
Wait, was that my computer beeping?
I jumped up mid-sentence, abandoning the conversation.
AFIS—the Automated Fingerprint Identification System—had located a match for one of the fingerprints I'd lifted, and the detectives cut the mealtime short, grabbing final slices of pizza and taking the information back to the squad room.
I cleared away empty boxes and logged the fingerprint match in my evidence file, recording the information so that if a case went to court, the defence had no room to dispute my findings. Then I got back to work.
Hours passed in a blur. I'd been at work since eight-thirty in the morning, and by the time two am rolled around I could hardly stand, despite the caffeine that had been brought to me at regular intervals. We were short-staffed—while I'd been away from the lab last week, a couple of the guys had been exposed to a chemical leak that had them both in hospital with respiratory damage, and I'd usually have been working with them on Mondays. It looked like I'd be alone for a few days, and though the overtime would be a little gruelling, I was happy enough to take the extra cash.
Soon, the only results left to wait for were the DNA matches, and they'd take around three hours more to run. Usually I'd have let the program run overnight and reported to the detectives upstairs in the morning, but since this one was urgent I'd have to stay. I didn't mind much, though, and I grabbed a book from my desk drawer, taking a break. My eyelids were heavy, but I thought I'd be able to stay awake.
I hadn't thought about Pierce all afternoon, hadn't fallen to pieces or collapsed in a heap, and I was proud of myself for that. Of course, now I was thinking about him, remembering the anger in his eyes when he'd realised I was waiting for him. I'd never thought he'd look at me that way. Not at me.
I wasn't absorbing a word of my book, and I set it aside with a sigh, locating a spare s
weater to use as a pillow and putting my head down on the desk. Now I was hoping I would be able to sleep.
I can't own you.
This is about what I need.
God damn it, Faye!
I scowled so hard my forehead hurt, resisting the tears that wanted to break through. It had been a long day, and I was too exhausted to cry. Instead, I called up a mental periodic table, working through each element and its atomic number in sequence. By the time I got to phosphorus, I was asleep.
Some time later, a sound pulled me partway up from slumber, and I hovered in the dreamlike state between sleep and waking. My limbs and eyelids were too heavy to move, but when I felt a light touch skim down my cheekbone, my mind immediately made a connection.
Zach...
Still too ensnared in sleep to open my eyes, I smiled a little, and lips softly touched my cheek. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world for Pierce to be there with me, and I tilted my head, making it easier for his lips to find mine.
The kiss was momentary, but electric, and I felt the layers of drowsiness begin to drop away. His touch trailed off, and I murmured a protest, but nothing else followed.
When I at last managed to open my eyes, I sat up from my awkward sleeping position in a hurry, searching instinctively for my Dom. The silence and emptiness that greeted me were absolute.
I must have been dreaming.
My composure cracked, and I sobbed into my hands while, as if on cue, the computer threw up the DNA match I'd been waiting for.
* * * *
I took a deep breath, pausing halfway up the driveway of the familiar house. It had been almost a month since Pierce had released me from his collar, and I hadn't seen or spoken to him since I'd ambushed him in the elevator.
I knew that by this point I should have been starting to let go, move on, forget about him, but I couldn't. I lay awake at night dissecting every moment we'd spent together the week before he'd ended things, trying to figure out a reason for his actions. I analysed every word, replayed every gesture, until I was frustrated and angry—at Pierce, at myself—but no closer to an answer.
This would be my last attempt, though. If Pierce turned me away, I would give up on the relationship, leave the precinct—because it was the only way I could get over him—and start over somewhere else. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I had to face reality.
I reached Pierce's front door, knowing better than to knock. He wouldn't answer. Anyone who knew him just walked right in—the door was never locked. As quietly as I could, I let myself into the house, not bothering to check the darkened living room and dining room.
The kitchen was empty, but light shone from the study doorway upstairs, softly illuminating the hallway. I used the light to navigate my way to the top of the stairs without giving myself time to get too nervous.
Pierce was sitting at his desk, poring over some paperwork, a notepad and pen beside him and a generous measure of alcohol—as yet untouched—waiting to be swallowed. My heart squeezed painfully as my eyes swept over him—a hundred wistful memories sprang to the forefront of my mind in a split second.
As my footsteps scuffed on the carpet he raised his head, looking almost automatically toward the doorway. Then his expression darkened, and I knew he was about to get the first word in.
"Just...please...let me speak.” I threw up a hand, cutting across his first syllable. His eyes met mine, and he nodded reluctantly, acknowledging the raw pain he must have seen on my face.
"Thank you.” Tacked on to the phrase, an unspoken Sir lay between us, lingering as I reached the doorframe and drew nearer.
Pierce turned over the papers he'd been examining as he stood to meet me, and my gaze flitted curiously to them for a second. He'd never had to hide anything from me before.
Close up, the sight of his face—even as guarded as it was now—was enough to send my emotions cartwheeling, and my carefully-planned speech fled my mind.
"It'd help if you actually spoke,” he reminded me, his voice gentler than I'd expected.
I nodded, nervously twirling a lock of hair around my finger. “I won't bug you for answers, ‘cause I know nobody can make you say something you don't wanna say."
Pierce's gaze wavered for a second, but I was too focussed on my words to analyse the reaction.
"I just wanna say my piece, so at least I can go on with no regrets."
His poker face was well and truly in place as he waited for me to continue—he was as unreadable now as he had been a month ago. Trying not to be intimidated by his demeanour, I took the plunge.
"Being yours...being owned by you...was the best thing that's ever happened to me. I miss it, Zach. I miss you. I miss sitting at your feet, and I miss the way you used to visit my lab, and I miss your hugs, and your collar around my neck. And all the things in between."
I was determined not to cry, and although my voice emerged more quietly husky than usual, it was steadier than I'd hoped. Encouraged by my own strength of will, I continued, “I don't know what went wrong, even after weeks of trying to figure it out. Like I said, I'm not gonna ask again. I just wanted to see you, and get this out of my head so I can sleep at night. I love you, Zach."
My words fell into the silence, and I lost my nerve, turning towards the stairs without waiting to hear his response. As my foot touched the first step, he spoke my name, freezing me in my tracks as effectively as liquid nitrogen would have.
I looked over at him, my hand tightly gripping the handrail so he wouldn't see how it was shaking. The lighting was too dim to be sure, but I thought I could see pain in his eyes. Or maybe I just hoped I could.
"You need to deal with this, or else it's gonna destroy you. It's over, Faye—how many times do I need to say it?"
The question slammed into me with the force of a physical blow, the cutting words snapping through the air. I could only stare at him for one humiliated moment before the need to escape overwhelmed everything else, and I ran down the stairs and out of the house without a backwards glance.
I drove home on autopilot, shoving my distress to the back of my mind, encouraging a steadily building sense of unease to grow and take form. The conversation played on a loop through my mind, yielding no clues to why I suddenly got the sense something was very wrong. Frowning, I went over my memories of Pierce's actions, demeanour, body language and tone of voice, trying to pin it down. By the time I'd arrived home, I had a theory.
Something was going on with Zach Pierce, something he was hiding from everyone. Now I just had to figure out what, and in the process try to forget his last, hurtful words to me.
* * * *
"Hey, Bill..."
With a gentle smile, Dr Bill Clarke looked up from examining the lung tissue in his gloved hand.
"Ah, Faye. Just in the nick of time. I was beginning to feel lonely—Mrs Anderton here isn't much of a conversationalist."
"Where's John?” I asked, naming Bill's assistant, hoisting myself up to sit on the unoccupied autopsy table adjacent to the one he was working on.
"At home with a nasty bout of gastroenteritis,” Bill said, and I winced in sympathy. “I assume you didn't come down here looking for him?"
Watching him place the bloodied lung in the weighing scales, I shrugged with a nonchalance I didn't feel.
"I wanted to run something by you."
Bill began to strip off his glove, his eyes on the clipboard balanced on the table by the dead woman's feet. I jumped down from my seat and grabbed it, craning my neck to read the number on the scales.
"I'll do John's job for a while."
Thanking me and readjusting his glove, Bill returned to the autopsy. He weighed the other lung and called out his findings for me to note down, before fixing me with a shrewd gaze.
"I suppose you want my opinion on Zach's recent behaviour, as his friend? I have to say, I'm surprised it's taken you this long to ask."
I nodded, returning to my perch on the autopsy table.
"I think he's hiding something."
Bill paused, his hand deep within the thoracic cavity of his subject, and asked, “And what would you base that observation on?"
It was a test, not a challenge, and I frowned at the dead woman's blank features as I considered my answer.
"The night before he told me it was over, he seemed...different, somehow. Like something was wrong."
"Perhaps he was concerned about your reaction to the news he was planning to break?” Bill suggested. “Purely from a devil's advocate standpoint, I mean."
"I know,” I said, shrugging. “But it doesn't add up."
Trying not to give too much unnecessary information, I told him how Pierce had taken me to bed as soon as we'd arrived at my apartment that night, dissuading me from even having a cup of coffee first, and how he'd been as considerate a lover as ever.
"It was like he was memorising me, because he knew he had to let me go.” Giving Bill no chance to comment, I threw up a hand. “I know, I know. Maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see because I want him back so badly."
"It's good that you have a balanced point of view."
I continued, detailing my observations of the previous night's conversation with Pierce—the papers he'd hidden from me, his initial gentleness as he'd coaxed me to speak and the way he'd turned on me once I'd finished.
Bill made a few deft cuts with his scalpel, his brow furrowed, and excised the next organ from the chest. Holding it to the light for me to see, he said, “The human heart has long been thought to hold a person's capacity to love. Sadly, that's just a romantic notion. As you and I well know as scientists, the ability to love comes not from the beat of the heart"—he set the organ gently into the scales hanging at the side of the autopsy table “—but from the electrical impulses and chemicals within the brain."
I nodded, noting down the reading on the scales before speaking.
"I'm not a psychologist, Bill."
With a dry smile, Bill retrieved the heart from the scales and set it down on the edge of the autopsy table, beginning to dissect it with careful precision.