**This story takes place in the days immediately after Angell's death. It features Liz Ryder, the former officer of the Boston Police Department-turned shrink also present in the story titled Nor'easter. For more background on Liz, see Nor'easter. I hope you like it!** (Contains references to drug use, mild language and references to sexual content)

Friday

I was sitting at my desk in the midst of BPD's Friday madness when the call came. In true Liz fashion, I had a case file's contents spread all over the office floor and stuck to the full-wall whiteboard adjacent to my desk. Chief Fitz had handed me a fun one today--some guy killing university kids around Boston. At Bay State College he was The Angel, rounding up three women he knew to be virgins after attending a few campus Christian group meetings. Suffocating the girls with feather pillows, he then took the feathers and fastened them to their backs to create crude wings. Bringing his victims to the rooftop of the Old South Church in Copley Square, he nailed them up naked (but for loincloths around their hips) on crosses with their arms outstretched, looking for all the world like they were waiting for God to take them home. Each young woman had "The Angel" written in white paint across her abdomen.

By contrast, at UMass he'd branded himself The Devil, committing a crime apparently meant to expose excess and greed. He'd lured three guys out of a frat party with the promise of coke, and after they passed out from the sedatives he put in the blow proceeded to drown each of them in apple-bobbing sized tubs of beer, wine and vodka. Death by PBR. Yech. All three kids had "The Devil" scrawled across their backs in blood when they were found the next morning.

Good lord, I thought. I gotta start charging consulting fees. These dudes are getting crazier by the day. Kudos to the Boston blues for deducing that The Devil and The Angel were one and the same, though. For a while we thought he was two separate sickos until a handwriting analysis proved otherwise. Now it was my job to further examine the killer's psyche and try to determine what his next move might be--and, for that matter, if he truly believed himself to be both Lucifer and Gabriel or if the two were just roles he was putting on--like murderous Halloween costumes. I didn't really believe the second option to be true, though. The nature and severity of the crimes were just too symbolic to be the work of another cookie-cutter killer. How interesting it is, I mused, that these criminals who go to the extremes of a spectrum are usually so ordinary in normal appearance. This one seemed to be suffering from a kind of personality purgatory, if you will. . .needing to compensate for a void in his life with the certainty of omnipotent judgment and damnation.

Anyway, it was about 1 PM when the Black Eyed Peas' "Boom Boom Pow" sang out from my phone. I picked myself up off the floor, stretched a little bit, and smiled when I saw the name that had popped up on the caller ID. Don Flack.

Flack and I had met two years earlier, when I went down to NYC to assist the CSI team with a complicated psychological case. Mike Craig was the perp's name--serial killer and rapist with five distinct personalities. The good Detective and I initially had a few verbal scraps over my interrogation methods, but our mutual love of hockey overtook stubbornness one night and we'd had some fun together after a Rangers/Bruins game. Although we knew a relationship between a Bostonian and a New Yorker both in love with their respective cities would never work, we stayed in touch, and every now and then we'd met up for some good wine usually followed by great sex.

That, though, all changed when Flack started seeing Jessica Angell, a fellow NYPD Detective with killer legs and a wit to match. But hey, no jealousy on my part--I was incredibly happy for my friend, as his demeanor had changed drastically since Jess had come into his life. He'd apparently met her ol' man, and she was helping him rebuild his relationship with his sister Sam. Flack had even confessed to me that although it sounded crazy (because they hadn't officially been together long), he was thinking of asking Angell to move in with him. There was no doubt about it: Jess' smile had brought rays of sunlight streaming into Flack's world, and I could tell he truly loved her. I often teased him about the joy I could hear in his voice during our weekly sports rivalry phone call.

It was, in fact, this good-natured ribbing I was expecting when I flipped open my black Razr, so I got a head start.

"Let's see, Flack, which do I want to pick for my favorite Yankee F*ck-Up Moment of the week? The boos raining down on Burnett from Jays fans or Swisher's airmailed throw against the O's?"

Instead of Flack's sarcastic baritone, though, a weary and slightly confused-sounding woman's voice came from the other end of the line.

"Liz?" she said. "It's Lindsay Monroe. Do you have a minute?"

"For you, honey, I've got hours," I replied. "How's Danny? And little Lucy?"

"We're all fine," she said. "Or at least we were until yesterday. I've got some awful news, Liz, and there's no way to sugar coat it--Jess is dead."

I sucked my breath in sharply as the acidic taste of shock seared my lungs. For police officers, there's a special sort of pain that accompanies the loss of one of our own--and it cuts even deeper when you personally know the one that made the ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty. I was just now feeling what the NY crew had been steeped in for 24 hours. . .and Flack, I thought, must be feeling it worst of all.

"Oh, sh*t," I managed to utter as I sank into my desk chair. "What happened?"

I listened, seething, as Lindsay gave me the awful details. I could almost hear the sickening crash of the cafe's glass as the windows exploded from the force of the truck's grill. Dunbrook's confused screams and the murmuring of customers as they hit the floor and prayed. And the horrible thumps of those Desert Eagle .50 slugs slamming into Jess' beautiful body. Fighting back tears, I turned to the trusted friends that had gotten me through so many senseless killings in the past: Information. Logic. The next step.

"Did you guys nail the bastards that did this?" I asked, struggling to keep the anger out of my voice.

"We tracked down and took out the four perps who pulled off the job, and that seemed like the end of it. But then last night as we were toasting Jess' memory, somebody drove by and shot up the bar we were in. Everyone's okay, more or less," she said, quickly. "Stella took one in the shoulder and we all sustained cuts from the shattered glass, but everybody made it out alive. Anyway, as you might guess, we're thinking that this is more than a kidnapping gone wrong."

I continued to fume internally. So much unnecessary death in this world, and it was once again affecting people I cared about. God, what if Danny and Lindsay had been killed in the drive-by? Lucy would've been orphaned in an instant.

"What can I do to help?" I found myself saying, almost robotically.

"Well, that's why I'm calling from Flack's phone," she explained. "I didn't have your number. Danny and I are here at Don's place (because the chief told him to take a day off) and we're pretty worried. The whole team's shaken up, but Flack's hurting more than all of us combined. I've never seen him like this before, Liz, and I was thinking that he could really benefit from your experience with psychological trauma. He needs friends, and we'll be here for him, but I think he needs something more to help him heal."

"I'll catch the next plane to New York," I said, without hesitating. "Can you and Danny stay with him until I get there?"

"Sure. Lucy and I can stick around. Danny's got to head back to the lab--he and Hawkes are working on the murder of a college student. Strange religious theme to the case. I really appreciate your coming, Liz. Do you want to talk to Flack?"

"No, it's best if we interact face-to-face," I said, trying not to sound too clinical. "Trying to discern his true emotional state over the phone would mean too many gaps in the information I need. I mean, we all know Flack's the king of facial expressions, right?"

Lindsay let out a little laugh. "Right."

"Just tell him I'll be there soon, but don't make it sound like an intervention or anything. And tell him the Yankees suck."

She agreed to pass on the messages, thanked me again, and hung up. I quickly reassembled the strewn-about files on the Heaven & Hell murders and was about to put them back in my to-do pile when I stopped and shoved them in my briefcase instead. Something about Linds' reference to that student's murder had caught my ear. I then walked briskly down the hall to let the Chief know that I had to leave right away. Upon hearing my reasons for splitting, his face changed from its usual set of river-like scowls to an open sea of sympathy. Sighing deeply, he shook his head.

"I heard about Detective Angell's death this morning," he said. "Didn't know you knew her though. Some days I wish I could just turn that damned regional police scanner off."

"Yeah, but then we wouldn't be as good around here," I countered, sweeping my right arm wide to indicate the buzzing station. "Who would we try to impress if you didn't know everything?"

"All right, Ryder, get your brown-nosing ass outta here," he said with mock irritation. "Take as much time as you need on the island."

"Thanks, Chief."

As I rode home on the Red Line I called my private practice patients scheduled for Monday. I hated canceling on people in need, but so it goes when a shrink's real life rears its small head every now and then. I figured I'd be back by Tuesday anyway.

Upon reaching my little house in Cambridge, I was greeted by a series of little yowls followed by a small head bonking into my shins--it was Jack, my midnight-colored cat. He'd been acting a little cranky lately, so I sat with him for a few minutes and stroked his silky hair as my mind turned back to Flack. Grief is an overwhelming emotion in any situation, I thought, but Don's got multiple levels on which he's mourning right now. There was the most obvious layer of pain he was feeling as Jess' partner; to have the connection between you and the one you love so suddenly ripped in half is the cruelest form of robbery. . .followed by the cutting out of your heart with a thousand small shards of shattered memories.

Perhaps the more hidden element here, though, was that Jess had been cut down on the job; and Don, while understanding that Jess could take care of herself, might be feeling like he should've gotten there sooner to save her. Maybe he was blaming himself for her death. This was all speculation on my part, though. I had to see Flack and talk to him in order to know what was really going on.

I made a few more phone calls as I was throwing clothes in my suitcase--one to my sister Casey over in Beacon Hill asking her to feed Jack, another to the Globe to stop my paper until I returned (I hate stuff piling up in front of my door), and the last one to JetBlue for my plane reservation. Twenty minutes later I gave Jack a kiss on the top of his head and hopped back on the Red Line, transferring to the Silver Line and finally arriving at Logan.

My flight took about an hour fifteen, and theoretically I could've read or caught up on work, but all I could think about was Flack. I was determined to get him through this as best I could. He had constantly been there for me in the wake of my mom's death last year and I'd never forgotten it.

I touched down at LaGuardia at 3:30, and once I got into the terminal was going to head towards the car rental bays when Dr. Sheldon Hawkes stepped through the crowd and gave me a tired wave. He was impeccably dressed as always, but not even a light purple shirt contrasting with his gorgeous dark skin could mask the sadness radiating from his eyes.

"Hey doc," I said, very much surprised. "What'd I do to deserve such an excellent escort?"

"Hey back atcha, Liz," he said. "Danny told me you were headed down here and I thought I'd save you the trouble of slogging through rush hour traffic. Besides, you know I never miss an opportunity to talk grey matter with you."

I smiled, and indulged Hawkes by launching into a review of my recent research on the way women with depressive disorders experience disruption during their menstrual cycles--a topic not often delved into due to the continued male dominance of the psychiatric field. As we walked through the terminal, though, I made a mental note of the fact that Sheldon had specifically steered our conversation towards the least emotional thing we had in common: medicine. He's in pain too, I thought. They all are, but they're doing their best to keep going.

Due to his hospital background, Hawkes had an interesting take on the connection between brain chemistry and emotions, and shared a few stories of female patients who'd experienced the frightening quick switch between zombie and raging b*tch. I was grateful for the real-life examples and reminded myself to give Mass General a ring for similar data when I got back home.

Traffic onto Manhattan wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be for a Friday evening, and as Hawkes wove his way around everything from Suburbans to scooters I voiced what had been nagging at me since I'd hung up with Lindsay earlier.

"So Linds mentioned something about a case you and Danny are tag-teaming on," I began. "Something about a university kid getting killed?"

"Yeah, we just picked it up yesterday. Some nut used a Fordham University student as his own personal stone tablet. . .branded the poor girl with all 10 commandments and then set her up on a church rooftop--nailed to a cross with her arms outstretched. Not only that, but the student had something written on her stomach in white paint--"

"--'The Angel' in cursive script," I finished.

He gave me an arched eyebrow. "You been takin' up mind reading in your spare time?"

"I wish. Therapy sessions would be wicked shorter that way. But no, either the same guy was gettin' biblical in Boston last week or there's a swarm of religious duality murderers touring the Northeast," I explained. "He was The Angel at one college on Sunday and then turned himself into The Devil just in time for weekend debauchery at UMass. I actually brought the case files with me, so I'll turn 'em over to you to make further comparisons between the killings. If this is the same guy, and the pattern holds, we've only got a day or two before he puts on his devil horns again and sends another innocent victim to Hell."

"Yep, we don't want anybody feelin' the burn this weekend."

I gave him a look and he returned it with a small side smirk. Driving on, we made it to Flack's apartment at 4 o'clock on the nose. I pulled the Heaven & Hell murder files from my briefcase and, after giving Sheldon a hug, got out and placed the folders on the passenger seat. "Hang in there, man," I said. "Lemme know if you need anything. Hey, I know tomorrow's Saturday, but would you be down for meeting up at the lab and going over what you and Danny find out?"

"Sure thing, sister."

Thanking Hawkes for the ride, I wheeled my suitcase into Flack's building and made my way to the elevator. Inhaling and then exhaling deeply, I prepared myself for the first sight of Flack's face. Although I deal with grief and depression all day at work, nothing cuts me more deeply than seeing a friend in pain. As the elevator stopped at the fifth floor and the doors opened, I could almost sense the dried tears embedded in the dark carpet--the silent sobs hanging in the air. Trying to keep my steps light as I walked down the hallway, I stopped at Apartment 502 and knocked on the door. I heard the peephole slide open and then close again, immediately followed by a burst of light as the door opened.

Lindsay Monroe stood in the doorway before me, her face miraculously warm and open in the midst of exhaustion. She had a napping Lucy on her right hip, gently bouncing the baby up and down to ensure that she remained asleep. I gave her as much of a hug as I could and whispered, "Thanks for waiting, chica. You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm hanging in there. I guess I haven't been able to fully process my grief due to this little monkey--and then of course the drive-by last night." She shuddered, glancing at two deep cuts on the back of her left hand. "But in a way that's a good thing, you know? Danny and I felt blessed enough to have Lucy come out okay, but now we're even more grateful just to have each other. I just feel so bad for Flack. . . ." She broke off and teared up, wiping her eyes.

I gave her shoulder a squeeze. "You have a beautiful family, Linds. Even though the circumstances are horrible, there's nothing wrong with gaining a deeper appreciation for what you have. I'm sure Jess would've wanted it that way. Why don't you head on home and I'll take it from here?"

She exhaled audibly, nodding. "Okay. Time for this little one to eat anyway. Always hungry, just like her daddy. . .pretty soon she'll be asking where she can get a slice. Thanks, Liz. We're all really glad you're here. Oh, and Flack's in his room--he said he wanted to lie down for a while." We embraced again, and as I pulled back I gave Lucy's yellow onesie a small pat. After crossing the room to put Lucy in her car seat carrier and to pick up the blue Adidas diaper bag (Danny had refused to carry anything else), Lindsay gave me a wave and headed into the hallway. As I closed the door behind her, I marveled at her strength. What an incredible woman--she'd given birth just two weeks ago and not only was she already back at work, but was leading her family and friends through this difficult time with grace. I just hoped she would ask for help if she needed it.

Turning around to face the empty living room, I kicked my shoes off and threw my stuff in a heap at the end of the couch. I walked over to Flack's bedroom, and lightly tapping the closed door with my knuckles, listened for a response. I was just about to head back towards the sofa when I heard a hoarse "Yeah?" come from the room within. "Don, it's Liz," I said, wincing as I remembered that Jess was one of the only people who'd regularly called him by his first name. "Can I come in, or should I leave you alone?"

"You can come in." His voice was flat and strained--not at all like the lively, laughing speech I was so used to hearing from his mouth.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. What I saw was utter chaos. Flack's from the school of 'take care of what you have' and thus he usually lives amidst tidiness and organization. So the clothes and dishes on the floor made me think that this was where he must've turned his enraged sorrow loose the night before. I noted a broken wine bottle scattered over a bloody shirt and tie before turning my full gaze to my friend. The man himself was sitting on the edge of his bed, turning a basketball over and over again in his hands. Clad in black warm-ups and a sleeveless grey Yankees t-shirt, his hands shook ever so slightly as he continued to palm the Spalding. Finally, he looked up from the ball and said, softly, "Hey, Doc."

To look into his ice-blue eyes was to dive into an ocean of anguish. Mixed together in those two irises was all of the shock, confusion, fury, grief, fear and emptiness Flack had been feeling for the last day and a half. I almost gasped aloud at the sheer pain I could feel emanating from his poor torn heart. He had a deep, fresh crease in the skin on each side of his mouth from trying not to cry--and a whole host of burst scarlet blood vessels in his eyes that gave away his failure to do so.

I stepped over part of the mess and sat next to him on the bed. "Hey, Detective," I said, with a sad smile. "Wanna shoot around a little?" I nodded towards the basketball.

"Nah," he replied. "S' no good. We used to play HORSE sometimes on Saturday mornings, after coffee and breakfast. She'd, um, always tease me about not bein' able to make hook shots--said my long arms were useless. . .you know those damned softball players, they're always keepin' score no matter what. . . ." His jaw started working like crazy as he tried to keep the tears from coming, but eventually a few found their way to the smooth leather of the ball in his lap. I put my arm around his broad shoulders and we sat in silence for a long time, both feeling the gaping Jess-sized hole in Flack's heart.

I spoke first, as gently as I could. "Have you slept?"

He shook his head, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I tried. But yesterday--it's like a strobe light in my head. One minute we're on the phone makin' plans for last night, and the next I got my hand shoved into her stomach to stop the bleeding. I'm tryin' to talk to her in the back seat, keep her awake--but the light's goin' out of her eyes. And then suddenly we're at the hospital. The ER staff takes her away and I gotta stop at those swingin' double doors. . .and the next time I see her perfect face she's on that cold steel slab, gone."

Flack stopped for a second, catching a sob that threatened to rob him of his voice.

"Most of yesterday's even blurrier, like I was a robot or somethin'. Talkin' to Sid about the autopsy. Giving Jess' badge back to her ol' man. Me and Messer and Mac trackin' down this tricked-out Hummer the perps used to escape. Goin' to the warehouse where they were holding Dunbrook Junior--firing at some ex-military sharpshooter on the roof and not even caring if I got hit. Later, bustin' into an abandoned building and goin' after the guys that pulled off the kidnapping. And then suddenly it gets real clear."

There was a strong edge in his voice now, the anger rising quickly like a barometer filled with boiling-hot blood. I tried to contrast it with slow and calm words."What happened?"

"I catch up with this perp I already wounded. He's lyin' on his back and he clearly ain't goin' anywhere. But then I see the bloodstain on his left shoulder and the Desert Eagle .50 a few feet away from his hand. And I know it's the guy that murdered Jess. I can feel it. I feel his slug hittin' her in the gut. And I can't stop myself, Lizzie--I shoot the bastard right between the eyes."

I sat for a moment, digesting his words. The implications of what he was saying were severe. As police officers, it is our duty to haul even the worst scum to the hospital if they are incapacitated but alive. Flack had killed a man that might have lived--and yet who could blame him? Anybody coming face-to-face with the as*hole that killed his girlfriend not eight hours earlier would have pulled that trigger. I know I would have.

"I haven't told anybody that last part," he said. "Not even Messer. And now I'm thinkin' it was a big mistake to off that son of a b*tch."

"I don't plan on telling anybody any of this," I assured him. "What makes you say that it was a mistake?" Aside from the obvious ethical issues, I thought.

"I think," he sighed, "that my pluggin' that piece of sh*t is connected to last night's drive-by."

I looked at him quizzically. "Go on."

"When the CSIs and I were taken back to the precinct after the shooting last night, I got to thinkin' about the takedown earlier in the day. We only shot or captured four guys, Liz--but there were actually five suspects. I dunno if we were all just too emotional over Jess or what, but I think that last POS got away, rounded up some other disgraced military losers and blasted the hell out of that bar."

"That may be true, but you're not responsible for--"

"But Stella's shoulder--"

"Let me finish," I said, slowly. "You are not responsible for any of the horrible things that happened yesterday. Jess' death is not your fault. You got to that cafe as soon as you could and you did everything in your power to save her. The bar shooting? Also not your fault. You might be feeling guilty about what you did, but unless that fifth moron was hiding behind a corner watching you fire your gun, there is no direct connection between you and that drive-by. Every perp involved in both shootings made a choice when he got out of bed yesterday, Flack--he chose the path of violence and fear. You can't blame yourself for their decisions."

He took in my words but didn't look convinced. Then his face switched to an expression of dejection, and as he looked at me he said, "I took that same path of violence yesterday, Liz. I didn't hafta shoot that murderer, but I couldn't hold back. . .I don't know if I can live with that, even if a thousand other people would've done the same thing. As a cop I'm supposed to do what's right, not what's easy."

"It's easier for me to say this than for you to do it," I began, "but I think we've just gotta take this one step at a time. Let's work on keeping your good memories of Jess alive and worry about IAB another day, okay?"

"Yeah, ok," he said, rubbing his eyes and thrusting a hand through his greying black hair. "I'll try."

I gestured to the corner of the room where the tangled mass of blood, green glass and fabric lay. "You wanna tell me about that?"

"I'll tell ya that that's the shirt and tie I was wearin' yesterday," he said. "The rest--well, some things should be left alone. I'm feelin' a little better now, though."

"Fair enough." I reminded myself to watch Flack's drinking over the next couple of days. He was, of course, a capable adult, but crushing grief and a family history of alcoholism make for a potent combination.

Flack slowly stood up from his bed and turned towards the door, but then stopped. A hint of his usual fiery self shone through his face as he asked, "So what're you doing here anyway, Ryder? You need an escape from your Sox's losing streak?"

"Nah, I just wanted to see for myself how much wind power is generated when Teixeira strikes out," I retorted. "Word is Obama's thinking of asking him to serve as an alternative energy source."

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, just like old times. "All right, well, since you're here to help me through my grief you gotta suffer too--through tonight's game. See if my Yanks can hold off the M & M boys in Jess' honor."

"The things I do for friends," I said, with feigned exasperation. "What do you want for dinner?"

He opened his mouth to protest, but remembered who he was talking to and gave in. "Steak," he said, definitively. "I haven't eaten anything all day."

I set about slapping together a makeshift steak stir-fry with a few slightly withered vegetables from the fridge. Tsk--those New Yorkers, I thought to myself. They get so spoiled with all of this great international food lining every block. Flack flipped on the TV and we settled in to watch the game while we ate.

In addition to all the other indicators of Flack's grief, his demeanor during the following nine innings was a big giveaway as to his emotional state. Normally, watching Don take in a Yankees game is more entertaining than the game itself: lots of clapping, whooping, sitting on the edge of the couch and jumping up for home runs. It's almost as exciting as watching hockey with the guy. So the still air surrounding the quiet man sitting next to me with a glazed look on his face felt more than strange.

It proved to be a crazy game. Despite Justin Morneau's two home runs, the Yanks pulled an inside-the-park home run and an explosive showing by A-Fraud (excuse me, A-Rod) out of their expensive bag of tricks. By the time Melky Cabrera banged a walkoff single in the bottom of the ninth to seal the win at 5-4, Flack had perked up enough to smile as he said, softly, almost to himself, "That one was for you, babe."

After taking care of the dishes, I walked to the hall closet and pulled a blanket off of the top shelf. Tossing it on the couch, I looked at Flack and said, "I think it's time to say 'f*ck off' to today, don't you?"

He stood and crossed his arms, looking defiant. "Liz, you don't have to stay. I'll be fine."

"Look, I know you can take care of yourself. I'm not trying to baby you. Just think of it as a repayment of the debt I racked up when you came to take care of me and Casey after Mom died. That was a lot of nasty-ass Kleenex you had to throw away, remember? Besides, I got here so fast I didn't have time to book a hotel, so you're stuck with me for tonight."

"You're a piece of work, Ryder," he said, rubbing his neck and sighing. "You know where everything is if you need somethin', right?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"All right. I'm gonna try and get some sleep. Thanks for bein' here, Liz." He walked over to me and as we embraced, the full weight of his six-foot-two downtrodden frame sunk down onto my shoulders. I almost staggered under the heaviness of his all-consuming sorrow, but recovered long enough to bear it, even if only for a few seconds. His chest heaved once and then he pulled back, sniffing and wiping his eyes. "Night."

"Night, Don."

After he'd closed his door behind him, I walked around the apartment, cleaning up what I could. As I went I thought about Flack's last 36 hours. It always amazes me how many things can change in a person's life in such a short period of time. Although he was in better shape than some I'd seen in my career, I wasn't sure if he'd ever completely recover from this. I knew he was a strong man--you don't use an Irish temper to make it through the Police Academy if you aren't--but everybody has a breaking point.

Satisfied with the results of my little tidying-up tour, I changed into my makeshift pajamas of a tank top and underwear and, pulling out the book I'd brought with me, sat on the couch and began to read. I'd been engrossed in Frankenstein for about an hour when the bedroom door opened again. Flack stood before me in nothing but his boxers, their light blue fabric contrasting with his tan skin. Under any other circumstances, I would've made a crack about that carpet of chest hair, but all I had to do was look north of Don's scarred torso to see the suffering in his face. The bags that had been present under his eyes earlier in the day were now deep craters of purple and blue. His hair stuck up in every direction, indicating an hour of nothing but tossing and turning.

"You okay?"

He shook his head slowly and looked at the floor. "Lizzie, I have a favor to ask," he said, almost whispering. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to though."

"Name it."

"I can't sleep without knowing that she's next to me. I was always an insomniac before I met her, remember? And now that she's gone, now that I'll never feel her on my other side again--it's like someone ripped the hope of rest right outta my bed."

"You need me to sleep next to you tonight?"

He nodded, almost in tears. "Just until I fall asleep. I gotta get some rest, Liz. I can't keep goin' after the bad guys for her if I'm a zombie."

"No problem."

He turned around and walked back into his room, rubbing his arms to fight off the slight breeze that had snuck into the apartment. Lifting the crisp white sheets on the right side of the bed, he motioned for me to get in. I did so, lying back on Jess' pillow. Stumbling around to the other half, he climbed in and turned on his right side. The last thing he said to me was in a voice of utter exhaustion: "Thank you." He let out a huge sigh and settled into the folds of his pillow.

"Sleep well, Don." Lightly patting his shoulder, I turned off the bedside lamp and reclined once more. Folding my hands behind my head, I stared at the ceiling for a while, sending fragments of cases and patient needs whizzing around my brain while my eyes took in the shifting bluish shadows above. About ten minutes later, I leaned slightly towards Flack, and when I was satisfied that all one hundred and ninety pounds of him were asleep, I slipped quietly out of bed and began padding across the floor. No need for him to wake up tomorrow morning and mistake me for Jess. Too damaging psychologically.

As I reached the door, I turned around one last time to check on Flack. Breathing deeply, the man finally looked at peace. The demons of loss and emptiness would have to wait a few more hours until they could wreak their havoc once more. Walking back out into the main room, I closed the door behind me--leaving my friend enveloped in the safety of the night's arms.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------