From the Heart

anything.”
    “No.” Slade looked down at her hand. It was limp now; he had only to release it for it to fall back on the bed. “That’s what I’m sorry for.”
    “It’s all over now, isn’t it, Slade?”
    Her breathing was deep and even before he answered. “It’s all over now, Jess.” Bending, he pressed his lips to hers, then walked away.

12
    S lade banked down the uncomfortable sensation of déjà vu as he waited in the commissioner’s outer office. His scowl was a bit more pronounced than it had been the first time he had sat there. Three weeks had passed since he had left Jessica’s bedside.
    He’d gone directly back to her home on leaving the hospital. There, he’d had to deal with a puzzled, then furious, then frantic David.
    “Shot, what do you mean shot !” Slade could still visualize the pale, strained look on David’s face, still hear the trembling, angry words. “If you’re a cop, why didn’t you protect her?”
    He’d had no answer for that. Slade had gone up to pack even as David had dialed the number of the hospital. Then he’d driven home, taking the miles to New York in a numbed weariness.
    Slade had told himself to cross Jessica off, as he crossed off what he considered the final assignment in his police career. She’d get the care and the rest she needed. When she was ready to go home, the nightmare would be behind her. And so, he told himself, would he.
    Then fatigue, the bone-deep exhaustion that comes after a long, intense period of tension, did the rest for him. He collapsed into bed and slept around the clock. But she had been the first thing in his mind when he woke.
    He’d called the hospital daily, telling himself he was just tying up loose ends. The reports were always the same—resting comfortably. There were days when Slade had to fight the urge to get into his car and go back to her. Then she was released. He told himself that was the end of it.
    Slade had plunged into an orgy of work. The novel was finished in a marathon sixteen-hour stint while he kept his door locked and his phone off the hook. With his resignation turned in, there were only a few necessary visits to the station house. More loose ends. He signed his contract and mailed his agent a copy of his second novel.
    The reports and debriefings on the smuggling case brought Jessica back too vividly. Slade filled out his papers and answered questions with a brevity that bordered on curtness. He took the professional praise for his work in stony silence. He wanted it over—completed. He reminded himself that his life was his own for the first time in thirty-three years. But she wouldn’t leave him alone.
    She was there at night when he lay awake and restless. She was there in the afternoon when he poured his concentration into the outline of his next novel. She was there, always there, whether he walked the streets alone or surrounded himself with people.
    He could see her on the beach, laughing, the wind grabbing at her hair as she tossed driftwood for the dog to chase. He could see her in the kitchen of the shop, slicing sandwiches while the sun dappled over her skin. Though he tried to block it out, he could hear the way she murmured his name when she lay in his arms, soft and warm and eager. Then he would see her white and unconscious—and her blood was on his hands.
    The guilt would overwhelm him until he threw himself into work again, using the characters he developed to dilute her memory. But they all seemed to have pieces of her—a gesture, a phrase, an expression. How could he escape someone who seemed to know where he would run, how fast, and how far?
    Now, sitting again in Dodson’s outer office, Slade told himself this would be the end of it. He’d known all along that Dodson would want a personal meeting. Once it was done, all ties would be severed.
    “Sergeant?”
    He glanced up at the secretary, oblivious this time to the slow, inviting smile she sent him. Without a word, he rose to follow her into Dodson’s office.
    “Slade.” Dodson leaned back in his chair as Slade entered, then gave his secretary a brief nod. “No calls,” he ordered. “Have a seat.”
    Silently, Slade obeyed while the commissioner sucked pleasurably on a cigar until the tip glowed. Smoke wafted to the ceiling in a spiraling column which Dodson watched with apparent fascination.
    “So, congratulations are in order.” When Slade gave him nothing but the same silent stare, Dodson continued. “On your