Counterfeit Love

When I made my way back out, Chris was in the living space, fumbling through her purse until she found what she was looking for.

A prescription bottle.

She twisted off the cap, reaching inside for two pills, then putting them into her mouth, chasing them with some water, then taking a deep breath as she closed the bottle, dropped it back into her purse, then looked up at me.

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head.

"Nothing to apologize for, doll."

"I've been a crazy person for the past like...ten hours," she told me, rolling her eyes.

"Eh, the past hour was a little crazy," I admitted, softening the words with a smile. "Before that was just a little worrisome."

"When I zone out like that," she started to explain, "there tends to be an anxiety spiral after. Hence the meds," she said, reaching in to grab the bottle again, shaking it. "I just do rescues these days, not the daily stuff. Because I have it better handled than in the past. But yeah. If I zone out, I find something to lose my mind over after. Work not being done properly. My room being messy. Any little thing I can cling to. I woke up still wearing the clothes from last night. That was enough fodder for the fire," she admitted, sighing. "Though, in this case, we really do need to handle the evidence. There is gunshot residue all over it. And likely gravel and such in our shoes. It all has to be dealt with."

"Okay," I agreed, seeing the sense in that. "We can do that. If you're not feeling up to it yet, I can do it. Just tell me how you want it done."

"I'm okay," she insisted, giving me a nod for good measure.

"It's alright if you're not, doll."

"I know that," she agreed. "And a part of me thinks maybe I shouldn't be okay. After that. After doing that. But I am. I'm...okay. I got pulled back there. Back to that room with him, y'know? For a little bit. And my mind shut down. But I'm almost uncomfortably okay with what happened last night."

"Doll, with as fucked up as that bastard was, I don't think anyone could blame you for being okay with what happened."

"Well, my therapist sure would," she said, shrugging. "I can just hear her in my head saying that revenge is not a good healing plan."

"Eh, seems like it isn't doing you any worse, so who cares what she thinks, right?"

"And she can never know anyway," she agreed, shrugging.

"Okay. So what are we doing first? Eating or dealing with the evidence?"

"How about we get something on the go after we deal with the evidence?" she suggested

"Works for me. Are we going to have to like... clean this place again before we head back out?"

"They'll do that for us. Or they better. If we end up in prison because you convinced me that they actually wash the sheets here, I am going to be so pissed," she told me, lips twitching a bit. "What?" she asked when my lips curved upward. "What's that smile for?

"Well, we can guarantee they clean them, can't we?" I asked, going over toward the dining table where we'd forgotten to send back the ketchup from the day before.

"No. You can't do that. I hate people who leave messes for other people to clean up because 'its' their job,'" she insisted, shaking her head.

"Well, we need them to for sure clean the sheets, don't we? Preferably with bleach," I added.

"Ugh, fine," she grumbled, looking unhappy with the whole situation. "But you have to leave them a really big tip then," she insisted.

"I can do that," I agreed.

With that, I messed up the sheets and a bit of the comforter for good measure. Chris handled the clothes, bleached the sinks and tubs, used bleach wipes to run over the door handles, counter, all the hard surfaces.

"Okay?" I asked when she stood near the TV, doing the check-out from there.

"Ah," she said, looking around, and her movements were just the slightest bit slower, less frantic than an hour before, the meds likely kicking in, calming her down. "I think so," she said, wiping off the remote.

We made it back to the car, drove around depositing little bits of clothing here and there until it was all gone. She wiped down the car. We got fast food breakfast. And then we turned the car in the direction we'd come in, heading home to Navesink Bank.

I was both disappointed and happy to be going back.

Disappointed, because it felt like something good was done with.

But happy because I was pretty sure something even better was coming.

"Hey, Finch," she called about an hour later while I fiddled with the music.

"Yeah, doll?"

Pulling up to a red light, she half-turned to me.

"Thank you," she said, eyes all gooey.