Lifeline

Knowing I’m running out of time, the desperate need to talk to O’Brien grows with every step.

He resigned from the bureau.

Am I pushing too hard? Is this his way of severing all ties with me?

God, what am I going to do?

My thoughts are a jumbled mess, just like my memories of the past year. It’s as if nothing makes sense anymore.

When I get home, Lindsay’s eyes search my face, then she gives me a compassionate look. “No luck?”

I shake my head, slumping down on the couch. “What am I going to do?”

She comes to sit on the other couch. “Maybe he just needs time?”

I shake my head hard, recalling the broken shards in his eyes. A bad feeling crawls over me. “With him resigning from the bureau…” I shake my head again, “I get the feeling if I don’t do something drastic to reach him, I’ll lose him for good.”

Sympathy washes over her face. “JJ, I’m not asking this to hurt you, but did you ever have him?”

Doubt rips through me because she’s right. I’m the one who loves him. I got lost in him on that yacht. It might be the total opposite for O’Brien, and he’s leaving to get away from me constantly hounding him.

Lowering my head in my hands, I mutter, “I’m so confused.” Then I grab at a straw of hope again, refusing to give up on him. “He cares, Lindsay. I know he cares.”

“How?”

Lifting my eyes to hers, I admit, “He’s parked across the road every night.”

Her gaze fills with shock, then a smile spreads over her face. “Then you have to go back and try to talk to him again.”

“Either he’s ignoring me, or he’s not home.” I let out a frustrated sigh then an idea hits me. “I’ll wait for him to park across the road, then confront him.” And if he leaves, I’ll freaking follow him.

“What if he doesn’t come?” she asks.

I shrug. “Then I’ll just go to his house tomorrow.”

I stayed up all night, but O’Brien didn’t come.

He didn’t come.

My heart is heavy in my chest, the bad feeling growing.

I’ve lost him, my partner, my love, my everything.

I know it in my gut, but something still has me clinging to hope. It’s the something that has me steering my car to the Upper West Side and not the bureau.

Taking the steps up to the front door, I glance around me to make sure no one sees what I’m about to do and pulling the lock picking set from my pocket, I get to work on the door. I keep glancing around me, and when the lock clicks open, I quickly shove the door open, and with absolute relief and a thundering heart, I sneak into O’Brien’s home. Softly, I shut the door, then glance around the lavish interior of the foyer.

I notice the alarm panel but don’t hear a beeping warning me it will go off at any second, and I hope it means O’Brien’s home.

My breaths fall silent over my lips as I sneak into an open space. A spacious living room’s to my left, a modern kitchen to my right. In front of me is a beautiful staircase, wrought iron going up to the second floor.

Taking the steps, I see a huge family photo of a smiling O’Brien and his parents. I’ve never seen that smile on his face.

Peeking into the first room, my eyebrows pinch together, my heart stuttering from the chaotic mess of furniture, clothes, jewelry, and toiletries. It looks like a tornado swept through the room.

I glance down the short hallway, then up to the third floor.

What if he’s not home?

What if he left?

Afraid I won’t find O’Brien, and he’s gone for good, I inch my way up the stairs.

My heart’s pounding so loud, it’s all I hear as I near another bedroom. Placing my hand on the door, I slowly push it open, exposing furniture, the color scheme blacks and dark grays. The room is incredibly neat, as if no one’s living in it, but then I open the door all the way. The sight of O’Brien, sitting on the floor at the side of the bed with a gun in his hand, the barrel pressed against his forehead, rips the air from me.

I make a panicked sound, and it has his head snapping in my direction, his fingers tightening around the weapon.

Rushing forward, I only manage a couple of steps before my legs give way from the shock, and sinking down, I cry, “No, don’t!” Reaching out a hand, the pleas spill over my lips, “Please, don’t. I can’t live without you. Please!”

He just stares at me as if I’m a ghost, not moving a muscle.

Crawling closer, my eyes don’t leave the gun, fear mixing with panic. When I’m close enough, I slowly reach for the weapon, my eyes locking with his. All I see is raw anguish, and it makes my panic increase tenfold. Moving fast, I wrap my hands around his and turn the barrel away from him before yanking the weapon out of his grip.