Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. Adam Schiff: We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

“How much longer are you two staying here tonight?” Adam asked, tucking his hands into his coat pockets, and Jack shrugged, tiredly rubbing beneath his left eye.

“Hopefully not more than another hour.”

Claire covered her mouth to stifle a yawn. “I’ve got just a couple more depositions to review. If you want, I could probably draft—”

“You’ll do no such drafting, Ms. Kincaid,” Adam said with his usual firm but caring assertiveness. “You both need to get some rest before tomorrow. Finish those depositions and go home, that’s an order.” A smile twitched on his lips as he spoke, and he could see tired grins pulling at Jack and Claire’s expressions, too.

“Thanks, Adam.” Jack offered him a goodbye wave. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Adam nodded, and with a final glance at his two best attorneys sitting a mere foot and a half apart on the cushiony old couch in Jack’s office, he took his leave. At 12 minutes to 10 PM, this was considerably later than Adam ever liked to depart from work, and he knew Ruth was mourning his absence at home. He’d have to make it up to his wife this weekend—maybe take her out to a nice dinner.

Adam stepped into the elevator and watched the metal doors slowly close before him, cutting off his sight of Jack and Claire, who were still flipping through files on Jack’s couch. They were brilliant prosecutors, the both of them.

Both were as discreet as they were brilliant, too.

The fact of the matter was that their closeness could be innocently explained, and Adam was in no hurry to find any illicit goings-on between them. He pressed the elevator button to take him down to the first floor, though his thoughts remained on his assistant DAs.

They worked well together, it was undeniable. Jack’s zealousness was tempered by Claire’s reason and Claire’s passion was brought to the forefront under Jack’s intensity, however contrary his intensity could be. Even if there was hanky panky going on behind closed doors, it wasn’t interfering with their work, which was Adam’s priority. And their work…

Their work was damn good.

Claire had really come into her own as Jack’s assistant. Ben Stone had been more of her mentor, in Adam’s observation, while Jack—so long as his ego was checked—wasn’t afraid to treat Claire as a less experienced equal, for better or for worse. Mostly better, Adam liked to think.

Of course, Jack had more or less treated all of his previous assistants as equals. It was both his respect for their abilities and his own prosecutorial talent that attracted Jack’s coworkers to him, Adam suspected, and he had to wonder if Claire was any different.

Adam shook his head, silently reprimanding himself for even entertaining the notion that more responsibility should be shouldered onto Jack’s partners than onto Jack. Who was he to blame a young woman for finding an intelligent man who appreciated her work attractive? When all was said and done, Adam ought to recognize that it was Jack who should know better, especially after striking out three times before.

For Pete’s sake. Third time really should’ve been the charm.

And who knew, maybe it had been? Maybe Adam was jumping to conclusions about the way Claire and Jack’s eyes would meet a second too long, how they sat just far enough apart to salvage a claim of propriety, how their hands would linger on each other’s forearms when they thought no one was looking.

Adam bit back a chuckle. Right. Discreet, but not subtle. That’s what Jack and Claire were.

But officially, Adam knew nothing, and as long as he officially knew nothing, he would say nothing official.

The elevators opened on the first floor, and Adam stepped through, adjusting his hat as he walked. He thanked the officers at the front doors of the building as he headed outside, only to be met with the biting chill of Manhattan fall and the unmistakable sting of a nighttime drizzle.

Of course he’d left his umbrella in his office.

Adam sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Eager as he was to get home, and short as his walk through the rain would be to get to the parking garage and his car, he was far too old to risk hypothermia, no matter how slight said risk was.

Adam turned around, resigning himself to a trip back upstairs to retrieve his umbrella.

“Back so soon, Mr. Schiff?” one of the officers said with a smile, and Adam chuckled.

“I didn’t think to check the forecast before I left.”

Adam stepped past the officers and went back up the elevator he had come down only minutes before. The silence of the normally bustling building seemed more pronounced on his return, where the only sound was the humming of the elevator’s gears and pulleys as it raised him back to the appropriate floor.

With a level of stealth that surprised even himself, Adam retrieved his umbrella from his office without interrupting any of the remaining attorneys still hanging about, of which there were not many besides Claire and Jack. As Adam began his return trip to the elevator, he habitually glanced at Jack’s office.

Claire was now pressed into Jack’s side as they sat on his couch, a position intimate but not indecent, and Jack had an arm around her shoulders. Claire held a manila file in one hand, tiredly explaining something to Jack with the help of vague gestures from her other hand.

Oh, did Adam recognize the softness in Jack’s eyes as he watched his best EADA stare with ill-disguised affection at his brightest ADA.

Damn.

Round and round they went.

Jack said something that made Claire do a double take before covering her mouth with her hand, presumably to muffle a laugh. Jack grinned at her reaction, an expression that became softer when Claire—her upper body still shaking with silent laughter—dropped her head onto his shoulder.

When Jack gently ran a hand up and down her arm before pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her hair, Adam took the actions as his cue to leave.

“Good grief,” he muttered as soon as the elevator doors slid closed before him. He sighed, shaking his head with thinly veiled exasperation. “Here we go again.”

For Christ’s sake. Now Adam had received confirmation of the very matter he’d actively sought to avoid knowing about.

Well, perhaps he didn’t ‘know’ by the letter of the law. The anti-fraternization policies in the district attorney’s office didn’t have the sharpest of teeth, and in terms of their literal articulation, intra-office romances were heavily discouraged, not affirmatively against policy. For one, Adam did not know the extent of Jack and Claire’s relationship and whether it could be classified as a ‘romance.’ And secondly, ‘discouraged’ was the key implication—outright forbidding such romances was impractical if not impossible, and those who had initially drafted the relevant policies were aware of that.

In fewer words, Adam could easily wash his hands of the matter, moving on with his life like he hadn’t seen a thing.

Adam snorted as the elevator dinged, signifying his return to the first floor. Who was he trying to fool? The spirit of the law told him he ought to put a stop to Claire and Jack’s nonsense before someone got hurt.

And based on past experiences of those two, someone always got hurt.

Adam sighed again, stepping out of the elevator as the doors creaked open. Really, what were they thinking? Against his advice and no doubt against their own better judgment, those two had nonetheless let sparks become flame, and one day it was going to end in an uncontrollable blaze.

Perhaps that was a bit pessimistic of him. But Claire was young, impressionable, and Jack was older, experienced—such a recipe was one universally known to go sour.

Adam nodded to the officers again as he passed them, this time clicking open his umbrella before he stepped outside into the chilly drizzle.

The key difference between Claire, Adam decided, and those that came before her, was that Claire was the antithesis to Jack McCoy in ways Ellen, Sally, and Diana had not been. Where Ellen had her head in the clouds, perfect for Jack to dazzle into accepting a marriage proposal, Claire kept her feet firmly on the ground. Where Sally had been a realist, pragmatic in precisely the same way as Jack, Claire was an idealist who truly believed in the world’s potential for good. Where Diana had been unfalteringly loyal, a trait Jack had repeatedly taken for granted, Claire never hesitated to go to metaphorical blows with him.

And for those reasons, those sharp differences, Adam found that he couldn’t predict when this affair would end.

But, he reminded himself, as he had observed earlier, neither Claire nor Jack was letting their relationship interfere with their work. If he hadn’t left his umbrella in his office, Adam would never have received this unholy confirmation that any boundaries had been crossed.

Adam had seen how Jack looked at her. He’d seen how Claire laughed with Jack, and he’d seen how they both held the other with gentle touch. One glimpse had spoken a thousand words to their affection that evidently ran a few miles deeper than mere erotic passion.

Ah, to hell with it.

Who was Adam to deny them a little happiness, however temporary that happiness might be?

The world could sure use more of it.

2. Anita Van Buren: Folks, I’m telling you, / birthing is hard / and dying is mean— / so get yourself / a little loving / in between.

Lennie and Mike didn’t believe her when she brought it up.

“Kincaid?” Mike said, skeptical. “No way. She’s too married to her work to be going steady with anybody.”

Lennie voiced his agreement—“Sorry, but I can’t imagine a long-term boyfriend is high on an assistant district attorney’s to-do list”—and Anita rolled her eyes.

“Listen, you two. I’m not saying she’s dating a man who’s got husband potential. But in a high stress environment like the DA’s office—”

“What, more stressful than our work?” Mike said, affronted, and Anita pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. She loved her detectives, she really did, but sometimes these men tried to turn everything into a dick-measuring contest.

“When I ask you to investigate Lord knows how many cases, prep witnesses, be in court, and deal with Jack McCoy all in one day, Detective Logan, then you can come talk to me about how your stress levels compare with ADA Kincaid’s,” Anita said. She tilted her head, as if daring Mike to challenge her on this.

Mike held up a hand in surrender. “Fair enough.” He snorted. “I’d go crazy if I had to work with Jack McCoy for hours at a time.”

“My point exactly,” Anita said. “But as I was saying, Claire works in a very high stress environment. Without some kind of stress relief, most lawyers aren’t gonna make it.”

“So, because Claire hasn’t cracked yet, we’re supposed to believe it’s because she’s got some new squeeze?” Lennie said with his patent mixture of sarcasm and dry amusement, and Anita sighed.

“Okay. Fine. I’m done talking to you two jackasses.” She pointed at the door. “Out. Consider your lunch break over.”

“Aw, come on, Lieu—”

Anita ignored their pathetic pleas. “If I don’t walk by your desks and see you hard at work in the next ten minutes, whoever pisses me off more has to recanvas all of Tenth Avenue.”

Their eyes widened at the threat, and though of course it was an empty one, Anita had spoken with just enough sincerity to make them wonder—precisely her goal. She waved them out of her office, and they departed in guilty silence.

Boys. Her own kids could be more mature than those two, and one of them hadn’t even reached double digits yet.

But, she reasoned, maybe this was a sign from God that she shouldn’t gossip about an ADA’s love life behind their back. Anita liked Claire, and she didn’t want to feed the rumor mill about what Claire was doing in her free time. Especially not after Thayer.

That said… Anita knew what she’d seen. The skip in Claire’s step? Unmistakable. Ms. Kincaid was having a better time in her bedroom than most.

Maybe Lennie had been right, or, at least, on the right track, when he’d said Claire had a ‘squeeze’ on the side, although Anita might have preferred a different term. All the same, she agreed with his doubt that Claire had a steady boyfriend.

Nonetheless, Claire had evidently found someone who could show her a good time, and as Anita had said—in the district attorney’s office, she was not about to begrudge anyone for finding their particular means of stress relief.

Even though Anita told herself she wouldn’t get involved, she couldn’t help but subtly broach the subject with Claire the next time their paths crossed.

“That’s a solid ID,” Claire said, and she smiled at the young girl who’d picked the man that shot her mother out of a lineup. “You did great, sweetie.”

“Can I—Can I take her home now?” the girl’s other mom asked, voice thick with barely withheld tears, and Anita stepped in.

“Yes ma’am. We appreciate how difficult this was for you.” She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and guided her to the door, instructing the sergeant waiting outside to show the family out.

Meanwhile, Claire turned her attention to the defense attorney who had watched the ID proceedings in silence. “Well, Mr. Dunlap, your client will be arraigned on murder two this afternoon—”

The lawyer held up a hand. “I get the picture, Ms. Kincaid. Is Mr. McCoy available to meet tomorrow morning, let’s say… 10 o’clock?”

Another smile, this one perhaps tinged with smugness, twitched at Claire’s lips. “I’ll talk to Jack.”

The lawyer nodded. “Alright. I’m a patient man.” He put on his hat, tipping the brim toward Claire and then Anita. “Have a good one, ladies.” With that, he took his leave, and Claire turned to smile at Anita.

“Great job convincing the mother to let her daughter make an ID, Lieutenant. A kid as an eyewitness doesn’t always hold up on the stand, but—”

Anita nodded. “I know. Once you show the jury pictures of this girl covered in her mother’s blood, they’d be tempted to convict the son of a bitch on that alone.”

“And Dunlap knows it, which is why he wants to meet. Jack’s gonna try to push for a full count of murder two, but if Dunlap is willing to play ball, I’m sure I can convince Jack to knock a few years off the maximum.”

Claire glanced at her watch, and for a moment, a hint of distress flitted across her features, though it disappeared as soon as it came. “If you’ll excuse me, Anita, I have to leave now or I’m going to be late for a meeting.”

Anita glanced at a clock on the wall. The hour hand was about to strike noon, which meant any ‘meeting’ Claire was late for right now had to be one that involved food and drink. She couldn’t stop a smile from dancing at her lips as she followed Claire out of the interrogation room and into the main hall of the precinct.

“Does he treat you right, Claire?”

Claire stiffened, glancing at Anita with eyes a fraction of an inch wider than usual. Wariness hovered within them. “I’m sorry?”

Anita held up her palms. “I apologize, I don’t mean to pry. I should say that I’m not seeking the identity of your new… companion.”

She offered Claire a comforting smile, not unlike how she would smile at her two boys to reassure them they hadn’t done anything wrong. “We’ve known each other several years now. I’d like to think we’re friends, or at least a little closer than people who occasionally see each other through work.”

Claire chuckled at the latter half of Anita’s comment, some of the tension in her shoulders easing. “Yes, I’d like to think we’re more than that, too.”

They continued walking down the hall toward the precinct’s exit. Anita noticed Mike and Lennie’s eyes following them, but she ignored their unspoken attention. After all, they hadn’t believed her.

“So again, I don’t mean to press into what’s not my business.” Anita paused at the door that would lead Claire out of the precinct, placing a hand on the metal handle. “I just want to know if he’s treating you right, because you deserve nothing less than the best, Ms. Kincaid.”

Claire laughed. “Thanks, Anita,” she said, and the smile she gave Anita was warm as a summer’s day and even more sincere. “I appreciate that.” She switched her briefcase to her other hand. “If he starts acting out of line, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Good. And if he’s not sorry, I’ll make sure he changes his mind.” Anita pulled the door open for Claire, a grin dancing across her lips. “Take care, counselor. Don’t let McCoy work you too hard.”

Claire laughed. “I won’t. Thanks again.”

As she stepped over the steel threshold, Claire paused, reaching out to catch the door as Anita let it go. “Wait, Lieutenant.”

Anita turned around. “Hm?”

Claire hesitated, pressing her lips together, then shook her head. “How did… How did you know?”

An amused glint glittered in Anita’s eyes, her grin widening. “Because no prosecutor I’ve ever met looks happy at 7 AM unless they were having a very good time in the hours before.”

A blush crept up Claire’s cheeks, and Anita had to bite her tongue to hold back a laugh.

“Right,” Claire said, averting her eyes from Anita’s. “That.”

“Don’t worry, counselor,” Anita said, motioning as if to zip her lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

After another moment of hesitation, Claire nodded, and the small smile she gave Anita was tinged with gratitude. “Thanks.”

Anita waved goodbye as Claire took her leave with finality, hailing a taxi to presumably drive her to whatever lunch ‘meeting’ she was on the borderline of being late for. And, true to her word, Anita never mentioned their conversation or the probability of Claire’s new relationship to anyone. Mike and Lennie must have forgotten she’d brought it up to them, because they never pried, either. In fact, Anita didn’t think much about Claire or her mystery man at all for the next several weeks, simply because her friend’s love lives were not part of her job description, no matter how dearly she cared for them.

The truth of Claire’s partner rang clear as a bell for Anita, however, after a particularly tension-laden verdict was released.

“Jury’s back,” Claire said, breathless, her dark hair flying astray from its normally perfect bob as she shoved open the door to where Anita and Jack were discussing some of her testimony for an upcoming trial. It was little more than busy talk, truth be told, an effort to distract themselves from the very jury Claire had just spoken of.

It was a nasty case. A white woman had slaughtered an entire family because they were Japanese. The district attorney had argued it was a premeditated hate crime, the defense claimed she’d had a dissociative episode. It should’ve been a slam dunk case, but as a Black woman, Anita knew better than most the ability of a white woman to cry herself into an acquittal or a mistrial for a race-related crime through a few well-placed tears of false regret. She knew Claire and Jack had been worried, too, because one WWII veteran had made it on the jury, and there was the undeniable concern—however slight—that he might hang the jury for the wrong reasons.

Anita glanced at Jack, hoping to get a read on the verdict from his expression, but his eyes remained solely on Claire as she leaned against the door frame, running a hand through her hair while she caught her breath.

“Any indication?” he asked, and Claire shook her head.

Anita got to her feet. “Then let’s not waste any time.”

They were silent but for their breathing as they returned to the courtroom. Claire and Jack took their seats at the prosecutor’s table while Anita sat in the first row behind them. The echo of the jury’s footsteps against the wooden floor boomed like thunder as they filed into their seats, and Anita knew the knot in her stomach didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of coming undone until the verdict was delivered.

The foreman, an elderly Vietnamese man, handed the folded paper to the court officer, who passed it on to the judge. The judge opened the page, looked it over, then returned it to the officer. Once the foreman again had the white paper in hand, the judge spoke.

“Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.” Despite his age, the man’s voice was steady, unwavering.

Anita wished she could be so assured.

“On the first count of the indictment, murder in the first degree of Suzuki Daigo, how do you find?”

Anita’s mouth was dry, both hands clasping the other with enough force to cut off her circulation.

“We find the defendant guilty.”

An exhale permeated the right half of the courtroom, including one that escaped Anita’s own lips as tension rushed from her shoulders like a waterfall.

Guilty. Oh, thank God, guilty.

“On the second count of the indictment, murder in the first degree of Suzuki Moriko, how do you find?”

“We find the defendant guilty.”

A cry escaped the woman’s lips, her knees buckling as she fell against the shoulder of her attorney, but Anita felt no sympathy. Not for premeditated, bigoted mass murder by a woman used to getting away with everything.

As the judge and jury went through the rest of the charges, Anita found herself turning to watch Claire and Jack’s reaction unfold before her. Their shoulders had slumped in relief, too, as they turned to meet each other’s eyes after the finding on the first charge was read.

“We got her,” Anita heard Claire whisper, and slight though it was, she didn’t miss the forward motion of Claire’s arm, nor the consequential smile that flitted onto Jack’s lips as their gazes met with identical, unmistakable softness.

She was holding his hand, Anita realized, eyes widening. Or—no. More likely, she’d given his thigh or his knee a quick squeeze. Something brief, something subtle, something under the table that no one would recognize as more than platonic companionship for the shortest of seconds.

Well. That answered multiple questions, some of which Anita hadn’t known she had.

After the judge thanked the jury for their service, Claire and Jack turned around to face Anita, and she did her best to push thoughts of their no-longer-secret relationship to the back of her mind.

“Thank you,” Anita said, and the grateful smile she gave the prosecutors was genuine. “For nailing her to the wall.”

Claire shook her head. “No, thank you, Anita.”

“Your testimony was crucial in establishing the racial bias behind the crime,” Jack said. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Anita chuckled as they all got to their feet. “I say we call it a team effort, counselors.”

The defendant was taken away, and the crowd of reporters and assorted onlookers gradually filed out of the courtroom. Jack went over to speak with one of the victim’s sisters about sentencing and a possible victim impact statement. Anita expected Claire to join him, but instead Claire motioned for her to step aside.

“Seriously, Anita,” she said once they were semi-alone. “Thank you. If you hadn’t held up so well on cross, Alice McKnight might’ve gone free.”

Anita smiled. “I appreciate that. But I’ve had several years of practice when it comes to not letting defense attorneys get to me. This case was nothing special.”

They both knew that was a lie, and they were both okay with pretending it to be true, anyway.

“Jack and I will be going out for drinks tonight,” Claire said, shifting the conversation an inch to the left, “to celebrate the guilty verdict. Would you like to join us?”

Anita had to fight back an amused smile. “Oh, no. I appreciate the offer, but I’m not one to intrude between lovers.”

Claire’s eyes widened, and Anita put a hand on her shoulder before her young friend could spiral into panic.

“Relax. I’m not one to gossip, either.” She gave Claire’s shoulder a quick squeeze before pulling back. “But if McCoy ever needs a reckoning, let me know.”

Claire opened and closed her mouth, evidently unsure how to respond, but she was saved from having to when Jack called her over to speak with another of the victims’ relatives.

“Good luck, Claire,” was all Anita said as she interpreted Jack’s request to Claire as her own cue to leave, her black heels quietly clicking against the tile floor as she made her way to the courthouse exit.

Jack McCoy, huh?

Damn, he had to be at least twice her age. Part of Anita had hoped Claire learned a thing or two from her mistakes with Thayer.

Then again, maybe she had. And maybe that was why Claire was acting on her feelings for Jack instead of keeping them to herself. Hell, it wasn’t Anita’s business, anyway.

All the same…

Anita shook her head as she headed down the courthouse steps, the afternoon sun warm against her back. She sure hoped that girl knew what she was doing. Otherwise, she might be in for a world of pain.

Anita wouldn’t let her ride the wave alone, though. No, girls had to stick together in this business, and even more than that, Claire was her friend. Anita would support her best as she could through thick and thin, even if said thick and thin happened to be a decades-older lover.

Besides.

A smirk twitched at Anita’s lips, and she had to bite her tongue to hold back a chuckle.

If McCoy gave Claire a bit of much-needed stress relief, Anita sure as hell couldn’t begrudge her that.

3. Mike Logan: Secrets have a way of making themselves felt, even before you know there’s a secret.

“Lieutenant, we got him!” Mike called as he entered the station with Lennie and Profaci in tow, a bucking perp held in handcuffs between them. They pushed him into a holding cell as Anita stepped out of her office, eyes widening in realization as she saw the newly locked-up man.

“Thomas Hoxton.”

“That’s the one,” Mike said as Hoxton spit on the floor of the cell. They’d been looking for this guy for the past three days. Not only was he the principal suspect in a double homicide, but someone had been sending threats—credible threats—to the DA’s office regarding his developing case.

Claire Kincaid had been on the receiving end of a particularly nasty phone call, much to the anxiety of Adam Schiff and Jack McCoy, though Claire herself had remained resolutely—impressively—calm about the entire matter. She’d even refused police protection.

“I want a lawyer,” Hoxton growled, slamming his chest into the bars. “You can’t arrest me without a warrant!”

Anita glanced at Mike, who rolled his eyes.

“We showed the dipshit the warrant like ten times,” he said, and Lennie nodded in confirmation, holding up the signed paper in his left hand.

Anita sighed. “Alright, as long as that’s clean.” She turned to Hoxton. “You’ll get your lawyer, Mr. Hoxton. Do you have one in mind, or should my detectives connect you with somebody from legal aid?”

“Just give me a fuckin’ phone,” he sneered, and Mike could tell his lieutenant was resisting her own urge to roll her eyes.

Stepping away from the bars, Anita waved her men aside.

“Profaci, Briscoe,” she said, “I want you two to get Mr. Unpleasant over there his phone call. Make sure he doesn’t try anything stupid, and be sure to tell his lawyer to get down here ASAP. Logan”—she checked her wristwatch—“look, it’s only half past 9. Claire might still be at the DA’s office. I’ll call, and if she’s not, I want you to check her apartment. We need her to do a voice ID as soon as Hoxton’s lawyer gets here. This case can’t wait.”

Mike nodded, and with their orders given, everyone split apart. He followed the lieutenant into her office, leaning against the doorframe while she dialed the district attorney’s office.

“Hmm,” she murmured, tapping her fingers against the phone. She put the phone down and dialed another number. Several rings, but— “No answer from her or McCoy’s line.”

“Try Schiff?” Mike suggested, and Anita nodded.

“Nope,” she said after another failed call. Anita dug around for a slip of paper inside her desk, pulling out a sheet with a list of numbers. “I’ll call her apartment.”

For what to be the trillionth time, in Mike’s indubitably accurate opinion, they got no response.

“Damn,” Mike said when the lieutenant called Claire’s apartment a second time and still no one picked up. “Should we be worried?”

Anita rolled her eyes. “Mike, Claire is a beautiful young woman. When you were a handsome young man, did you immediately go home the second you got off work?”

“‘When,’” Mike scoffed, though he was grinning. “Okay, point taken. But we still need her here.”

“Uh huh. Thanks, Detective Obvious, I got that much.”

Mike snickered as Anita clipped her pager off her belt before scribbling down something on a small notepad.

“Listen. I’ll send her a page. If she calls me back and lets me know where she is, I’ll page you with the update. Until then, start heading to her apartment, just in case she’s on her way there now and that’s why she hasn’t answered the phone.”

“Roger that,” Mike said, giving Anita a mock two-finger salute that earned him another eye roll.

“Get going, detective.” Anita ripped the top sheet off the notepad and handed it to Mike, which he realized had to be Claire’s address. “Hoxton’s lawyer won’t take too kindly to us dragging them out here after 10 PM for a voice ID.”

“They’re the one whose client is the most wanted man in the city,” Mike retorted, but he dutifully turned around and made his way out of the squadroom.

Claire’s apartment wasn’t the closest place in the world to the 27th precinct, Mike soon discovered, but with the not-so-terrible traffic of 9:37 PM Manhattan and his regular habit of pushing the speed limit, he pulled up to her place a few minutes before 10.

Mike checked the apartment number on the sheet Anita had given him, confirming it was on the second floor. Some well-intentioned resident tried to stop him as he headed toward the stairs, but a quick flash of his badge made their eyes widen, and they hastily stepped out of his way as they asked what was going on—a question Mike ignored.

261, 262, 263… Ah, there it was, 264.

Mike folded the notepad paper and tucked it into his back pocket. As he reached up to knock on Claire’s door and announce his presence, however, Mike cut himself off with the sharp snap of his jaw shutting before a single syllable could leave his tongue.

Her door was open.

It was just a crack, barely a centimeter wide. An opening so slight no one would notice if they were just passing by.

Mike lowered his hand that had been ready to knock, the other instinctively dropping to rest on the holster of his gun.

Van Buren had said not to worry about Claire, if not in those exact words. But Mike Logan had known Claire Kincaid for two years, and she was not the kind of person to ever leave her apartment unlocked, much less the door open.

Mike tried to rationalize with himself. They’d picked up Hoxton on the opposite side of town from where Claire lived, which meant the odds of him having gotten to her before he was tracked down by the NYPD were slim to none. But then again…

Shit. There was no guarantee Hoxton had been working alone.

Mike unclipped his gun from his holster. While the legal quandary of whether or not Mike had a ‘right’ to enter Claire’s apartment was one he’d let the district attorneys deal with, the moral issue was straightforward: Claire Kincaid could be in danger.

Mike had to go in.

He entered the apartment silently, nosing the door open with his pistol before cautiously stepping inside. A quick glance of his surroundings didn’t reveal any obvious signs of an intruder, so Mike allowed himself a single whisper. “Claire! Are you here?”

No response.

Mike took a longer look at Claire’s apartment. Items from her kitchen counter had been pushed to the floor, he noted, including a set of keys. Her purse hung askew from a coat rack beside the door, and her blazer was crumpled on the ground as if it had been torn off and thrown aside. On the small coffee table beside her couch—

Mike’s eyes widened.

Someone had unplugged her phone.

Damn, was all Mike could think, and his grip on his gun tightened.

A loud thud snapped Mike to attention. He held his pistol in front of him with both hands as he slowly made his way down the main hall of Claire’s apartment, following the echo. The door at the end of the hallway was shut, but the faint sounds of rising voices could be heard through the white-painted wood as he stepped closer and closer.

“—need to watch where you’re—”

“—was an accident—”

“—could’ve broken my arm, then we’d have to—”

“—come here, come here, let me see—”

“—trying to kill me?!”

Mike shoved the door open with his right shoulder, holding his gun out in warning. “NYPD, nobody move!”

A single glance over the room told Mike everything he needed to know.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, one hand releasing his gun to pinch the bridge of his nose. “For crying out loud.”

Claire’s eyes widened in horror from where she was half sitting, half lying on the ground by her nightstand, white blouse unbuttoned and halfway untucked to expose the tan bra she wore underneath as well as much of her bare stomach. Still on the bed, Jack McCoy snorted, his gray hair severely mussed and his own button-up shirt partially undone.

“Mike?!” Claire hissed, frantically pulling her blouse closed. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“We were a little busy, Detective Logan,” Jack drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips that made Mike’s eye twitch.

“You, shut up,” Claire snapped to her—well, her colleague and apparently her little bedbug, Mike now knew. She got to her feet to glare at Mike, still rebuttoning her blouse. “You, start talking.”

Mike clicked his gun back into its holster. “How about I give you both a minute to get decent, counselors?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

With that, he left Claire’s bedroom, and he had no intention of looking back.

Of course, the muttered string of curses that followed Mike through the hall made him bite back a snicker, especially because he knew Claire’s venom was directed as much at Jack McCoy as it was at him.

Damn. McCoy, huh?

Mike thought Claire would’ve had better taste.

True to his word, Mike took a seat at the small table in Claire’s kitchen, absentmindedly fiddling with her salt and pepper shakers. Within five minutes, he was joined by Claire, Jack only a few steps behind her. They both sat on the side opposite him. When Jack draped his arm around Claire’s shoulders, she sent him a warning glare, but Jack shrugged and left his arm in place.

“Something tells me he already knows, Claire.”

Claire stared at Jack a beat longer, an indecipherable expression flickering in her brown eyes, before she proceeded to sigh and return her attention to Mike. “Logan. Please explain what the hell you’re doing in my house.”

“Well,” Mike said, leaning back in his seat and habitually tapping his fingers atop the table, “I was coming to collect you for an emergency voice ID of the guy who’s been threatening the DA’s office.”

Jack’s eyes widened at his words, gaze flickering from Claire to Mike and back again.

Suddenly, Mike mused, Jack’s heightened concern for Claire’s safety made a little more sense. It was one thing for him to be worried about a close coworker.

It was quite another to be fearful for the life of his lover.

“When you didn’t pick up the phone,” Mike continued, gesturing behind him in the vague direction of one of her unplugged landlines, a motion which made a fiery blush creep up Claire’s neck and a snicker escape Jack’s lips, “Van Buren told me to check your apartment. I got here, found the door open, and assumed the worst. Especially after the wreckage I saw littering the front.”

He jutted his thumb toward Claire’s blazer, still thrown haphazardly on the floor. This time Jack broke into uproarious laughter, shoulders shaking, while Claire buried her face in her hands.

“Stupid,” Mike heard her mutter into her palms. “For Pete’s sake.”

Entertaining as this conversation Mike never expected to have was, he still had business to take care of. Dealing with Hoxton was priority.

“Listen, counselors,” he said, lacing his fingers together and resting his clasped hands on the table in front of him, “I’m sorry for interrupting an intimate encounter, but I’m not sorry you’re here, Claire. We need you down at the station right away.”

Claire sighed, the sound muffled. “Yeah, I know.” She extracted her face from her hands, shooting Jack a deadly glare as he attempted to stifle his continued snickering. “Hell, I’d stay at the precinct overnight if you needed me.”

A grin twitched at Mike’s lips, and Jack gave Claire a faux wounded frown. “Aw, Claire—”

Entertaining as it might have been to witness another lovers’ squabble between these two, Mike had stepped on their toes enough times tonight with his untimely entry. He stood from the table, stepping back and pushing his chair in. “I’ll wait outside the door, Claire. Whenever you’re ready to go.”

Claire nodded, and she, too, stood. “Thanks. I’ll just be a minute.”

Even standing outside Claire’s apartment—with the door fully shut this time, might he add—Mike could still catch fragments of their conversation, one that began with Claire berating Jack and Jack being a smug shit—

“You left the fucking door open, Jack McCoy, see if I ever get in bed with you again.”

“Hey, I seem to remember there being two of us equally distracted by the other.”

“You are insufferable.”

“Insufferably attractive?”

—and ended with Jack all but begging Claire to let him accompany her to the precinct to complete the ID.

“Claire, this guy is dangerous. I don’t want you facing him alone.”

“I won’t be alone, I will be with the entire 27th Precinct.” She snorted. “I won’t even be facing him, if you think about it. I’m making a voice ID. Either I’ll have my back to him or he’ll have his back to me.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Jack. You worry too much.”

“Because I care.”

Mike’s eyes dropped to the floor at the quiet fervency of Jack’s final words, an unexpected guilt inching into his chest about overhearing these snippets of their private conversation. Thin walls, he tried to tell himself, not his fault, but he wasn’t sure he was convinced.

He heard Claire sigh. “Then stay here, okay? You’ll be able to see my return yourself. I’ll be back in an hour, tops.”

Jack chuckled. “What, you’re not banning me from the building?”

“Mm. Don’t tempt me.”

A few moments later, Claire joined Mike, offering him an apologetic smile that was still tinged with the pink-cheeked heat of embarrassment. “Sorry about that. Let’s go.”

Mike nodded and led her down to his car, holding the passenger door open for her to climb inside. The trip was quiet, at first, with Claire looking out the window in her adamant attempt to avoid meeting Mike’s eyes, but eventually she sighed, pressing her head back into the headrest.

“Mike.”

“Hmm?”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Tell anyone what?”

Claire glanced at him, and even with his eyes on the road Mike could tell she was scrutinizing him for the intent behind his words. He sighed.

“Counselor, what you choose to do and who you choose to do it with is your business, no one else’s. Capiche?”

Gratitude flickered in Claire’s eyes. “Thanks.”

“That said,” Mike continued after a pause, shifting in his seat to face Claire after coming to a stop at a red light, “there is one thing I have to know before I begin my vow of silence.”

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Unplugging the phones? Really?”

Claire groaned, closing her eyes and probably wishing she could disappear into thin air. “Jack didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Mike snorted, unable to stop himself from breaking into a wide grin as the light turned green and he pulled through the intersection. “Well. Guess that backfired.”

“Put a cork in it, Logan, or I’ll press charges for breaking and entering.”

But when Mike shot Claire a half-paranoid glance, he found that she, too, was smiling.

4. Lennie Briscoe & Rey Curtis: Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it isn’t so.

“Come on, Rey, we’re off to the DA’s office,” Lennie said, stopping to grab his beige coat off the back of his chair. He snapped his right hand to catch his partner’s attention. “Call it a field trip.”

Rey chuckled, and Lennie could’ve sworn he heard him half-whisper something about a “Ms. Frizzle,” but Rey’s following question came too quickly for Lennie to further contemplate the soft-spoken words.

“What for?”

“Eh, just some follow-up info on the Brantley case.”

Rey raised an eyebrow as he stood and pulled his own coat off the back of his chair. “Doesn’t the DA usually come to us for that?”

Lennie shrugged. “Yeah, but we need to head in that direction anyway to reinterview a witness, so might as well make the trip.” A grin twitched at his lips. “Van Buren also wants you to meet McCoy and Kincaid in-person. It’s a two-for-one kind of stop.”

Lennie watched as Rey glanced at the lieutenant’s office across the squadroom. From inside, Anita gave them a knowing smile before making a decisive shoo gesture with her left hand.

“Guess that’s our orders,” Rey muttered, and Lennie chuckled, clapping Rey on the shoulder before they started making their way out of the precinct.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said as they walked. “She just wants to make sure everybody’s on good terms before some big case falls in our laps and we’re all at each other’s throats.”

Rey nodded, though it was clear to Lennie from the tightness of his jaw that his partner was still unconvinced. Ah, well. Hopefully this pseudo-meeting with Kincaid and McCoy would pass quickly and easily for the benefit of them all.

“So, what are they like?” Rey asked after they’d piled into the car and Lennie had started navigating them to the district attorney’s office.

“What are who like?”

Even in his peripheral vision, Lennie could see Rey roll his eyes.

“The DAs, Lennie.” Rey glanced at him. “I know you don’t like me much compared to your last partner, but we can at least pretend to be civil.”

Lennie swallowed an irritated response, because he wasn’t so oblivious to his own behavior as to deny he’d been giving Rey a bit of a hard time. Besides, Rey had a point—why couldn’t they pretend to be civil? Hell, maybe one day it’d stop being pretend, too.

“Adam Schiff is the district attorney proper,” Lennie said. “I voted for him in the last election, if that gives you any confidence.”

“More like takes it away,” Rey joked, and Lennie snorted.

“Got me there.” Lennie turned left as the signatory arrow at the intersection changed from green to yellow. “I’ve only met Schiff once or twice. Us detectives usually interact with his minions, the assistant district attorneys. Major felonies and the like.”

“That’s McCoy and Kincaid?” Rey guessed, and Lennie nodded before shooting him an inquisitive glance.

“I know you probably dealt with a whole different set of lawyers in OCCB, but you can’t tell me you’ve never seen Jack ‘Hang ‘em High’ McCoy making headlines before.”

Rey chuckled. “Yeah, he’s popped up once or twice. Deborah tends to keep up with the news more than me, though.”

“Let me guess—hearing news through the job is bad enough.”

“Right on the money.”

Lennie nodded in commiseration. “Hey, I can respect that.” He stopped at a red light, sending another sidelong glance toward Rey. “So who are you itching for a profile of first, EADA McCoy or ADA Kincaid?”

Rey shrugged. “I guess you should start with the big fish.”

“Ah, Jack McCoy.” Dry amusement crept into Lennie’s tone. “He’s a damn good prosecutor, but sometimes he finds ways of getting under your skin that you never expected.”

Rey snorted as the light turned green and Lennie pulled through. “Is that a gentle way of saying he can be an ass?”

“Pompous, self-righteous, the whole nine yards. Kinder folks might call him driven.” Lennie grinned at Rey. “Like I said, he’s a great prosecutor. It just makes you wonder how to reckon with him as a human being.”

Based on Rey’s nod and the slight purse of his lips, a brief shadow of concern cast over Lennie that he might be portraying McCoy to his partner with a tad more harshness than deserved. He and the lieutenant really didn’t need his junior detective clashing with the senior EADA before they’d even met.

“He’s not a total wild card, though,” Lennie added. “McCoy genuinely believes truth underpins justice, and whether you like him or not is up to you, but that belief makes it hard not to respect him.”

Rey seemed to need a moment to let Lennie’s words soak in, which was fine with Lennie. Talkative though he’d numerous times been labelled, his mouth was starting to get dry from the nonstop chatter. Hopefully the DA’s vending machine was still working—he’d need a bottle of water.

“So Jack McCoy, smart but stuck-up,” Rey summarized, and had Lennie known Rey better, he might have cackled at the perfect description. Instead, he merely chuckled.

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner.” Lennie paused at a stop sign before turning through the umpteenth intersection. Another five minutes, max, and they’d be at the DA’s office.

It was truly amazing how time could fly when the conversation wasn’t terrible.

“What about ADA Kincaid?” Rey asked. He reached inside his jacket pocket, smoothing something down against his chest. “Is she anything like her boss?”

Lennie shook his head. “Oh, no. Take everything I said about McCoy and apply the opposite—then you’ll have Claire Kincaid.” He snorted. “Except for the intelligence part. Claire is smart as a whip, too. It’s why she and McCoy are so good at their jobs.”

Rey nodded. “Okay. So Kincaid is… more humble and practical than McCoy.”

There was a questioning lilt to the end of Rey’s words, and Lennie decided it would be rude to leave him hanging. “Yep.”

He paused, deliberating over his next words. “Claire is… a bit more of an idealist, too. A little fresher out of law school. Not saying she doesn’t believe in justice, but she also believes in a more worldly sense of ‘good’ that someone my or McCoy’s age had eroded away a long time ago.”

A small smile twitched at Rey’s lips. “I imagine they must butt heads a lot.”

“Oh, sure. Claire’s not just a good—hell, she’s a necessary influence on McCoy. Need a counterbalance for his outrageous tenacity somewhere.” Lennie could see the DA’s office looming ahead—apparently it was closer than he’d thought. How convenient. “But hey, maybe that’s what they see in each other. ‘Opposites attract’ and all that good stuff.”

Lennie found that hadn’t been the case for his past marriages, but he wasn’t exactly the gold standard to be measured against.

Rey raised an eyebrow at Lennie’s final comment. “What does that mean? They’re together?”

Lennie shrugged. “It’s all very hush hush. What you know, you don’t know. Everybody looks the other way.”

He pulled the car into the nearest parking spot before throwing Rey a sideways glance. “You get my drift?”

Rey frowned, brow furrowing in confusion. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you say McCoy was your age?”

“About five years younger, yeah.”

“And… Ms. Kincaid is fresh out of law school?”

Lennie chuckled. “I was exaggerating a tad, but yes, I think she’s yet to hit the big 3-0.”

Rey stared at him, an expression of equal parts shock and disbelief floating across his face, and Lennie resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he put the car into park.

“Come on, Rey, you’re gonna give yourself a headache if you keep thinking that hard.” Lennie removed the keys from the ignition, flipping the metal ring around his fingers. “Surely it’s not the first time you’ve heard of two people who work together being attracted to each other.”

“No,” Rey admitted, “but someone so much older? The way you’ve described Ms. Kincaid, I find it hard to believe she’d go for a guy like McCoy.”

Lennie shrugged. “Maybe she has a thing for older men, who’s to say?” He was fond of Claire, sure, and he didn’t want to see her get hurt, but she was a grown woman—her choices were her own.

He wasn’t her father, either, nice as it might have been to have her as a kid.

Lennie popped open his door. “And I told you, it’s all under the table. I don’t know about it, and neither do you.”

He stepped out of the car, waiting until Rey followed suit to lock the vehicle. He dropped the keys in his coat pocket before joining Rey on the stone steps of the DA’s office. Rey was still shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Lennie, I just don’t see it.”

Lennie snorted. “Well, maybe you’ll see it when you see them.” He clapped Rey on the shoulder as they began walking up the stairs. “Trust me, Rey. I’ve been married twice—I know what sneaking around looks like.”

That got a chuckle out of Rey, and Lennie grinned as he held open the door for his partner before they together headed into the building.

~*~

For all Lennie’s commentary on the alleged relationship between EADA McCoy and ADA Kincaid, Rey hadn’t been convinced, not when he’d first met the two prosecutors nor during his various run-ins with them in the weeks after. They seemed close, sure, but lovers?

Rey had a beautiful wife. He knew what love looked like, and he was yet to notice any such affection expressed between McCoy and Claire.

Then again, he supposed discretion would be their number one priority if—if—they were engaged in any extracurricular activities with one another, so he didn’t discount that such a possibility might hinder any potential clues.

All the same, Rey didn’t believe it. Their relationship wasn’t his business either way, and he certainly wasn’t searching for confirmation or a lack thereof, but nonetheless—no.

He just didn’t see it.

“You’re gonna ask for remand without bail, right?” Rey asked Claire as they and Lennie stood outside the arraignment courtroom, and Claire smiled.

“Yes. Jack and Adam don’t want this guy back on the street any more than you do, detective.”

Rey nodded, relieved. “Good.”

Nick Capetti deserved to rot in jail for the rest of his life for what he’d done, kidnapping and killing that little girl. The lieutenant had berated Rey for his over-empathizing, chastisement which he’d unquestioningly deserved, but that still didn’t negate Rey’s increased desire to nail this son of a bitch.

He had three daughters, and they were his world. Rey didn’t want scum like Capetti anywhere near them.

Claire glanced at her wristwatch. “Almost time.”

Lennie started to ask Claire about the trial, if there was any way the DA’s office could actually get the needle for Capetti, but their conversation was interrupted by a woman with short auburn hair—Karen Gaines, Rey realized upon Lennie’s identification, and sympathy hummed in his chest.

Poor woman. To have her daughter brutalized like that…

“Am I too late?” the woman asked, clutching the strap of her purse like a lifeline.

Claire shook her head. “No, they haven’t brought him in yet. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Mrs. Gaines nodded, and Rey couldn’t help but notice an unusual tenseness to her shoulder as she passed him on her way inside.

Well, given the circumstances, perhaps that tension wasn’t so unusual after all.

“Will we be heading in soon?” Lennie asked, and Claire nodded.

“Should be any minute now.”

True to her word, Claire only glanced at her wristwatch twice more before gesturing for them to follow her. Rey and Lennie kept near the back of the courtroom as Claire headed to the front. Toward the edge of his vision, Rey noticed Mrs. Gaines slipping into the front row beside her ex-husband.

“Case number 62395, People v. Nicholas Capetti. Charges are murder in the first degree and kidnapping in the first degree.”

“Give me a plea,” the white-haired judge demanded, pushing up his glasses as he peered down his nose at Capetti.

Rey couldn’t see Capetti’s expression from behind, but he just knew that the son of a bitch was wearing a cocky grin somebody ought to wipe off his face.

“Not guilty,” Capetti said, and the judge nodded.

“Ms. Kincaid? What are the people looking for on this?”

“The victim is a 12-year-old girl, Your Honor. The defendant has a prior—”

Time slowed as Claire was cut off by the resounding bang of a gunshot echoing in the small courtroom, shrill screams filling the air as Capetti crumpled to the floor like a rag doll. Rey could see Claire’s entire body flinch at the sound, a shaking hand rising near her face before she, too, dropped to the ground. In the front row, Karen Gaines stood with a smoking gun clenched in her hands, tears streaming down her pale cheeks as the quivering barrel remained pointed at Capetti’s lifeless body.

“You bastard!” she shrieked, voice cracking. Mr. Gaines looked on at her in horror, and Rey and Lennie didn’t wait a second longer to jump into action. “He killed my baby!”

“Call EMS!” an officer shouted as he dropped down beside Capetti’s prone, bleeding body. Screams and stampeding feet continued to echo throughout the courtroom.

“Get that gun,” Lennie ordered, and the uniformed men nodded before doing as instructed, Rey following seconds behind them.

Rey was relieved to note Mrs. Gaines put up no fight as multiple officers disarmed her and pulled her hands behind her back, clicking handcuffs onto her wrists with frightening efficiency. With her and her weapon secured, Rey performed a quick scan of the room.

One court officer was speaking into a walkie talkie, presumably calling in the incident, while two others were attempting to stem the blood that streamed like a waterfall down Capetti’s back.

Rey had a feeling it was a lost cause.

Stepping forward, he noticed Claire was still crouched on the ground. Rey hurried over to her, carefully cradling her shoulders as he helped her to her feet.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asked, and she nodded, though her hands were shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

“No, I’m okay. I’m okay,” she stammered, and Rey glanced down at the blood covering the right half of her face and gray blazer. Not hers, he prayed, though the alternative wasn’t much less gruesome.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I can’t”—she shook her head—“I didn’t see what happened.”

“It’s okay, counselor,” Rey said, slipping into the calming tone he would use with near-victims and other terrified bystanders. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath. You’re fine.”

He gently rubbed Claire’s back as she inhaled deeply, and though her hands were still shaking as she exhaled, the frightened wideness of her eyes had decreased. Rey kept rubbing her back, his other hand still on her shoulder, and Claire leaned into the comfort of his stabilizing touch.

“I can’t believe this,” she murmured. Claire’s eyes flickered over to Capetti’s gushing corpse, and she flinched.

Rey instinctively shifted to stand in front of her, blocking her vision of the body. He still didn’t know Claire too well, but in his experience, most prosecutors didn’t see more than pictures of victims.

No reason to give Claire more nightmares of this day than she was already going to have.

“God,” Claire muttered, the quivering fingers of her right hand reaching up to brush her blood-spattered face. The scarlet liquid that stained her fingertips made her blanche. “Oh, God.”

Rey paused in the slow circles he was still rubbing across her back to pull a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his jacket. “Here,” he said, tucking it in her hand. “Go clean yourself up. Get some water, do whatever you need. After that, I’ll have to take your statement.”

Claire shook her head. “No, I can’t. I have to call Jack, or Adam, we need to figure out what we’re doing with Mrs. Gaines—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Rey reassured her. “Right now, Ms. Kincaid, you need to get some air.” His tone brooked no argument, and after a pause, Claire reluctantly nodded.

“Okay.” She gave him a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, detective.”

“Just doing my job.”

After making sure Claire was able to get out of the courtroom, Rey pulled his cell phone out of his jacket, dialing the lieutenant’s number.

“Van Buren.”

“Hey, LT,” Rey said, thankful she’d picked up on the first ring. “Lennie and I are at the courthouse. There’s been a shooting, we’re gonna need—”

“Don’t worry, detective. CSU and paramedics are already on their way.”

Rey exhaled in relief—Lennie must have already contacted her. “Thank God. Listen, Nick Capetti was shot in the back by Karen Gaines during his arraignment.”

“So I’ve heard. Any other victims?”

“No, just Capetti. Got a lot of terrified witnesses, though. Kincaid was pretty shaken up.”

“Jesus, Claire.” Van Buren’s tone transformed from pragmatic to concerned in the blink of an eye. “Damn. Is she okay?”

“Physically, yeah, but she was only a few feet away from Capetti when he was shot.” Rey shook his head. “I don’t think she’ll be forgetting today anytime soon.”

He motioned for a court officer to approach him, switching his phone to his other hand. “She asked me to let McCoy and Schiff know what happened. Something about figuring out what to do with Mrs. Gaines.”

Rey could hear Van Buren blow air between her lips. “Right, what they want to charge her with.”

There was rustling on her end of the line, and Rey could’ve sworn he heard her mutter something about ‘McCoy,’ ‘freak out,’ and ‘blow a gasket,’ but she moved on before he could ask. “I’ll talk to the DA. You focus on taking statements and—and keep an eye on Claire for me, alright?”

“Done deal. I sent her to wash up and get some air before I take her statement.” Rey paused when the court officer joined his side. “Give me a sec, LT.”

He covered the mouth of his cell as he directed his attention to the uniformed woman. “You know ADA Kincaid?”

When she nodded, he continued. “Look, she’s probably in one of the women’s bathrooms right now. I want you to check on her, make sure she’s okay. When she’s ready, bring her back to me. Got it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Thank you.”

When the officer departed, Rey returned his phone to his ear. “Sorry about that. It’s chaos in here.”

“No need to apologize.”

“Do we have an ETA on paramedics?”

“Less than three minutes. CSU should be there shortly after.”

Rey nodded. “Okay, good.” A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I should stop tying up your line, I know you’ve got important calls to make.”

Van Buren chuckled. “Just keep me updated on the situation, detective.”

“Copy that.” Rey shut off his cell with a high-pitched beep, a sharp sound nonetheless barely discernible in the shouts and footsteps still flooding the courtroom. After tucking his phone back into his jacket, Rey took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and got to work with Lennie.

The next hour passed in a hurried haze. Rey and Lennie took an infinite number of statements that all effectively said the same thing: a woman with short auburn hair shot Capetti in the back, in the side, in the shoulder during his arraignment. Whatever the woman was charged with, Rey had no doubt it’d be a slam dunk with a dozen sets of near-unanimous confirmation.

At one point, Rey took Claire’s statement, too, ordering that the female court officer stay at her side for the time being. Claire didn’t protest, for which Rey was silently grateful.

As the chaos decreased, bystanders were allowed to leave. After receiving a call that Capetti was declared DOA at the hospital, Rey, Lennie, and a pair of uniformed officers took Mrs. Gaines into a side room in the courthouse, still in handcuffs, until a decision was made on what to charge her with. Mr. Gaines insisted on joining them.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Gaines repeated for the umpteenth time, face pale as she sat at the small wooden table. She stared down at her locked wrists. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t say anything, Karen,” her husband interrupted, his tone tinged with warning and distress. “Not until the lawyer gets here.”

Lennie snorted. “You’re gonna need one, Mrs. Gaines.”

Rey shot him a sidelong glare. Really, Mrs. Gaines’s actions were almost understandable. Easy to condemn, sure, and condemn Rey did, but… not too hard to sympathize with, either.

Not when he had three little girls of his own to go home to.

The door to the room creaked open, snapping Rey out of his thoughts. It was Claire, he realized after a beat. Claire and another uniformed officer.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said, pushing her frizzy hair out of her face as she shook her head. “Mrs. Gaines is under arrest, murder in the second degree.” She gestured for the officer to take her away, wincing when Mr. Gaines sprung to his feet in his ex-wife’s defense.

“Murder?! Haven’t we been through enough—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gaines,” Claire repeated, “but there’s nothing I can do.” She nodded to the officer. “Take her to the station. Allow Mr. Gaines to accompany her if he wishes.”

With that, the Gaines couple was cleared out of the room, and Lennie instructed one of the two uniforms still with them to join Mrs. Gaines on her trip while Rey told the other to go get a summarized report from CSU. After that, only Claire and the detectives remained.

“You sure you’re okay, Ms. Kincaid?” Rey asked as they stepped out of the small room. He noticed for the first time that she’d wiped the blood off her face, though her blazer was still splattered with drying crimson.

Claire nodded, taking a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” She tilted her head, a strained laugh escaping her lips. “Or I will be.”

Rey exchanged a worried glance with Lennie, but as Lennie moved to address Claire, they were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps rushing down the courthouse hall.

“Claire!”

Jack McCoy, Rey processed after a pause. He almost didn’t recognize the prosecutor for his lack of suit and tie, not to mention his utter absence of typical courtroom decorum.

Jack stopped in front of Claire, panting and brow furrowing with worry as he looked her up and down. “Jesus Christ, Claire,” he said, one hand touching her shoulder stained with blood. “They said—They said you weren’t hurt—”

“It’s not my blood,” Claire hastily promised, and the panic that dissipated from McCoy’s body was palpable as his shoulders dropped in relief. “I was close to Capetti, but that’s all. Nobody else got shot.”

“Thank God,” Jack whispered, hand shaking as he traced the outline of Claire’s bloodied shoulder. “When we got the call, I thought—” He couldn’t finish, cutting himself off with an unsteady breath.

Claire, her own hand newly shaking, caught Jack’s hand in hers and gave it a firm squeeze. “I’m okay.”

She stepped closer to Jack, all but eliminating the minimal space between them as she squeezed his hand a second time. “I promise. I’m okay.”

Rey watched their intimate interaction with muted surprise. Never before had he seen the imperturbable Jack McCoy falter, and yet here he was, demonstrating a depth of concern akin to Rey’s protectiveness for his own wife.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Well. Looked like Lennie might have been right about them after all.

“Goes to show you I’m never wrong, Rey,” Lennie said with a self-satisfied grin when Rey confided in him later about his newfound suspicions, and Rey rolled his eyes.

“Right. You keep telling yourself that, Lennie.”

5. Margot Bell & Danielle Melnick: Do not set aside your happiness. Do not wait to be happy in the future. The best time to be happy is always now.

Margot was not stupid. Claire Kincaid had been sleeping with somebody new for about two million weeks now, and as her closest friend, Margot believed she had a right to know who. But no, Claire wouldn’t budge. It had taken Margot all of forever to get her to admit there was a new somebody! And even that admission had been unwittingly coaxed out of Claire.

“Claire, honey, I know this is not your tie,” Margot had said, a smidge triumphantly, as she held up the length of red silk, and Claire’s face had heated like a blistering summer day.

“Fine, there is a guy,” Claire had said, equal parts sharp and embarrassed, “but that is all you get to know.”

And Margot had counted that as a victory, because at the end of the day, she didn’t ever want Claire to feel pressured to reveal more about her life than she was comfortable with, no matter how curious she might be.

Of course, Margot’s concern for Claire did not negate her inquisitive nature and opportune instincts. In other words, tonight she and Claire were attending an anniversary gala hosted by the New York State Bar Association—along with 90% of the other lawyers in the city and quite a few from outside Manhattan, too—and Margot suspected Claire’s new side gig would be there. Why?

Well, the fact that Claire repeatedly, if subtly, kept checking her appearance before they’d left her apartment to hail a cab gave her away. Claire wanted to look nice for someone, and Margot was determined to figure out who.

Honestly, Margot should have long since realized Claire would be dating a lawyer. They were probably someone she’d met at or through work, too, because Margot knew all too well that Claire put in 15 hours a day on a regular basis, often more during tough cases—there was no way she could’ve had time to meet somebody outside of work.

All in all, Margot’s plan for the night was simple: have a good time with Claire, but while doing so, keep an eye out for any lingering stares her friend engaged with across the dance floor.

Claire was fiddling with the slender silver bangles that decorated her left wrist as they entered the building—Margot vaguely recognized it as a fairly prestigious event hall the city often rented—but her fingers soon drifted up to twist the loose waves adorning her hair.

“Hey,” Margot said, catching Claire’s hand and giving her a gentle smile, “you look beautiful. Trust me.”

Claire took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Maybe I should have straightened my hair like I usually wear it—”

“And let all your associates miss out on how drop dead gorgeous you are with your natural look?” Margot shook her head. “No way. Let yourself glow, Claire.” She gently bumped Claire’s hip with hers. “Lord knows you deserve it!”

A smile tugged at the corners of Claire’s lips. “How do you always know what to say?”

“I was a psychic before I became a lawyer.”

Claire laughed, and Margot was pleased to note that some of the tension eased from her friend’s shoulders. She gave Claire’s hand a quick squeeze before releasing it.

“Come on. Let’s head inside.”

Margot and Claire were on the earlier end of arrivals, a result of Claire’s intense need for punctuality, and as such they had the opportunity to mingle with other people who were sticklers for timeliness, most of whom were judges.

They did, however, also run into Danielle Melnick, a woman Margot only knew by her impressive reputation but recalled Claire had encountered in court at least twice before.

“Ms. Kincaid!” Danielle said brightly, offering her hand for Claire to shake. “It’s been too long. And may I say that you look absolutely stunning?”

Claire laughed as she accepted Danielle’s hand. “You’re too kind, Ms. Melnick.” She gave her a warm smile. “I trust you’re doing well?”

“Oh, you know me—a certified optimist. If I’m not doing well, I should probably be in the hospital.” Danielle turned to face Margot. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, Miss…?”

“Bell. Margot Bell,” Margot said, and they exchanged a brief handshake. “Wow. I can’t believe I’m actually”—Margot shook her head, awestruck—“I have heard so much about you, Ms. Melnick. You’re a real inspiration for me.”

“It’s true,” Claire said, grinning. “Back at Harvard, Margot would always seize the opportunity to do her reports and projects on your cases.”

Margot flinched in faux dismay. “Ouch, really exposing me here.”

Danielle laughed. “I see you two have known each other for quite a while.”

“Hard to get much closer than sharing a crappy apartment in law school,” Claire quipped, and Danielle grinned, lifting up a glass of champagne Margot hadn’t noticed she was holding in her other hand.

“I’ll drink to that.”

Their small talk continued for a few more minutes, including Danielle asking Claire if she knew when—or if—Jack would be arriving tonight. Claire hesitated, saying Jack had told her he was coming, but also that he and Adam had something to take care of at the office, so they might be late.

“Classic Jack,” Danielle said, rolling her eyes, and Claire laughed.

“Tell me about it.”

An appeals court judge soon joined them to steal Danielle’s attention, so Claire and Margot said their goodbyes before journeying to the other side of the room to retrieve some champagne for themselves. They also seized the moment to snack on some of the hors d’oeuvres, as the main dishes were yet to be displayed. Margot was happy to observe that Claire had relaxed even further since they’d entered the main hall—a sure sign they could take the rest of the evening by metaphorical storm.

As Margot sipped her champagne, she casually surveyed the rest of the guests filing into the room. She wasn’t too great with names—except case names, and only because she had no choice—meaning she knew more people by face than formality, but soon two figures entered that even she could admit to identifying: DA Adam Schiff and EADA Jack McCoy. Both men were shaking hands and smiling cordially as they entered—such classy, professional fashion.

Margot opened her mouth to tease Claire, who was currently chatting with Judge Yee about a case that would likely be heading to the US Supreme Court and what ruling the justices might produce, but her voice disappeared in her throat when Margot noticed the way Jack McCoy’s eyes traced the crowd to finally land on Claire.

Even from afar, affection and awe were discernible in his gaze, his attentive gaze that lingered on Claire like no one else was in the room but her.

That look…

Oh, shit.

Claire’s boss was her new boytoy?!

Margot berated herself for her instinctively derogatory approach to the matter, especially given the fact that McCoy was obviously the silver fox here. Sure, Margot wouldn’t deny he was easy on the eyes, but—but at best, Christ, he had to be twice Claire’s age.

Hadn’t Claire learned from her mistakes?

Margot had been told about Thayer before… the rest of the world, as it were. Claire had mentioned him, briefly, during a drunken session she and Margot had shared to celebrate Claire moving into a new apartment. It was recently after the affair ended, or so Margot had gotten the impression, and Claire had regretted letting it last as long as it did.

And now here she was, sleeping with her superior again.

No. No, Margot was jumping to conclusions. And even if she was correct in her assumption, she shouldn’t compound it with the unnecessary negativity that Jack McCoy was anything like Judge Thayer.

All the same…

Yeah, Margot needed to have a talk with Claire.

The second Judge Yee was pulled into another conversation, Margot tugged Claire away to a more private corner of the room. Claire gave her a confused frown.

“Something wrong?”

Margot took a calming breath. She cared about Claire. If she didn’t approach this correctly, she might end up pushing her friend away, which was the last thing Margot wanted.

“I get it, now,” Margot decided to say, working with a touch of tact. “I get why you couldn’t tell me about your new boyfriend.” She tilted her head toward Jack, who was engaged in conversation with… Danielle Melnick, by the looks of it.

Claire’s eyes widened at Margot’s insinuation, which only confirmed to Margot she’d hit the nail on the head.

“How did you—”

Margot snorted. “He wasn’t exactly subtle about giving you goo-goo eyes from across the room, Claire.”

Claire muttered a curse under her breath. She sighed, weariness sinking across her features as she shook her head. “Margot, please. You can’t say anything.”

Margot frowned. “Whoa, whoa.” She made an ‘x’ across the left side of her chest, atop the general vicinity of her heart. “I’m no snitch, Claire.”

Claire hesitated, but she nodded, her shoulders dropping in evident relief. “Right. Thank you.”

“But I am your best friend,” Margot continued, “and if you don’t mind, I’d like to know why.”

Claire grimaced. “Why what?” she said, and Margot knew damn well her friend’s question was mere filler, an avoidance of the obvious, but figured it would do no harm to entertain it as legitimate.

“Why you think sleeping with Thayer 2.0 is a good idea.”

“Right,” Claire murmured, tapping the side of her empty champagne glass with her perfect French nails.

Margot sighed. “Claire, I’m not gonna force you to tell me anything.” That would only end poorly. “I just want to understand where you’re coming from.” And not to mention see if there was any chance Margot could talk some sense into her before this affair ended in a royal explosion worse than the first.

Their conversation paused when a waiter came by with a metal platter, offering for them to place their empty glasses atop it, which they both did with quiet thanks. After he departed, however, Margot returned her attention to Claire, who took a deep breath, tucking her wavy hair behind her ear.

“I told myself I wouldn’t, you know. At the beginning, I actually told him I wasn’t interested. And yet…” Claire shook her head, a half-laugh escaping her lips. “Here I am.”

Margot nodded, not wanting to interrupt.

“It was just a sort of… stress relief at first,” Claire continued, fiddling with her silver bangles. “The sparks were there, so why not turn up the heat and let off some steam?”

An amused smile tugged at Margot’s lips as her friend mixed metaphors. “Right.”

“And then one morning…” Claire shrugged. “A Sunday morning, I think, I woke up in his bed, and I was still in pajamas. I found him in the kitchen making me a cup of coffee, and I suddenly realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept with a guy to literally just… sleep with him.”

Margot barely managed to bite back a low exhale of ah, shit, instead choosing a more delicate approach. “So, you caught feelings?”

Claire laughed at her juvenile description, which was the precise reaction Margot had been aiming for. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

Margot glanced toward Jack, who was now slow dancing with Danielle. “Does he feel the same?”

Pink crept up Claire’s cheeks as she averted her eyes from Margot’s. “Unlike you, I wasn’t a psychic before I became a lawyer. I can’t read minds.”

“Come on, Claire—”

“I know, I know, you’re worried.” Claire shrugged. “We haven’t talked about it. But he’s mentioned a joint vacation…” Her cheeks darkened further. “To Tuscany.”

Margot’s eyes widened. “Shit, Claire! Italy?”

Claire sent her a warning look, and Margot promptly dropped her volume.

“Sorry.” Margot exhaled, shaking her head. “Damn. That’s quite a trip.”

“Tell me about it.” A longing smile danced onto Claire’s lips. “I’ve always wanted to go to Florence. I was teasing Jack about it one day, and”—she chuckled—“well, I didn’t think he’d take it so much to heart.”

Margot could only nod slowly, trying to process the sudden influx of information as best she could.

One, Claire was sleeping with her boss again. Upon first glance, not great. Two, ‘sleeping’ had apparently evolved to encompass the entirety of the literal and metaphorical spectrums. And three, there were apparently plans for a romantic getaway. To Italy.

Jesus Christ.

“Do you love him?” The question slipped from Margot’s tongue before she could catch herself, and Claire winced.

“It’s… complicated.”

Go figure.

“Could you love him?” Margot asked instead, and Claire hummed, shrugging.

“Maybe.” She glanced at Jack, who was still dancing with Danielle. “Maybe someday.”

Margot had discerned two very important things from her conversation with Claire. The first was that Jack McCoy was not Joel Thayer, thank the Lord. The second was that Margot could not be sure whether Jack and Claire’s relationship would end in beautiful fireworks or a destructive explosion. She didn’t doubt that it would end, necessarily—all good things eventually did.

But until that end came, Margot sure as hell was not about to refuse her friend a shoulder to cry on, an ear to whisper in, or anything else she might need.

Margot reached out to squeeze Claire’s hand. “I’m happy you’re happy, Claire. And if you ever need to talk, I’m always available.”

Claire returned Margot’s squeeze with a gentle one of her own. “Thank you.” A relieved smile tugged at her lips, and she shook her head. “You know, I’m kind of glad you figured it out. I don’t like keeping secrets from you.”

“I’m amazed you managed it for this long. I can normally read you like a cheap magazine.”

Claire laughed. “You sure can.”

Margot released Claire’s hand, tilting her head toward Jack. “Why don’t you go ask him to dance?”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “In public?”

Margot rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to grind against him, Claire.” Ignoring Claire’s flurry of embarrassed protests, Margot pressed onward. “Just leave some room for Jesus between the two of you and everybody will think you’re just a couple coworkers enjoying each other’s company.”

Face still red, Claire spared a glance at Jack. “You sure?”

“When am I not?”

Claire tilted her head. “Fair enough.” She offered Margot her hand. “But I’d like to share my first dance of the night with you, Ms. Bell. If you don’t mind.”

Margot grinned, not missing a beat as she placed her hand atop Claire’s. “Ms. Kincaid, it would be an honor.”

~*~

The second Danielle caught sight of Jack McCoy, she was all but falling over herself to strike up a conversation with him.

Ick, no, that was far too degrading of a descriptor. Danielle loved Jack McCoy, she did, if not to the bedroom, though the latter sure wasn’t for a lack of trying on Jack’s part. His romantic efforts toward her had been concentrated way back in the early days of their friendship.

Ah, good times.

But simply put, Danielle dearly enjoyed Jack’s company—son of a bitch though he was—and far too often their interactions were restricted to opposing sides of the courtroom despite the fact they’d known each other for almost thirty years. They needed to start penciling a monthly lunch reunion into their respective schedules, or else Danielle might have to take more drastic measures.

As she started crossing the room to join Jack, Danielle didn’t miss how his eyes took a slow survey of his surroundings, a survey that came to a grinding halt as his gaze landed on—

Oh, damn.

Claire Kincaid.

To those who did not know Jack McCoy, his attention on Claire might be attributed to their status as coworkers, and close, dynamic ones at that. But Danielle did know Jack McCoy, and above all, she knew that look. It was a look of attraction, of passion, of affection, so blatant and yet wholly suppressed to avoid giving away the status of a not-so-secret lover in public. Danielle had seen it directed toward Ellen, Sally, Diana, even toward herself once or twice.

Danielle shook her head. Really, how hard was it for a man to keep it in his pants?

Harder for Jack McCoy than most, apparently.

Plastering on a smile, Danielle joined Jack and Adam on the opposite side of the room, waiting politely for them to wrap up their conversation with Judge Ianello.

“Danielle Melnick,” Adam said as Ianello stepped away, greeting Danielle with a smile and nod. “Good to see you, young lady.”

“‘Young lady’?” Danielle echoed with a laugh. Ha, she wished. “Always a flatterer, Mr. Schiff.”

“So my wife tells me.”

Danielle responded with her most charming grin before she shifted her attention to Jack. “And you, Mr. McCoy—how have you been?”

Jack laughed. “‘Mr. McCoy’? Hop off it, Danielle.” He placed a hand on her forearm, leaning down to press a kiss to her right cheek, and Danielle reciprocated the gesture. “How’ve you been?”

Danielle waved her hand dismissively. “Same old, same old. Beating the pants off malicious prosecutors, getting innocent clients acquitted—you know how it is.”

Jack grinned. “I’ve missed you, too.”

As Adam struck up a conversation with Judge Boucher, Danielle tilted her head toward the center of the room, where a few couples had already started dancing. “Shall we?”

Jack offered her his hand. “My lead or yours?”

Danielle grinned as she placed her hand in his. “Do you even have to ask?”

Dancing with Jack was easy, light, an almost ritualistic comfort that made Danielle feel like it had only been days since they’d last seen each other instead of God knew how many months. Any other time she might have let the small talk linger, let the casual conversation continue floating between them like the strings of the gentle violin permeating the room, but—

Well, Danielle was not a patient person.

She cut to the chase.

“You know, Jack,” she said as she led him through a slow box step across the floor, “I really thought the third time would’ve been the charm for you.”

Jack raised a brow. “I’m sorry?”

“Ellen, Sally, Diana. Most people get wiser with age. They stop making the same mistakes. But not you, Jack.” Danielle shook her head. “Not you.”

Jack sighed. “Danielle—”

“Let me finish, Jack,” she said sharply, and after a reluctant pause, Jack tilted his head for her to continue. “Honestly, I don’t know whether to be disappointed or appalled. How old is she? 24? 25?”

Jack didn’t respond. Good, because Danielle didn’t want him to.

“Ms. Kincaid is a brilliant, bright young attorney. She doesn’t deserve to have her career thrown off its tracks because you can’t control your libido.”

Jack snorted at her brazen commentary, and a smile twitched at Danielle’s lips despite herself.

“You finished tearing me a new one?” he asked, seemingly more amused than upset by her accusations, and Danielle sighed.

“For now.”

“Thank you.” Jack released one of Danielle’s arms to guide her through a brief spin in their dance, and the grin he gave her as he pulled Danielle back in toward his chest reminded her that this was Jack—a bastard, sure, but not some bottom-of-the-barrel lowlife like her clients could be.

It was only right that she gave him a chance to explain himself.

One chance, though. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You realize anything I’m about to tell you has to remain off the record,” Jack said, and Danielle nodded. Just because Danielle disapproved didn’t mean she would squeal—her time was far too valuable to waste on dull disciplinary proceedings about who was sleeping with who.

In fact, Danielle’s time would be better spent continuing to chew Jack out, which was the more likely path she would take. Depending on his response, at least.

“Claire and I have been seeing each other for two years now.” Jack dropped his voice to account for potential eavesdroppers, but Danielle stood plenty close to him as they danced for the accuracy of her hearing to remain unaffected. “And for what it’s worth, I didn’t let myself make the first move.”

Danielle studied him with narrowed eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”

Jack shrugged. “Chemistry is chemistry, Danielle. You don’t think I can be patient?”

Danielle snorted. “Need I remind you of the multiple bouquets of pink roses you left on my doorstep after—”

“Okay, point taken,” Jack said, rolling his eyes, though an amused grin pulled at his lips. “But I’m serious. Claire told me she wasn’t interested, so I let it be.”

Danielle suspected Jack’s idea of ‘letting it be’ still involved subtle flirting and here-and-there physical contact that lingered a second too long to be strictly platonic, but she didn’t protest. Best not to keep interrupting him.

“One thing led to another, and…” Jack shrugged. “Now we practically live in each other’s apartments. I think more of my clothes are at her place than my own.”

Danielle arched a brow at that comment, a reaction which did not go unnoticed by Jack.

“Still think I’m a cradle-robber, or have I planted the seed of doubt?”

Danielle wrinkled her nose at the moniker. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Jack chuckled. “Fair enough.”

They completed another box step, now moving to spin in slow circles together.

“Look,” Jack continued after a pause. “I’m not interested in trying to defend myself, because I haven’t done anything wrong. As long as Claire keeps letting me be the one to make her happy…” He shrugged again. “I plan on sticking around.”

Danielle pursed her lips. “I see.”

This time she was the one to lead Jack through a small twirl, stretching her arm as high as it would go for him to duck underneath it. By the time they were facing each other again, both were smiling.

“What about you?” Danielle asked after a pause. “Are you happy?”

“You really want to know?” Jack said, not quite surprised, though apparently not quite expecting the question, either.

“Uh, hello?” Danielle said pointedly, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “One of your closest friends for almost three decades? Of course I want to know.”

Jack chuckled. “Right. Forgive me.” He shook his head, an affectionate smile still tugging at his lips. “You’re something else, Danielle.”

“Oh, don’t you dare get soft on me now.” But Danielle, too, remained smiling.

After a lingering silence, Jack nodded. “I am happy. Claire is…” He exhaled. “Too good for me.”

“Damn straight.”

Jack shot Danielle a faux irritated look, and she responded with an innocent smile.

“Love you, too, Jack.”

The song winded to a close, and Jack and Danielle separated to applaud the musicians with the rest of the gathered crowd.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this,” Danielle said, her tone edged with equal parts concern and warning, “but you are walking down a dangerous road. If you don’t pay attention to the street signs, you’ll end up taking the same wrong turns.”

Not her best metaphor, all things considered, but she was improvising.

“Treat her right, Jack,” Danielle said with finality. “You have no idea how much you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Jack nodded, accepting her words and subtle criticism without protest. “If I told you,” he said after a pause, “that I wanted things to be different this time, would you believe me?”

Danielle met Jack’s eyes, scrutinizing them and any other of his features that might give away more than mere words could.

“You know what?” she murmured, lifting her chin. “I just might.”

Jack could only grin at her in response.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, startling them both out of their reverie. “Am I interrupting?”

Danielle turned to see Claire had joined them, a small smile dancing on her red-stained lips. “Not at all, Ms. Kincaid,” she said. “I was just thanking Jack for being such a marvelous dance partner.”

Jack snorted. “Danielle overstates my elegance.”

“Well, someone’s gotta keep your ego all nice and shiny.” Danielle tilted her head to Claire. “Let me guess—you’re here to judge Jack’s dancing abilities for yourself?”

Claire laughed. “If he doesn’t mind, yes.”

“Of course he doesn’t mind,” Danielle said, lightly elbowing Jack in the side before he could refuse out of some ridiculous desire for professional decorum. Dancing with one’s coworker wasn’t a crime, so long as they weren’t obnoxious about the whole affair. “But watch your toes, Ms. Kincaid.”

Claire’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Thanks for the advice.”

With a cheerful goodbye, Danielle slipped to the sidelines of the room, accepting a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and sipping it as Jack and Claire began to dance. They kept an appropriate amount of space between them, of course, but anyone who knew what they were looking for would be able to tell these two were partners in more ways than one.

Danielle wasn’t a person who often took back what she said, but here? Here, she just might have to. Because she’d been wrong—Jack didn’t look at Claire the way he looked at Ellen, Sally, Diana, herself.

No, he looked at Claire with an adoration that ran much deeper than some quick roll in the hay.

Huh.

Danielle took another sip of her champagne, fighting back a smile.

Maybe this time would be different after all.

6. Gwen Kincaid & Mac Geller: Did you take him to the pier in Santa Monica, forget to bring a jacket, wrap up in him ‘cause you wanted to? I’m just curious, is it serious?

Gwen could hardly believe her eyes. “Mac,” she half whispered, half hissed to her husband across the restaurant table. “Mac, that’s Claire!”

The last thing Gwen Kincaid had expected to see while enjoying a romantic date with Mac was her dearest and only daughter seated on the opposite side of the room at the very same three-star restaurant, wearing a short black dress and accompanied by a gray-haired man dressed in similarly formal attire.

Mac glanced at where Gwen when not-so-subtly jerking her head. Sure enough, Claire sat at a two-person table with her ankles crossed beneath. This time, Gwen noticed her daughter was smiling as she tapped her glass against her older partner’s.

“Who is she with?” Gwen asked, certain the man looked familiar but unable to put her finger on why. “You don’t think she’s on a date, do you?”

Not with someone so old, surely not. Her daughter had travelled down that devastating road before, and Gwen sincerely hoped Claire wouldn’t be so foolish as to do so again.

Mac shrugged. “How am I supposed to know the particulars of Claire’s love life, Gwen?”

Gwen rolled her eyes but didn’t comment, letting him continue.

“But she’s with Jack McCoy.” Mac took a sip of his water. “Her boss. The EADA. You’ve met him at least once.”

“Have I?” Gwen said, doubtful, and Mac chuckled.

“Yes. When Claire was sick last winter, he came to pick up the soup you made for her when you couldn’t leave the house, remember?”

Oh, right. When she’d sprained her ankle.

“I suppose so,” Gwen mused. She cast another glance at Claire, taking note of their plates from afar as best she could. Wine, steak, some kind of crisp-looking salad…

It was eerily reminiscent of what she and Mac intended to order.

Hm. That fancy meal, the fitted dress, Claire’s nicest set of pearls, all of it could only mean—

Good God.

They were on a date.

“What is she thinking?” Gwen muttered, more to herself than her husband, but she supposed her dramatic reaction of pinching the bridge of her nose gave away her dismay.

“Probably that she’s having a lovely night out with someone she enjoys the company of,” Mac said, and Gwen shot him a withering glare.

“She is 28 years old, Mac. He must be what—60?”

Mac snorted, and Gwen could tell he was barely withholding an amused grin. “No need to be cruel, Gwendolyn.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. So he’s 55, 50. My point is that he is far too old for her!”

Mac shrugged. “And? It’s her life, not yours.”

“You can’t tell me you approve.”

“I didn’t say I did. But don’t we both know by now that telling Claire she can’t do something will only make her want to do it more?”

“When she was 15,” Gwen countered, biting back a scoff. “I’d like to think she’s matured since then.”

Mac tilted his head, acknowledging her point.

“You know,” he said after a pause, taking a sip of his water, “we may be jumping to conclusions here. It’s very possible they’re simply celebrating a successful case together, nothing more.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwen scolded. “It’s a four-hour trip from New York to Cambridge! No victory is worth that much gas money. They must be having a weekend getaway of some sort.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “And I’m supposed to begrudge them a couple days of peace, knowing the work they deal with every day?”

Gwen faltered, and Mac reached across the table to place a hand atop her clenched fist, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Gwen. You are as aware as I am how stressed Claire has been lately, what with the Smith case and the constant news about the Scott execution.”

Gwen shuddered at the reminder. “I still can’t believe New York reinstated the death penalty.” Every day she was grateful to have moved out of that hellhole. At least it was better than Texas, she reminded herself, that God-awful state where her parents were from and still refused to leave.

Mac nodded. “Yes, and that fact has caused a lot of strife between Claire and her work.” He glanced at Claire, who was smiling as Jack spoke to her. “Especially between her and McCoy, actually.”

Gwen raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So what’s she doing here with him?”

“My guess?” Mac shrugged. “Either trying to forget or trying to reconcile. Maybe a bit of both.”

Gwen couldn’t stop a hmph from escaping her lips. “So he’s twice her age and they’ve been arguing? You’re doing a wonderful job of filling me with confidence, dear.”

It was Mac’s turn to raise an amused eyebrow at his wife. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’d prefer her to lay down passively during a disagreement. You’d give Claire the lecture of a lifetime if she let her boss, her boyfriend, hell, if she let anyone walk all over her.”

Gwen sighed—Mac had her there. “Perhaps.”

“If anything, arguing about subjects like that can be a good thing. It means they’re both willing to be honest with each other, even if that honesty rocks the boat.” He smiled, a hint of mischief twinkling in his eyes. “It also means Claire is as committed to her positions in life as you are to yours.”

Gwen chuckled, absentmindedly stirring the straw in her drink. “Don’t say that. The last thing Claire wants is to be like me.”

“Can’t help what’s true.” Mac gave Gwen’s hand another squeeze before pulling away. “But I’m serious. I think it’s a good thing that Claire is willing to be so direct about her opinions with Jack, both personally and professionally. That level of honesty requires an equal level of comfort.”

Though Gwen did wonder if Mac was laying the perspective on thick just to reassure her, she couldn’t deny there was an inkling of truth to his words.

But only an inkling.

“Fine.” She took a sip of her water. “I still don’t like it.”

“Claire hasn’t asked you to.”

Gwen faltered, her glass nearly slipping from her hands. If she’d been holding it any higher from the table, it might very well have fallen and shattered.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” she snapped, placing the glass down with enough force to make the ice rattle. “I am her mother! It’s my job to look out for her!”

Mac sighed, and Gwen could tell he was choosing his next words carefully. “I’m just saying, Gwen, that there’s probably a reason Claire hasn’t mentioned a new boyfriend to either of us yet.”

Besides the obvious workplace impropriety and their age gap, Gwen assumed. She glanced at Claire, frowning. “What? You think it’s just a fling?”

“Could be.” Mac shrugged. “Or could be she’s worried about your reaction.”

Gwen sent her husband a sharp glare. “I beg your pardon?”

Mac gave her a pointed look in return. “Honey, you almost broke a glass at the hypothetical thought of her and McCoy. Tell me you wouldn’t react the same—or worse—if Claire told you herself.”

“I could be civil,” Gwen said after a pause, but she knew her hesitation spoke for itself. Really, though, how could she be expected to react pleasantly if her only child came home with a middle-aged man and—and said they were going steady?

Gwen fought the urge to cringe at her own severity. Lord help her, she knew her tendency to overreact was one of the many reasons Claire had moved out as soon as she could all those years ago.

Besides, there was no reason to think this affair with Jack McCoy was anything more than a passing fancy for Claire.

Right?

Gwen glanced at her daughter. Claire was speaking animatedly to her date, comments to which he appeared to respond with equal passion. Even during the times when Claire shook her head, equal parts amused and frustrated, a small smile still danced on her lips.

Gwen sighed, and she didn’t miss how her husband covered his mouth to hide a chuckle.

“Arguing can be a sign of disillusion, too, you know,” she said, raising her glass to take another sip of water, and Mac tilted his head to acknowledge the truth of her words.

“Indeed it can.” He lifted his glass. “Time will tell, won’t it?”

A smile tugged at Gwen’s lips despite herself, and she clinked her glass against his. “Yes, I suppose it will.”

~*~

Perhaps against his better judgment, Mac picked up the landline to his left and dialed the number for Claire’s apartment. A quick glance at the clock on the wall in his study confirmed she should be home from the DA’s office by now, even taking into account the extra hours she’d been working the past few weeks.

“Hello?”

Mac smiled. “Claire. How are you?”

“Mac?” Surprise tinged Claire’s tone, and Mac could hear rustling on her end of the line. “Did you need something?”

Mac chuckled. “What, is it a crime to check on my favorite Kincaid?”

He could picture a smile pulling at Claire’s lips. “I assume you didn’t say that within earshot of my mother.”

“Don’t worry, you’re her favorite Kincaid, too.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” There was more shuffling on her end of the line—possibly Claire switching the phone to her other hand. “Seriously, what’s going on? You aren’t one to tie up phone lines for no reason.”

“Guilty as charged.” Mac rubbed his nose, fighting back a yawn. “I just wanted to check on you, really. I know some… challenging cases have landed on your desk the past few weeks.”

This time, there was quiet on the other end of the line.

“Thanks,” Claire murmured after a pause. “Yeah. It’s been tough, but I’m hanging in there.”

“Not letting work and home get too intertwined, right?” Mac straightened in his seat, crossing one of his legs over the other to better balance himself against the soft back of his office chair. “Nothing’s harder than when your personal life gets caught in the crossfire of a nasty case.”

He could hear Claire try and fail to fight back a sigh. “Doing my best,” was all she could say, and Mac nodded.

“I’m sure you are.” He cleared his throat, adjusting the phone against his ear. “Want some advice from a crotchety old man?”

Claire snorted. “Maybe you haven’t heard, but I work with two of those every day.”

Mac grinned. “Yeah, but I’m cooler than them.”

Claire laughed, and Mac could picture her shaking her head. “Okay. What’s your advice?”

“Don’t be afraid to wait things out.” Mac dropped his free hand to rest on the corresponding arm of his chair. “Us lawyers, we like to be sure of things right away. That’s why we can list case law at the drop of a hat to support whatever position we’re arguing—there’s a certainty in having that knowledge, that evidence always on hand. But life, Claire…”

He sighed. “Life is not a sure thing.”

Mac glanced at the wedding ring on his left hand, recalling just how long it had taken for him to get it there. He and Gwen had gone through highs and lows, that was for sure, and he couldn’t be more grateful that he’d kept sailing his ship through the storm instead of bailing out just because the waters got a little rough.

He said as much to Claire, concluding his seafaring metaphor with, “I’m not going to pretend I know, much less understand, every detail of what you’re going through. But when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Don’t forget that patience is a virtue.”

Claire chuckled. “Now you’re just throwing adages at me.”

“Doesn’t mean they aren’t true,” Mac said, his smile widening upon hearing her laugh. “I mean it—you can’t be afraid to wait things out. Nothing hurts more than giving up too soon.”

Claire hummed, sighing. “Wish I knew how long ‘too soon’ was.”

“Don’t we all?”

From outside his study, Mac heard Gwen call his name—probably letting him know she was retiring to bed. Truth be told, he needed to get some rest himself.

“I’m gonna call it a night, Claire,” Mac said, “but if you need me, I’m just a phone call away. Only about a four-hour drive, too.”

“I know. Thanks, Mac.”

After exchanging brief goodbyes, Mac hung up, clicking the phone back into its receiver on his desk. Whatever struggles Claire was working through right now, he had no doubt she’d come out stronger on the other side. And more importantly, he and Gwen would be there to support her through thick and thin—whatever she needed, whenever she needed it.

All she had to do was ask.

7. Rebecca McCoy: You know, you wreck everything you touch. Why not try and make something for a change?

Rebecca’s extra tickets to her dance competition weighed like stones in the deep pockets of her navy skirt while she argued with her mother for the umpteenth time that evening.

“Rebecca Adams, how many times do I have to tell you that your father is not a good influence?” Ellen shoved her wallet into her purse with unnecessary force. “He does not need to know we are in town. I am certainly not going to tell him, and neither are you.”

“That’s not your decision to make!” Rebecca protested, wincing as her mother responded with an icy glare.

“Yes, it is, because I am the adult. Your father has made no effort to remain involved in your life, and I am not inclined to go knocking on his door while he’s probably busy messing around with another of his assistants.”

Rebecca bristled at the implication. “You said he was a deadbeat, not a cheat.”

“And he isn’t. But I am perfectly capable of criticizing his inability to maintain a lasting relationship.” Ellen shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Good Lord, I can’t believe you got me to even talk about him. This discussion is over.”

She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door of their hotel. “I’m going to pick up dinner. I will be back in half an hour”—Ellen threw a warning glance back at her daughter—“and do not even think about leaving this room.”

With that, Ellen took her leave, the door closing and locking with a sharp click behind her.

Rebecca could hardly keep from rolling her eyes. She was 15—more than old enough to make her own decisions, including more than old enough to decide whether or not to visit her father and ask him why the hell he made no effort to be in the life of his own daughter.

Well, Rebecca mused, not no effort. He sent her birthday presents, and they’d spent two winter holidays together over the course of her life. It was more of a ‘bare minimum’ effort, really, and since Rebecca happened to be in Manhattan for a dance competition the entire week, she figured she had every right to confront him about his lackluster involvement.

Whenever her mother thought Rebecca wasn’t listening, she’d always mutter that Rebecca must have gotten her stubbornness from her father.

Tonight, Rebecca was determined to find out for herself.

Rebecca double checked the address she’d scribbled down of her father’s apartment from her mother’s address book—which her mom did a terrible job of hiding if she truly didn’t want Rebecca to find out where Jack McCoy lived—before tucking the folded paper back into her pocket.

Her fingers brushed over the set of extra tickets to her performance.

“Okay,” Rebecca murmured. “Let’s do this.” She had her ID, a pocket knife, her hotel key, and a little extra cash besides her expected taxi fare, just in case.

Rebecca stealthily left the hotel room, stopping a few doors down where her new friend Zola—whom she’d met at rehearsal for the dance competition—already had her head poking out the door.

“You sure you’ll be able to keep her distracted when she gets back?” Rebecca asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her tone, and Zola grinned.

“Don’t worry, chérie, I can buy you an extra 15 minutes—30 if I’m really on the ball.”

Rebecca grinned, too. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

Zola winked at her before slipping back into her hotel, and Rebecca took that as her cue to leave. Her footsteps padded quickly down the concrete stairs as she took one of the side routes to exit through the lobby. With the help of a doorman who was gracious enough to not ask questions, Rebecca hailed a cab and gave the driver her father’s address. After that, all Rebecca could do was wait until she arrived.

Her stomach did anxious flip flops the entire trip. Paranoid questions flitted through her mind, from worries about if her dad wasn’t home—even though she knew he was because she’d called his apartment, pretending to be a wrong number, just to find out—to concerns about who he might be home with, depending on how much truth there was to her mother’s words about Jack’s affairs with his assistants.

Guess she’d find out when she got there.

An amused smile tugged at Rebecca’s lips despite herself, because she didn’t know who would be more pissed at her for what she was doing—her mother or her father.

The drive to Jack McCoy’s apartment was surprisingly short, or maybe Rebecca’s anxiety had sufficiently distracted her the entire time, because she could’ve sworn she blinked twice and bam, they were there. She paid the taxi driver with shaking hands and mumbled thanks, forcing her shoulders to still as she climbed out the cab and began making her way upstairs to her father’s apartment.

“You can do this,” Rebecca whispered to herself, glancing down at the paper and up at the numbers lining the door of each apartment. “Don’t back down now.”

There it was—apartment number 349.

Rebecca closed her eyes and took a deep breath, knowing she had to present herself as calm and rational as possible if she wanted any chance of being taken seriously.

In the resulting silence, though, she became aware of… well, not yelling, but raised voices coming from the inside of her dad’s apartment—some kind of argument, that was for sure.

Rebecca opened her eyes, and after a second of hesitation, leaned toward the door with her left ear. Not to eavesdrop! Just to… get an idea of what this argument was about before she interrupted.

“It’s horrific, Jack.”

“It’s another form of completely legal punishment.”

“If it’s so ‘completely legal,’ why are there 12 states that disagree? If it’s so legal, why is it constantly contested and taken to court on the grounds of cruel and unusual punishment?” A harsh laugh. “No, lethal injection is the state asserting they have more power than the average citizen. I’ve been called a bleeding heart more times than I can count, but no one, including the government, should have the power to end another person’s life.”

“You’re being unrealistic, Claire. People want justice. More than that, they want certainty. And as long as people want certainty, death is the highest form they can get.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Jack. All people want is revenge.”

“So what? Maybe that’s human nature, too. Who are we to deny people their right to vengeance?”

Rebecca heard an incredulous laugh. “I can’t believe this. You, the man who wanted to prosecute Karen Gaines for practicing her supposed right to vengeance, supports the general public’s so-called right to the same. Do you even hear yourself?”

“I’ve been hearing myself my entire life.”

“You are—Jesus Christ, you’re such an ass sometimes.”

A sigh followed. “I’m sorry.”

“No, please, don’t hold back on my account. Enjoy your swim in hypocrisy, because one day the water level’s gonna rise and you’ll realize you forgot your life preserver. And guess what? I won’t be there to throw one to you.”

“Look. The death penalty is legal. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to work with it.”

“I don’t, actually. I didn’t sign a contract to be a Manhattan ADA for the rest of my career. Lethal injection is cruel, and what’s more, it’s wrong—”

“Claire, that kind of pathos-driven rhetoric will get you laughed out of the courtroom.”

“So I won’t work in your courtrooms anymore! I’ll move back to Massachusetts and take the bar there. Hell, I’ll open up my own goddamn practice!”

Most of their debate flew over Rebecca’s head, though she wasn’t so unfamiliar with legal matters as to not recognize the hot topic that was the death penalty. Her mother was still a lawyer, after all, even if she’d moved over to civil matters to allow herself more time at home with Rebecca.

Realizing that if she waited any longer someone might pass by and accuse her of loitering, Rebecca lifted her hand and rapped sharply on the door—three knocks wasn’t too many, right?

God, if she overthought every decision like this tonight, she would never be heading back to her hotel on time.

“Were you expecting someone?” Rebecca heard from inside, followed by a puzzled ‘no’ from the other person—who she’d assumed by this point was her father, what other man would be in his apartment?

“Who could…” The man trailed off into a mumble, and Rebecca heard fiddling at the handle. “At this hour?”

Rebecca took a deep breath, standing tall with her practiced dancer’s posture as the apartment door clicked and swung open.

Jack’s eyes widened. “Rebecca?”

“Hi, Dad,” she said, amazed her voice didn’t waver. The word ‘dad’ rolled strangely off her tongue, but her mother had raised her with too many obsessive manners to dare call him ‘John’ or ‘Jack’ to his face. “Long time no see.”

Over Jack’s shoulder, Rebecca could see a beautiful young woman with short, dark hair hovering near the arm of a striped brown couch, barely visible within Rebecca’s line of vision. That had to be the person her dad was arguing with, Rebecca realized, shortly followed by a reckoning that maybe… maybe this woman was her father’s assistant. She’d mentioned something about working in his courtrooms, hadn’t she? If they were colleagues…

Anger flared in Rebecca’s chest, but she forced it downward.

“What are you doing here?” Jack finally asked, and Rebecca shrugged.

“Mom and I were in town. Thought I’d surprised you.”

Jack opened and closed his mouth without a word, much like a goldfish. Rebecca was secretly impressed she’d managed to render him speechless. Based on everything her mother said about him, ‘speechless’ was a trait rarely applicable to her father.

“Come inside,” Jack finally said, stepping back to allow her entry. “Does your—Does your mother know you’re here?”

A devious smile twitched at Rebecca’s lips despite herself. “Short answer? No.”

Jack snorted, shaking his head as he closed the door behind Rebecca. “She’s gonna kill me when she finds out where you are.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at her snark, and Rebecca plastered on an innocent smile. Her mom always said her inclination for sass came from her father’s favor of acerbic wit—she wondered if Jack would agree.

“Ah, wait.” Jack turned around, gesturing to the woman still standing a few feet behind him. “Claire, this is my daughter, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Claire Kincaid.”

For all the tension that had been practically radiating through the closed door, Rebecca could not discern even a hint of it now as the woman—Claire—offered her a smile and a nod of acknowledgement.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rebecca. Your father speaks highly of you.”

Rebecca shot Jack a suspicious glance. “That’s… nice.” Her gaze shifted back to Claire. “How do you know my dad?”

Claire’s smile turned a fraction more strained, but the reaction was so brief Rebecca doubted she’d have noticed if she hadn’t been looking for it.

“I’m the assistant district attorney who works under your father in the Manhattan DA’s office,” Claire explained. “He’s… like my boss.”

I am not inclined to go knocking on his door while he’s probably busy messing around with another of his assistants.

Maybe her mother was right.

Or maybe—more likely—it was the other way around.

Young woman, older man? Rebecca didn’t have to be a psychologist to recognize the power a pretty lady could wield over a middle-aged guy.

“You know what?” Claire said after a pause, glancing at the delicate silver watch on her wrist. “It’s getting late. I should be going.”

Jack’s shoulders stiffened—“Give me a moment, Rebecca”—and he quickly crossed the room to gently guide Claire aside by her elbow.

Rebecca tried not to listen. Really, she did.

“Don’t leave.”

“Jack, even if I wasn’t pissed as hell at you right now, I don’t want to intrude—”

“Leaving while we’re still angry at each other isn’t going to help.” Jack sighed. “Just—Just wait in the back, okay? Give us both some time to… blow off steam.”

Claire stared at Jack for an extended beat. “Fine,” she said, after a pause, voice stiff. “I left my copy of ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’ in your room, anyway.”

“Spivak. Good choice.” Jack gave Claire’s arm a quick squeeze before letting go, and Claire soon disappeared into the hall—heading to her father’s bedroom, Rebecca guessed, and the thought made her stomach churn with discomfort.

After Claire left, Jack returned his attention to Rebecca. “Sorry about that.” He gestured toward his kitchen, and she took the cue to sit down at the small table. “Do you want anything to eat? Drink?”

“Mom’s getting our dinner right now,” Rebecca said, “but something to drink would be nice.”

Jack nodded, opening his fridge. “Water, milk, orange juice—”

Rebecca brightened despite her attempts to remain stone-faced. “Orange juice, please.”

A smile twitched at Jack’s lips as he poured her a glass. “Here,” he said, placing it in front of her, and Rebecca hummed in contentment as she took a long sip.

It was funny, she thought. Her dad didn’t seem like the kind of person to drink juice.

Rebecca’s gaze drifted over to the hallway leading to the back of her dad’s apartment.

Of course, maybe it wasn’t for him.

Jack took the seat next to Rebecca, placing clasped hands on the table before him. “So… What are you and your mother doing in New York?”

Rebecca took another sip of her juice, contemplating the best way to evade this question. Her father hadn’t yet earned the truth of her business in the city.

“Is Claire your girlfriend?” Rebecca asked, deciding to go on the offensive.

When Jack’s shoulders tensed, well, that gave Rebecca all the confirmation she needed. She rolled her eyes.

“Either Mom was right that you have major commitment issues, or that girl is using you and you’re too infatuated with her to see it.”

Jack’s stare flickered between guilt and frustration. “Rebecca,” he said stiffly, “I’m not going to pretend I have any right to reprimand you, but I will ask that you treat Claire with the same respect you would any of your mother’s friends.”

‘Friends.’ Right. Rebecca was no expert on romance, but young women didn’t date older men without some kind of ulterior motive.

Rebecca responded to her father’s request by taking another sip of her juice. Jack bit back a sigh. 

“Should I ask again what you’re doing here?”

Rebecca shrugged. “You never visit me, so I came to you.”

She half-expected her father to express some sign of guilt at her brazen callout of his absence, but instead he raised an eyebrow.

“I find it hard to believe you and your mother made the trip all the way from California just to say hi, especially considering you said she doesn’t know you’re here.”

Damn. He was a lawyer, of course her dad would be as quick on the draw as her mother.

“Fine,” Rebecca said, consciously preventing her nose from wrinkling in frustration. “We’re in town for an event, but I’m not saying what, because it doesn’t have anything to do with why I’m here right now.”

The weight of Rebecca’s lie was that of a set of extra tickets, still buried in the right pocket of her skirt.

Jack nodded, as if acknowledging her right to withhold such information from him, and with that single action the dam broke. Rebecca’s frustration tumbled out of her like a waterfall.

“It’s not right, you know?” She shook her head, anger heating her cheeks like the summer sun. “You’re my dad! You’re supposed to—to be around! I shouldn’t have to reach out to you!” Rebecca’s hand clenched around her glass. “The only reason I came here was to ask why. Why you can’t—why you don’t even bother to call anymore.”

Rebecca looked up at her father, blinking back hot tears that threatened to spill. She would not cry. Not for him.

“Did you know I have a 3.8 GPA?” she asked. “Did you know I placed first citywide for my age group in tap dancing? Did you know the Tisch School of the Arts has already reached out to me about attending college there?”

Jack didn’t need to answer. Rebecca already knew what he’d say.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she muttered, pushing her glass away and dropping her eyes from her father’s. “I just wanted to know why you never bothered.”

If it’s because you don’t care, Rebecca wanted to conclude with, but part of her remained terrified to speak such a devastating possibility into existence.

“You want the truth?” Jack asked after a pause, and Rebecca’s shoulders tensed. The truth? What, honesty from an adult?

Yeah, right. ‘The truth’ seemed too good to be true.

“Anything is better than more excuses,” Rebecca said, voice acidic, and Jack rightfully grimaced.

“Well,” he said slowly, as if he was speaking to a ticking time bomb, and maybe he was, “I tell myself I stay away because I know you would be better off without me.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes, but before she could argue, Jack continued, unlacing his hands and leaning back in his chair.

“But I think we both know I only say that to make myself feel better about not being there.” He raised an eyebrow. “Right?”

Rebecca blinked. “Yeah,” she said after a pause. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look. Maybe I was too much of a coward to be your dad when you needed it. But the fact that you’re here now tells me some part of you still wants me to be your father.” He glanced at her, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Am I in the ballpark?”

A smile twitched at Rebecca’s lips despite herself. “At least a double.”

Jack chuckled. “You like baseball?”

“The Giants.”

“I could take you to a Mets game.”

“Don’t they suck?”

Jack grinned. “See, you’ll fit in with every other New Yorker.”

Rebecca snorted, and she quickly moved to hide her reaction behind her hand. If Jack noticed, which she didn’t doubt he did, he chose not to comment.

“What do you want me to do, Rebecca?” Jack asked after a pause. His lips pursed, evidently unsatisfied with his own question. “I mean—you deserve the final say in how much I should be involved in your life.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated at himself, and Rebecca bit her lip to hold back a smile. He sighed. “Damn. I’m shit at this.”

Jack paled at his expletive, hastily glancing at Rebecca. “Don’t repeat that.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I’m 15, not five. Teenagers have dirtier mouths than you, I promise.”

Jack frowned. “Not sure how I feel about that.”

Rebecca ruminated over her father’s initial query for a moment, her fingers absentmindedly tapping the side of her glass of orange juice.

What did she want him to do?

Her choice of response would rest on his commitment, on if her dad was being genuine in his wish to become more involved in her life.

May the Lord forgive her for her skepticism, but her dad’s willingness did seem a tad bit hasty.

Then again, her mother always said not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Might as well pile everything onto the wagon and see how long it held.

“I’m gonna talk,” Rebecca said, meeting her father’s eyes, “and you’re gonna listen. Okay?”

When Jack nodded, Rebecca plunged straight in.

“Call,” she said, crossing her ankles beneath the table. The white tips of her sneakers skimmed the floor. “Not every day, but sometimes, and definitely on my birthday. And summers—I want to come up to New York for a few weeks.”

Jack chuckled. “Your mother’s gonna have a field day with that one.”

Rebecca bit her tongue to stop herself from smiling, instead pressing onward. “I know your job makes vacation time hard, but I want you to come to California, too. Maybe for Christmas.”

She watched contemplation flicker over her father’s face, as if he was already calculating how to manipulate his schedule in order to travel to California for the winter holidays.

“You can start with something easier, though.” Rebecca reached into her right pocket, pulling out one of the spare tickets for her dance competition and sliding it across the table. “Next week. The date and schedule are on the back. My slot is 10 AM, but things tend to run a little late, so it’s okay if you don’t get there exactly on time.”

Jack picked up the ticket, and a small—grateful—smile flitted onto his lips. “I’ll talk to my boss about taking the day.”

This time, Rebecca couldn’t stop herself from grinning.

The temporary truce between them was shattered, however, when Jack’s landline started blaring. He excused himself to his daughter to go answer it.

“Hello?”

Rebecca watched as her father grimaced.

“Yes. Yes, she’s here.” Jack’s brow furrowed. “Wait, Ellen—no, don’t punish her. She just wanted to—” He sighed, exasperated. “Ellen, take a deep breath.”

He covered the mouthpiece, glancing at Rebecca. “Wait here. I’m gonna go talk your mother down from killing you.”

Rebecca flashed him a guilty smile, and Jack disappeared into a separate room. Rebecca contented herself with finishing off her orange juice while she waited, but she wasn’t alone for long, as Claire slipped into the kitchen.

“Sorry,” she said, giving Rebecca a small but appropriately apologetic smile. “Just getting some water.”

Rebecca shook her head. “It’s okay.” She stared down into her empty glass. “Pretty sure this apartment is more of a home to you than me.”

Claire hesitated, then poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge. Instead of leaving, though, she joined Rebecca at the table, choosing one of the further seats from her.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve talked to Jack, hasn’t it?” Claire asked, and Rebecca snorted.

“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if the mental image he had of me until now was still an eight-year-old girl.”

Claire nodded in understanding, taking a sip of her water. Though Rebecca second-guessed whether or not she should ask, the question fell from her lips before she could stop it.

“You said my dad speaks highly of me.” Rebecca swallowed hard. “Does he really?”

Claire chuckled. “Rebecca, your father is stubborn, irritating, and sometimes downright asinine.” She smiled. “And he could not be prouder that you are turning out better and brighter than him.”

Heat rose in Rebecca’s cheeks, and she tentatively returned Claire’s smile. “Thanks.”

Her gaze dropped to Claire’s left hand—no ring. Not that she’d expected to see one, but still.

“Let me know if I’m prying,” Claire said after a pause, “but what do you think of Jack, after coming all this way?”

Rebecca hummed, dropping her chin to rest on her right hand. “I dunno. 15 minutes of conversation doesn’t really make up for 15 years of crappy parenting.”

Claire shook her head. “No, it doesn’t.”

“But,” Rebecca continued, softness inching into her tone despite her attempt to remain steadfast, “he listened. I asked him to listen, to just let me talk, and he did.”

And that meant more to Rebecca than she could say.

She dropped both of her hands to rest in her lap. “It’s a start.”

Maybe a half-decent one, at that.

Rebecca noticed Claire glance past her, outside of the small kitchen area.

“Ask him to listen, huh?” Claire mused, her fingers absentmindedly tapping the side of her glass. “Not a bad idea.”

Rebecca hesitated. “Ms. Claire,” she said, “how long have you known my dad?”

Claire paused at the unexpected line of questioning, but Rebecca was grateful when she humored her. “Almost three years. That’s how long we’ve been working together.”

“So you know him pretty well,” Rebecca said, searching Claire’s expression for—well, she didn’t quite know what for, but she’d know it when she saw it.

She didn’t see it.

A smile twitched at Claire’s lips. “Yes, you could say that.”

“Then is it worth it?” Rebecca started picking at her thumb, a nervous habit of hers she’d yet to kick from middle school. “Is it worth trying to get to know him? Asking him to become part of my life again?”

“Rebecca, that decision is yours to make,” Claire said, and Rebecca shook her head.

“I know that. I just wanted…” She sighed. “It’s been a long time since he’s seen me, but it’s been just as long since I’ve seen him, too.”

Something in Rebecca’s comment seemed to click for Claire, because she leaned across the table toward her.

“I told you that your father is stubborn, irritating, and asinine,” Claire said, “but he is also passionate, brilliant, and when he wants to be, one of the kindest people I know.” She tilted her head. “Does that help?”

Rebecca grinned at her. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

Maybe she’d been a little harsh in her assessment of Claire.

Maybe Claire cared about Jack, too, in her own way.

Rebecca reached into her pocket, fingers closing around another of her extra tickets. “I already invited my dad to this,” she said, once again pushing the ticket across the table, “but I’d like you to come, too. It’s a dance competition I’m in.”

Claire picked up the ticket, uncertainty radiating from her features. “Me? Are you sure?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I figure getting to know you is an inevitable part of getting to know my dad.” She gave Claire the most reassuring smile she could muster. “But I don’t mind. So yes, I’d like you to come.”

Claire carefully tucked the ticket into one of the small pockets on the front of her lavender shirt. “I’ll see if I can get free,” she said, and Rebecca’s smile brightened like the sun.

“I have good news and bad news,” Jack said, startling Rebecca and Claire out of their conversation. He did a double take upon seeing Claire seated at the kitchen table, but chose not to comment. “The good news is that I convinced your mother, Rebecca, that you should not be punished for visiting your old man. The bad news is that she wants you back at the hotel now, no delays.”

Rebecca sighed as she stood. “I’m sure Zola kept her distracted as long as she could.” She stuck her hands in her pockets. “It’s okay, I brought enough money to take a cab back.”

“Not by yourself, you’re not,” Jack said, grabbing a green jacket off the coat rack by his door. “I’m going with you.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ I would never forgive myself if something happened to you, not to mention Ellen would have my head.”

Rebecca snickered. “Okay, that’s true.” Her eyes widened. “Hey, wait. You can’t leave now.”

At their questioning looks, she gestured to Claire. “You guys haven’t resolved your—your whatever. You said it’s bad for someone to leave while they’re still angry.”

“It’s okay, Rebecca,” Claire said, and she, too, stood from the table. “I’m not angry.” An amused smile twitched at her lips as she glanced at Jack. “Our conversation is far from over, but…”

Amusement transformed into something that danced between affection and tranquility. “I’m not angry. Not anymore.”

Rebecca didn’t miss the relief that flooded her dad’s eyes as Claire spoke, nor did she miss the Thank you he mouthed to Claire before escorting Rebecca out the door.

Or maybe it hadn’t been thank you.

Maybe it had been I love you.

Maybe there wasn’t a difference.

They could all be a family, Rebecca decided, giving her dad a small smile as they headed down the stairs. Her, her mom, her dad. Even Claire, if she wanted to be part of it.

A little family, maybe. A broken one, too. But still good.

Yeah. Still good.

Rebecca’s dad didn’t come to her dance competition. Neither did Claire.

It wasn’t until Rebecca saw the breaking news from the night before that she understood why.

Cop Injured, ADA Killed by Drunk Driver—

Rebecca and her dad didn’t speak for a long time after that.

Chapter Text

+1. Those Who Followed

(Wish it didn’t have to be this way, but—

You will always mean the world to me, love.)

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when a drunk driver slams into the left side of her car.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she is hospitalized with a bruised body, broken bones, and a barely beating heart.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she enters a coma.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when the doctors declare her brain dead.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when her parents, shoulders shuddering with sobs, end her life support.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when death takes her last breath.

Claire Kincaid would have been 29 years old when the same drunk driver finishes his prison sentence of 12 months, released on parole after ten for good behavior.

Claire Kincaid would have been 30 years old when Jack McCoy tries to sacrifice another drunk driver for the justice, the vengeance, the retribution he could not achieve before.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows she will never see another day.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows she should still be alive.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and he knows he has to—

~*~

“—tell me about her.”

Jack sighs. He keeps his back to her. “And if I don’t want to?”

“We’re way past that point, Jack. You don’t risk getting disbarred for every pretty little dark-haired, doe-eyed girl you shared a bed with.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists in his pockets. He doesn’t dignify her comment with a response.

He does, however, turn around.

Jamie Ross stands at the threshold of his office, short hair shorter than hers brown hair lighter than hers back held upright with greater firmness than she ever cared to present around him.

“Have you been drinking?” Jamie asks, eyes flitting down to the bottle of scotch and empty glass on his desk, and Jack laughs. The sound is bitter.

“I tried.” He shakes his head. “Couldn’t swallow a drop.”

Jamie nods, and for a moment, he pretends she understands.

“Don’t just stand there,” Jack says after a pause. He gestures toward the wooden chair in front of his desk. “If you’re here to interrogate me, we might as well get comfortable.”

Jamie sighs, but she enters his office all the same. “Jack,” she says, black heels clicking against the floor, “all I want is for you to—”

xxx

“—put your shoes on, chop chop!”

Jack snorted at Claire’s eagerness, pulling at the laces of his left shoe. “I had no idea you were so invested in bowling.”

“If I told you I was the captain of my high school bowling team, would you believe me?”

Jack searched Claire’s face for any hint of a lie, and it was the slight upturn of her pink-stained lips that gave her away.

“No,” he said, fighting back a grin as he twisted the laces of his left shoe into a bow. “No, I would not believe you.”

Claire snickered. “Good. I was president of the chess club—”

“That’s the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said.”

“—vice president of mock trial, and secretary of Thespian club—”

Jack squinted at Claire. “Thespian? Isn’t that theatre?” He shook his head. “I can’t picture you on the stage.”

Claire paused in her listing to raise an eyebrow at Jack. “I’ll have you know I was an amazing Lady Macbeth.” She snorted. “Though more to your interest might be that I was Mona in my high school production of Chicago. One of the six merry murderesses.”

Jack’s mind drifted to an alluring image of Claire adorned in a short, glittery silver flapper dress. “Now that I’d like to see.”

Claire grinned. “I’m sure you would.”

Jack finished tying his bowling shoes. “Anyways, so you have no academic history of bowling. What’s got you so gung-ho about today?”

Claire shrugged, mischief glittering in her eyes. “Well, it’s more the time after bowling I’m interested in.”

“Aha.” A grin crept onto Jack’s lips. “I take it you haven’t forgotten our little bet, then.”

“Not a chance.” Claire leaned down, her nose mere centimeters from Jack’s when he lifted his chin to look up at her. “I intend to beat you into the dirt, McCoy.”

“Should I feel threatened or aroused?” Jack said, half taunting and only half joking. Claire flicked his nose before pulling away.

“Don’t push your luck. I expect you to—”

xxx

“—be honest with me. I’m not here to judge you.”

Jamie sits down before Jack, and he slowly takes his own seat behind his wooden desk, feeling about a dozen years older than he should.

“You want honesty?” he says, maybe harsher than he intends. “Fine. Claire Kincaid and I were lovers. Everybody knew it and nobody knew it. Happy?”

Jamie gives him a sad smile. “It’s okay to miss her.”

Jack snorts. He stares at the full bottle of scotch still resting atop his desk, the amber liquid mocking him. “I shouldn’t. Not like I do.” Risking disbarment for a ghost… Claire would be appalled.

More than that, she’d be disappointed.

Jamie crosses her ankles, leaning forward just enough to indicate she isn’t letting this conversation go but not broaching so far into Jack’s space as to overwhelm him, either. It’s a bit like being treated with kid gloves, he thinks.

He never needed those before.

“What do you mean?” Jamie asks. “You say you shouldn’t miss her like you do—how do you miss her?”

“Like someone who loved her.” The words spill from Jack’s tongue before he can stop them, and he can’t meet Jamie’s eyes. “Like someone she loved.”

Realization dawns across Jamie’s face, her expression carefully neutral until this point. “I see. You didn’t deserve to love her then, and you don’t deserve to mourn her now.”

Jack’s jaw tightens at her words, but he’s all but said them himself. He nods stiffly. “We never should have—”

xxx

“—tried to do this trivia, we’re bruising our egos with our own ignorance.”

Claire rolled her eyes at Jack’s comment, though a smile tugged at her lips. She didn’t put the newspaper down, either, still folded neatly in half so they could look at the weekly trivia together without seeing the answers on the back page. “We can’t give up yet, we’ve only tried the first half.”

“And the fact that we’re struggling now tells me the second half will only get worse,” Jack protested, but he kept his arm around Claire’s shoulders. Every now and then he ducked down to press kisses along her neck and collarbone. They were currently sitting up in his bed, minimally clothed with their backs resting against propped-up pillows and the wooden headboard—the quintessential lie-in on a Sunday morning.

Well, Jack still insisted the trivia was a nonessential element, but how was he supposed to say no to Claire?

“Okay, number nine,” Claire said, tracing her finger down the list of questions to find where they’d left off. “What song by British rock band Queen was recorded in 1989 but not included on an album until 1995?”

Only last year, Jack absentmindedly processed, then he stilled.

Wait.

He knew the answer.

“‘Too Much Love Will Kill You.’”

Claire looked at him, surprised. “Really? How do you know that?”

Because the 1995 version was playing over the radio minutes after the first time they exchanged I love you’s, Jack could say, because the song reminded him that he was in way over his head with a woman like her, but as Jack looked at Claire leaning against his bare chest with her hair flying astray from its typically coiffed appearance and his copy of the local newspaper still clasped gently in her hands while she stared up at him with those dark, inquisitive eyes—

“Just a hunch,” he said, and Claire raised a suspicious brow.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

Claire leaned up to kiss him, a motion Jack hummed into as he reciprocated.

“You know,” she murmured against his lips, “I think we could’ve—”

xxx

“—lasted as long as we did.” Jack shakes his head. His nails dig into his palms, and it takes all of his willpower to unclench his fists before they start to bleed. “She deserved more. Better.”

A lump rises in his throat. He tries to swallow it, but the pressure behind his eyes remains.

“She was so young,” he says. Whispers, really. “Bright. Hopeful. Believed everybody had good in them.” Jack is a cynical old man, and he knows it, but—

“She could’ve changed the world, Jamie. She really could’ve.”

He closes his eyes, forcing the painful tears to remain unshed. “But she never got the chance.”

And it was—it was wrong. ‘A tragedy,’ people would say. ‘An injustice.’ And it was, it was tragic, it was an injustice, but it was also so fucking wrong Jack could hardly stand to think about every opportunity for change Claire had been denied all because he got wasted at a goddamn bar and couldn’t be bothered to hang around for another two minutes when the truth was that he’d just wanted—

To hell with her, he’d said.

To hell with you, the night had whispered in return. She’ll meet you there.

“Jack,” Jamie says, and Jack’s eyes fly open as she snaps him out of his downward spiral. “Claire didn’t waste her life by spending three years of it with you.”

A tear slips down Jack’s face.

“It’s okay that you loved her. That you loved each other. It’s even okay that maybe neither of you realized how much.” Jamie meets his eyes, her gaze equal parts empathetic and firm. “One day, you’re going to wake up and realize Claire should be remembered for the good she did, not what she didn’t have the chance to do. I promise.”

Jack swallows hard, and he closes his eyes a second time. “Thanks, Jamie,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

A chair creaks, and soon Jack feels a hand on his shoulder, a touch so gentle he can almost pretend it’s hers.

“You’re welcome.” A pause. “If you need anything, you can always call me. Even if I can’t—”

~*~

“—believe you dated a girl that gorgeous. No way, Jack. No fucking way!”

Jack laughs as Abbie looks at him, at the photo of himself and Claire, then back at him again, shaking her head in amused shock.

“Tell me about it,” he says, grinning. “Every day I asked myself how I got so lucky.”

“It wasn’t your good looks, that’s for sure,” Abbie says, but she’s grinning, too, as she hands the photo back to him. She sits on the edge of Jack’s desk, unbunching the fabric of her pencil skirt from beneath her knees. “So how long were you together?”

Until the end, Jack almost says, but that thought still makes his heart twinge like someone tracing the tip of a dagger down his aorta.

“Nearly three years,” he says instead, and Abbie whistles, impressed.

“Damn. Long term, huh?”

“Something like that.” A smile tugs at Jack’s lips despite himself. “Claire was never picky about labels. Partners, lovers, boyfriend and girlfriend—all interchangeable. ‘As long as we know we mean something to each other,’ she would say.”

A not-quite melancholic sigh escapes Jack at the memory, and he leans back in his seat. “That was all that really mattered to her, you know? What we had was for us. To hell with the rest of the world.”

Abbie smiles, the expression soft. “She sounds wonderful, Jack.” She winks at him. “And she sounds like a romantic. I bet all it took was a single flutter of her pretty little eyelashes for you to fall head over heels.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Please.”

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong, because I know I’m not!” Abbie crows. “Come on, how did it happen? Did she lean over your desk and you melted like butter beneath her warm gaze?”

Jack raises an eyebrow at his ADA. “Contrary to your apparent belief, Abbie, my life wasn’t a romance novel.”

Abbie waves her hand dismissively. “Fine, maybe it wasn’t that cliché. But I just do not think—”

xxx

“—we’ll be able to keep this a secret.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Jack said, but he responded with an appropriately guilty look as Claire shot him an unamused glare.

“I’m serious, Jack.” She turned her attention back toward his bathroom mirror, working his spare hairbrush through her messy bedhead. “The last thing I need is to be written off as another notch on your bedpost.”

“You’re too talented of an attorney for that,” Jack said, and Claire rolled her eyes, though he didn’t miss the smile that flickered across her lips for the briefest of seconds.

“Maybe, but you’d be amazed how many people can’t see past the skirt and pearls.”

Jack hesitated, then placed down his razor and shaving cream as he turned to face Claire. “You’re right. Your career comes first.”

Claire paused in brushing her hair, and she, too, turned to face him directly. “So we’re…?”

“Say the word, and this ends here,” Jack said. He reached up and tucked her dark waves behind her ear, only half-conscious of the action’s quiet intimacy. “Hand to God.”

Claire softened at his touch, and she sighed. She placed down the brush to catch Jack’s hand as he started to pull it away. “I don’t want this to end,” she admitted, a soft blush rising in her cheeks, “I just…”

She shook her head, lacing their fingers together. “How about we lay down some ground rules?”

Jack chuckled. “Rules, huh?”

“Yes.” A smirk twitched at her lips. “If you come within six inches of my personal space in the office, I have permission to taze you.”

Jack burst out laughing. “You drive a hard bargain,” he teased, “but…” Jack leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow kiss.

“But what?” she murmured, her breath warm against his mouth, and Jack chuckled again.

“But for you, I’d accept just about any terms.”

Claire grinned. “You’re not going to negotiate?”

Jack shrugged. “How am I supposed to say no to you?” He kissed her again, her hairbrush and his shaving equipment all but forgotten. “I mean, maybe if—”

xxx

“—there was a complete absence of classic romantic tropes between you two. Did you have your first kiss under the stars, by any chance?”

Jack can’t help but laugh at Abbie’s unusual enthusiasm. “I didn’t know you were so familiar with romance as a genre.”

“Nicholas Sparks is a damn good author!”

“I’m sure he is, but I just can’t picture you, Abbie Carmichael, curled up in a lounge chair reading a well-loved copy of The Notebook.”

“First of all, The Notebook is great, and I cried my eyes out. Second of all, everyone needs a hobby,” Abbie says pointedly, and Jack snickers.

“Touché.” He leans back in his chair, glancing down at the photo still in his hands.

Claire looked so beautiful that day, wearing an orange and yellow sundress with her hair down in waves during a weekend trip they’d taken to Maine to explore the beaches and other picturesque natural scenery.

Maine is the perfect place to go unrecognized, Claire said when they were debating possible getaway locations, and Jack had been inclined to agree.

To be a normal couple, even?

Claire laughed. Us? Not a chance.

“For the record,” Jack says, tucking the photo of himself and Claire walking hand in hand back into his wallet, “our first kiss was not under the stars.” He throws Abbie a smug grin. “Manhattan has too much light pollution for that.”

Abbie bursts out laughing. “But it was at night! I knew it!”

Jack shrugs, still unable to wipe the grin off his face. “And that is all you will ever know.”

“Really? Nothing more?”

Jack hums, contemplating her request. “Well, I can say that you and Claire would either love each other or hate each other.” He snorts. “Maybe a bit of both.”

Abbie raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Why do you say that?”

“Because for just about every political position you hold, Claire held the opposite.”

An amused smile twitches at Abbie’s lips, eyes glittering with mischief. “Oh, I see. So she had no shame about her bleeding heart. You know, the same one you like to pretend you don’t have.”

Jack chuckles. “Come on. I—”

xxx

“—don’t think we should try to force murder two here.” Claire sat down on the edge of Jack’s desk, and he leaned back in his seat to better face her. “Diamond is willing to take man one, sentencing recommendation as harsh or lenient as we feel appropriate. I think we should take it.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Her client shot her boyfriend in cold blood.”

“I get that. But I legitimately think she saw it as the only option.”

“Even after you tore apart that defense yesterday on cross?” Jack shook his head. “We’ll win on murder two, Claire, and I have you to thank for that.”

Claire sighed, dropping her gaze to the papers littering Jack’s desk. “Just because we can convict her of murder two doesn’t mean we should.”

Jack stared at Claire for an extended beat. “You really think man one fits the crime?”

Claire’s eyes snapped back up to meet his, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Yeah,” she said. “I do. Janet Simon’s boyfriend was manipulative as hell. That doesn’t negate her culpability, but I think we’d be putting forth a terrifying precedent for victims of any type of domestic abuse if we didn’t recognize how that psychological pressure influenced her.”

Jack nodded. “Okay. Then we’ll take man one.” He tilted his head toward the phone on his desk. “Give Diamond a call. Tell her I’ll send the paperwork tomorrow morning.”

A smile crept onto Claire’s lips, an expression tinged with relief and pride. “You got it.”

“If she wants,” Jack added after a pause, “we can even meet with her and her client today to discuss a sentencing recommendation. But I—”

xxx

“—only look like I have a liberal stripe compared to you, Abbie.”

Abbie shakes her head, amused. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.” She sighs, sliding off Jack’s desk to sit in the chair across from him. “Who knows? You and I might be more similar than not.”

“Really?” Jack says, raising a brow as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You think so?”

“We’re both cynics.”

Jack scoffs. “That’s a little harsh. I think ‘realists’ is more appropriate.”

“Cynics, realists, same difference,” Abbie says with another wave of her hand. A thoughtful expression floats across her face, one that also sings with an unspoken sadness. “We both attracted idealists, though, from the sounds of it.”

Jack thinks of Claire’s stubborn belief in the inherent cruelty of the death penalty, thinks of her lingering weariness at how slowly the cogs of progressive change turned, thinks of her extensive rumination on the action she could take as an ADA to challenge bigoted law.

Jack looks at Abbie, and he knows she’s thinking of someone similar.

“Maybe the old adage that opposites attract is true after all,” he comments, a tad wryly, and Abbie chuckles.

“Maybe so.”

Jack meets Abbie’s eyes, and they both smile despite the mournful weight of two ghosts that now hangs over the room.

“We’re better people, aren’t we?” Abbie murmurs. “For having known people like Claire. Toni.”

Abbie’s voice doesn’t quite catch in her throat as she speaks, but Jack hears her stumble all the same. He heard it in his own voice for years, after all.

Sometimes he still does.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “Yeah, we are.” He offers Abbie a comforting smile. “Maybe we should get—”

~*~

“—rid of this stupid, commercialized holiday,” Serena complains, and Jack can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the ferocity of her words.

“I didn’t know you felt so strongly about Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s a scam,” Serena says, certain and matter of fact, “that treats love like a cheap commodity that can be packaged and sold. The world would be better off without this so-called ‘holiday.’”

“Uh huh,” Jack says, and he bites his tongue to hold back a grin. He sits down in the chair beside Serena’s desk. “Do you have an alternative, Ms. Southerlyn?”

Serena gives him a wry smile. “I don’t think there should be an alternative. Love is something intimate. It should be celebrated between the people who share it, not blasted on billboards in the shape of red cookie-cutter hearts just meant to sell shitty perfume.”

“So love is private?” Jack asks, and Serena grimaces, making a so-so gesture with her hand.

“It’s not that people shouldn’t be public about their love,” she says, and Jack notes an even stronger undercurrent of passion to Serena’s words as she dismantles concerns of publicity. “But love is—love is—”

Serena sighs, taking off her glasses and shaking her head. “I don’t even know how to put words to it. But love is powerful. People die—people are killed for love every day. What right does anybody have to try and put a price tag on that?”

Jack nods. “I see where you’re coming from.” A reminiscent smile pulls at his lips, and he chuckles despite himself. “You almost sound like Claire.”

Serena tilts her head. “Claire?”

Jack stands, gesturing for Serena to follow him into his office. He heads to his desk, pulling out a portrait of himself and Claire. It’s from their trip to Tuscany, where Claire somehow convinced him to slow dance with her on the evening streets by a bubbling fountain. Abbie got the picture blown up and framed for him as a surprise birthday gift, though Jack still doesn’t know how she got ahold of the photo in the first place.

“That’s Claire. She and I were… together,” he says, offering Serena the picture. “Maybe in love. I don’t think we were sure.”

A soft smile flits onto Serena’s face as she takes the photo from Jack, gently running a hand along the wooden frame. “She’s beautiful, Jack.” She hands the picture back to him, tilting her head inquisitively. “You said ‘maybe’?”

Jack sighs, placing the portrait down on a stack of folders. “We didn’t have a chance to—”

xxx

“—be together this entire week because of that case,” Jack said, pulling Claire close the second the door to her apartment swung shut with a low click behind them. “I missed you.”

Claire laughed against his lips when he tried to kiss her. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

“Mm. Can’t live without you,” Jack murmured, faltering the second the words left his mouth because—

Because maybe there was more truth to them than he was ready to admit.

“Jack?” Claire leaned back, frowning at his pensive expression. “You okay?”

Jack snapped himself out of his distracted stupor. There was no time for an existential crisis now, not when a beautiful woman stood before him with cherry-red lipstick and her arms wrapped comfortably around his neck.

“Of course I am,” he said, giving Claire a classic, charm-laden McCoy grin. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

Claire pursed her lips, unable to disguise her amusement. “Clever, clever.” Her gaze dropped down to his mouth, and Jack’s pulse quickened when her tongue darted out to brush over her bottom lip. “Guess I should show you my thanks.”

A smirk quirked at the corners of Jack’s lips. “Uh huh. And when will I—”

xxx

“—find out.” Jack sits down behind his desk, Serena taking the seat across from him. “She was killed in a car crash seven years ago. Drunk driver.”

Serena’s brow furrows. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Jack tilts his head, acknowledging her condolences. “But what I was saying,” he continues, “is that Claire wasn’t the biggest fan of Valentine’s Day, either. She appreciated the sentiment, I think, but the commercialization really bothered her.”

Serena nods. “Exactly. I don’t have a problem with the idea of a holiday dedicated to love, but the fact that it’s only ever advertised as love between a skinny white woman and her tall, muscular white boyfriend—”

Serena cuts herself off, embarrassment tinting her cheeks. “Sorry. This is kind of a soapbox of mine.”

Jack holds his hands up. “Soapbox away. Remz won’t be here for”—he glances at his watch—“another 15 minutes.”

A grin starts to creep onto Serena’s lips, but she shakes it off as she sits back in her seat to cross her legs at the knee. “I mean, it’s what I said earlier. People get killed because of love every day. And I don’t mean husbands killing their wives, or vice versa.”

A frustrated huff escapes Serena’s lips, and she tucks her loose hair behind her ear. “Gay kids getting beat up at school for daring to hold hands in the hallway. A Black man can’t flirt with—can’t even talk to a white woman without somebody calling the cops on him.” She shakes her head. “My friend told me last week her wedding is delayed because her pastor backed out on officiating the ceremony after learning her husband-to-be isn’t technically a practicing Catholic anymore.”

Bitterness creeps into Serena’s tone. “Chocolate brands and greeting card companies don’t exactly give a damn about those types of love, do they?”

“No,” Jack admits. “No, they don’t.”

“It’s so frustrating. People—”

xxx

“—act like everything will be completely fine if they close their eyes and hold on tight like it’s some kind of movie. But it’s not a movie. It’s real life, and your real life is dependent on someone else’s driving.”

Jack couldn’t stop an amused grin from dancing onto his lips. “You finished?”

“No!” Claire said, throwing her hands up before pointing at him accusingly. “Will you stop looking at me like I’m being ridiculous?”

Jack chuckled. “That would be impossible, because you are being ridiculous.”

Claire rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. The pale pink of her shirt seemed almost electric in contrast to the black of her leather jacket. “Forgive me if I’m reluctant to get on the back of a motorcycle knowing I won’t be the one behind the metaphorical wheel.”

Honestly, Jack could sympathize with that. He, too, preferred to be the one in control. That said—

“You’re gonna be fine,” he reassured her. “We both have helmets, we’re both wearing jeans, and you’ve got your jacket and boots for additional protection. It really is just like the movies.” He paused, tilting his head. “Except for the closing your eyes part. That’s optional.”

Though Claire still appeared hesitant, Jack didn’t miss the way some of the tension fell from her shoulders—a little more convincing and he’d have her.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Do you trust me?”

Claire stared at him, biting her bottom lip. Her arms fell to her sides.

“Yeah,” she said, softly, not quite a whisper. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then trust that I will safely get us home, where my Valentine’s surprise for you awaits,” Jack said. He handed her his extra helmet, and after a moment’s hesitation, Claire accepted it with a smile.

“You’d better. And that surprise had better be worth the trip, too.”

“Don’t you know me by now?” Jack teased. “I’m not with those guys who—”

xxx

“—like to pretend the world is a loving place, but they’re only willing to extend that love to a fraction of the population.” Serena rolls her eyes. “Not to mention their idea of ‘love’ practically revolves around romance. My little cousin got made fun of mercilessly for buying a Valentine’s card for one of her guy friends, because God forbid a girl and a boy not fall in love at age eight.”

Jack winces. “I see your point.”

“Love should be about trust between any people, romantic or not,” Serena says definitively, “and the fact that it isn’t drives me batty.”

A grin twitches at Jack’s lips. “I can tell.”

Serena chuckles. “Okay, I’m finished. Thanks for letting me rant.”

“Always a pleasure.” Jack leans back in his seat, raising a propositioning eyebrow to his ADA. “What do you say I take you to dinner tonight, Ms. Southerlyn? A little act of proof for the world that a man and a woman are perfectly capable of enjoying each other’s company without any extracurricular benefits.”

Serena laughs loud and true at his choice of phrase, which only makes Jack’s grin widen further. “I would love to, Mr. McCoy. Extra emphasis on ‘love.’”

Jack tells her to start thinking of some places she’d like to go tonight, his treat, before he begins tucking the photo of himself and Claire from Tuscany back into his desk. Serena throws out a hand to stop him.

“What are you doing?”

Jack pauses. “Putting up the picture?”

“Why don’t you keep it on your desk? It’s a beautiful photo.” Serena gives him a teasing smirk. “You actually look happy in it.”

Jack snorts. “Gee, thanks.” He glances down at the picture but soon shakes his head. “I can’t keep it out.” Before Serena can ask why—a question he knows is on the tip of her tongue—he offers an explanation. “Claire was my assistant. Before you, Abbie, and Jamie Ross.”

Jack’s fingers absentmindedly trace the bottom of the wooden frame, and he barely restrains himself from getting lost in the memory of swaying side to side with Claire in the golden-lit streets of Florence. “We weren’t supposed to be in a relationship. Even now there’s a lot of people who wouldn’t take too kindly to confirmation of… of what Claire and I were to each other.”

Serena frowns, dissatisfied with his reasoning. “That’s unfair.”

Jack shrugs. “Maybe. But that’s life.”

He tucks the photo back into his desk, ignoring the twinge in his chest as he slides the drawer shut.

“No one should be ashamed of who they love, Jack,” Serena says, and within the intensity that burns in her tone Jack swears he can discern a touch of… longing. “I hope—I hope one day you’re able to display that picture.”

And Jack smiles. “Thank you, Serena.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “You know, I never—”

~*~

“—thought I’d see the day you left the office on time, Jack,” Alex says, equal parts joking and surprised as Jack walks past her desk at precisely 5 PM.

Jack pauses at her words, but he laughs after their implication sinks in. “What can I say? I’m a man of habit, and that habit includes about a hundred hours of overtime a week.” He’s exaggerating, maybe, but not by much.

Alex knows it, and she grins. “So what makes today different?”

Jack hesitates.

It’s been ten years.

And it’s not that her absence hurts the way it used to—though he’d had his doubts, time did gradually make the glaring ache fade from a knife deep in his chest to merely extra weight in his heart—but all the same, the anniversary sometimes makes the wound feel a little fresher, a little more gaping than he knows it really is.

Alex must pick up on his slight discomposure, because she immediately reassures him that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to tell her if he’s not comfortable, she didn’t mean to pry—

“It’s alright, Alex,” Jack interrupts, and he offers her a small smile. “You’re not prying.” He shifts his briefcase to be held in both hands. “I’m honoring an anniversary. Ten years ago, my…”

Jack trails off, because ‘lover’ doesn’t feel right after all this time and ‘girlfriend’ feels too shallow for the depth of feelings he has learned to accept they could have, did have, might have had for each other.

“My partner,” Jack finally says. “Ten years ago, my partner—a woman I cared for very much—was killed in a car accident.”

Alex covers her mouth with hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Jack nods his thanks. A reminiscent smile tugs at his lips. “It’s almost funny. Today used to be the only day of the year I would allot my vacation time in advance.”

Maybe that was a coping mechanism, he can’t be sure. He once considered asking Olivet about the habit, but in recent years Jack hasn’t felt compelled to isolate himself the entire anniversary. That’s growth, he likes to think.

Healing, even.

Alex nods in understanding. “Are you—”

xxx

“—going to keep flipping through the scrapbook like it’ll disappear at the stroke of midnight, or are you gonna tell me if you like it or not?”

“I can’t believe this,” Claire murmured, which didn’t really answer Jack’s question. She shook her head. “How did you get all these?”

Jack watched Claire stop on a page full of pictures of herself as a little girl. Her fingers brushed over the edge of a smaller polaroid, one that captured her sitting in a red rocking chair and holding a tiny calico kitten close to her chest.

“I had help,” Jack admitted, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling at Claire’s unhidden awe over the assorted photos. “Your friend Margot Bell made a few calls to your parents that I, as your boss, would not have been able to without sending up some red flags.”

Claire smiled, too. “That’s very Margot. I’ll have to thank her later.” She continued flipping through the scrapbook, laughing at different portraits throughout, but fell quiet when she came to the final section.

Aware he might have been overstating his importance in her life, Jack nonetheless hadn’t been able to stop himself from filling a few pages just of photos of himself and Claire. His personal favorite was from the DA’s most recent holiday party. They’d unwittingly wandered under some mistletoe, and as to follow tradition without disclosing the intimate nature of their relationship, Claire had stood on her toes to press a chaste kiss to Jack’s cheek, no more than a second long.

Jack had a special favor for the photos that had been taken after—namely the one of Claire laughing at the deep red lipstick which newly stained the side of his face.

“Happy anniversary, Claire,” Jack said, and he pressed a kiss to her temple as she surveyed the final pages of the scrapbook. “I hope it’s not too much.”

Claire shook her head, smiling as she flipped to a blank page with a sticky note attached. Jack’s messy scrawl read: Go make more memories and scrapbook them, too.

“No, not too much,” she said after a pause, closing the scrapbook and setting it aside. “Not too much at all.”

Claire shifted so she was sitting in Jack’s lap, a closeness that Jack was certainly not going to complain about as she tilted her head down to capture his lips in a slow kiss.

“So,” she murmured, “shall I give you your anniversary gift now?”

Jack swallowed hard. “That depends,” he managed to say. “Are we—”

xxx

“—doing something in particular, or just going home for self-reflection?”

Ah, ‘self-reflection.’ Alex really is one of a kind, Jack can’t help but think, and he bites his tongue to hold back a chuckle.

“I’m visiting her grave,” he says. “Picking up some roses along the way.” Red—Claire’s favorite color, not by coincidence.

Alex hesitates, shifting in her chair so she’s facing Jack directly. “Do you mind if I join you?” she asks. “Please tell me if I’m intruding, but… if you don’t mind, I’d like to come.”

At first, Jack can only stare. No one has ever asked to join him before. Adam came with him, once, on the first anniversary, partially out of justified fear that Jack would drink himself into oblivion and fail to be dragged back home until hours after dawn, but never before can Jack say he has had requested company at Claire’s tomb.

Maybe it’s time he changed that.

“I would be honored, Alex,” he says, and Alex smiles.

“Thank you.”

They take a cab to the cemetery, stopping along the way for Jack to buy a few roses. Alex insists on paying for them, and her insistence succeeds despite Jack’s best attempts to prevent it.

During the drive, Alex asks a few questions about Claire, the first being What was her name? She is characteristically gentle as she collects information, no doubt putting together a picture of Claire in her mind, and Jack helps the image along by showing Alex the photo of himself and Claire he’s never been able to stop carrying in his wallet.

When they arrive at the cemetery, Jack guides Alex to Claire’s grave, and the familiar ache in his chest that always surfaces this day of the year intensifies in its throbbing.

Here lies Claire Marie Kincaid, the headstone reads, followed by her lifespan, a time still cut far too short. Beloved Daughter. Brightest of Souls.

In smaller cursive is a quote from one of Claire’s favorite poems: Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.

All these years later, he still struggles to read the full poem. Some reminders…

Some reminders may forever be too great.

A lump rises in Jack’s throat. He swallows it, clearing his throat with a cough.

“I brought a friend today, Claire,” Jack says after a pause. He kneels beside Claire’s grave to place down the small bouquet of roses, and Alex silently joins him. “Alexandra Borgia. She’s our newest ADA.”

He hums, offering Alex a small smile. “I think you’d like her, Claire.”

They both shared a certain… passion for victims’ advocacy, where their first attention was always directed to the innocents left behind after violent crimes.

Alex returns Jack’s smile before her gaze flits over to Claire’s headstone. “Would she mind if I said a short prayer?” she asks.

Jack tilts his head. “No,” he finally says. “I don’t think she’d mind.”

Alex closes her eyes, clasping her hands gently against her chest. “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May—”

xxx

“—you always hear, even in your hour of sorrow, the gentle singing of the lark,” Jack murmured, eyes closed and one hand flat atop the closed file on his desk. “When times are hard, may hardness—”

He cut himself off as the door to his office creaked open, and he opened his eyes to see Claire standing on the wooden threshold with a guilty look.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jack shook his head. “No worries.” He gestured to the folder in her hand. “That the final file on the Harkers?”

“Yes,” Claire said, crossing the room to give it to Jack. “All the medical records the judge let us subpoena.”

Jack opened the file, grimacing as he flipped through the documents and was met with pictures of a child, barely six years old, covered with bruises and red marks the perfect shape and size of an adult man’s hand. “Shit.”

“It’s not pretty,” Claire murmured, and Jack nodded in weary agreement.

“Understatement of the century.” He closed the file and placed it atop the other folders related to the case, rubbing his temple with his left hand.

Claire hesitated, but after a pause she asked, “What were you saying before I came in?”

Jack blinked, glancing up at her from his desk. “What was I saying?”

Clare shrugged. “I don’t know. It sounded… like a prayer, almost.”

Oh, right.

“It was,” he admitted. “Kind of.” He gave her a wry smile. “Turns out when you’re raised by the Jesuits, you’ll probably end up impertinent, but sometimes a little devoutness sticks, too.”

Jack didn’t want to mention the other part. How the sight of a little boy and his mother beaten and bruised to oblivion by a father with two big, too-big hands sometimes hit a little too close to home.

Claire nodded. “Of course.” She slowly sank into the chair across from him. “You can… You can finish it, if you want.”

Jack almost raised a skeptical eyebrow. Instead, he offered his left hand to Claire, palm upward. “Join me?”

Claire’s only response was to place her hand on top of his.

Jack closed his eyes. “When times are hard, may hardness never turn your heart to stone. May—”

xxx

“—their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.” Alex concludes her prayer with a sign of the cross, and Jack joins her.

“Thank you,” he says, and she smiles.

“My pleasure.” Alex glances back at Claire’s headstone, and her smile softens further. “I bet she’s looking down on you right now. All of our departed loved ones are.”

Of all his ADAs, Jack thinks, Alex has always had the most faith. Whether or not Jack agrees matters little, because the fact that Alex is attempting to extend this reassurance to him speaks not only to the level of her faith but to her efforts to make the world a little kinder and a little more hopeful than she found it.

It’s hard not to appreciate that.

“I like to think there’s a better place after this life,” Jack admits after a pause.

It’s a thought he rarely voices aloud, being a self-described lapsed Catholic, but Jack knows why people place trust in religion, and it’s because of the need for hope—religion provides comfort and safety in an ever more desolate world.

Claire had never been one for religion. Too many times had she seen it used to justify hate, she’d once admitted to him during a very late night at the office, and Jack’s response had been to take her hand and gently lace their fingers together, propriety be damned.

But even though Claire wasn’t active in any faith, Jack knew she did believe in some kind of higher power. She’d told him that, too, on the 22nd anniversary of her father’s death. How could she not, she’d said, how could she not believe that there was something bigger than all of them?

Look at the grace of a spider building its web, listen to the bittersweet song of a nightingale. She’d dropped her head onto Jack’s shoulder, voice disappearing into a whisper. The world is too beautiful for there not to be forces more powerful than us at work.

After Claire died, Jack went back to the Church, for a while. It wasn’t easy, but he went back. Often alone, but sometimes accompanied by Lennie Briscoe, and a few times even by Rey Curtis. They hadn’t all been there for the same reasons, but they’d all been touched by Claire.

That was kinship enough.

Jack says a silent prayer for Briscoe, whatever Heaven he may be in, and sends good thoughts to Curtis, who last Jack heard is still tending to his beloved, ailing wife.

“I’m sure there is a better place,” Alex agrees, and she says it with such confidence Jack can’t help but believe her. “And I’m sure all of our loved ones are there, too.” She smiles at Jack. “Do you think—”

~*~

“—I could have a little time before deciding, Arthur?” Jack says, reeling with the implication of his boss’s—former boss’s—words. “I don’t…” He shakes his head. “This is a lot to take in.”

Arthur nods with his typical stoicism. “Of course. The governor and I don’t mean to rush you.” He pulls on his coat, shrugging it forward over his shoulders. “We can revisit this topic tomorrow.”

With that, Arthur leaves, and Jack exhales a breath laden with tension, a tension that is also tinged with quiet excitement.

Interim DA. Him.

Christ alive, Jack never thought this day would come, especially not following Arthur Branch, of all the DAs he’d worked under in the past. And hand-picked by Governor Shalvoy?

Jack’s fairly certain he’s going to wake up tomorrow and find this was all a dream.

Jack stands from his desk, unsure if that’s his bones creaking or his old chair, and walks to the door of his office. He knocks on the glass, catching the attention of Connie across the hall, and motions for her to come in. She gives him an affirmative nod, scribbling one last thing on the notepad Jack can see lying in front of her before she stands. Jack holds the door open for her as she enters, and Connie thanks him with a smile.

“So, what’s going on?” she asks, taking a seat in the chair across from his desk as Jack returns to his own chair. “What did Arthur want to talk to you about?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard all the gossip about Arthur leaving the DA’s office,” Jack says, and Connie nods.

“I’ve tried not to put any stock into it, but yeah.” She chuckles. “It’s hard to miss.”

A grin tugs at Jack’s lips. “I don’t doubt it.” He sighs, grin fading. “The fact of the matter is that Arthur will be leaving, and once he’s gone, there needs to be an interim DA.” Jack doesn’t look at Connie as he speaks his next words. “Governor Shalvoy has recommended me.”

“What?!” Connie says, congratulatory awe ringing in her tone. “Jack, that’s—”

xxx

“—bullshit. It’s complete bullshit.”

Jack didn’t protest as Claire angrily shut off the TV, her finger jamming into the red power button of his remote with perhaps unneeded force. She sat next to him on his striped brown couch, and though Jack wondered if he was playing with fire, he carefully wrapped an arm around Claire’s shoulders.

When Claire sighed, resting her head partially against his chest, Jack knew he’d made an acceptable decision.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked, and Claire snorted.

“No. You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“Hey, come on,” Jack said, and he looked down to meet Claire’s eyes with sincerity. “I may not agree with you on everything, Claire, but I’ve never thought any of your opinions were stupid.”

On the contrary, it was often the subjects they typically clashed on that Jack found Claire’s thoughts most insightful, however much he might disagree.

Claire sighed again, but Jack could feel some of the tension ease from her upper body as she relaxed against his chest.

“Don’t tell Adam I said this,” she muttered, and her voice was dry, “but sometimes I wonder if the world would be better off without elected district attorneys.”

Jack nodded, processing her comment. “Why do you say that?”

“I mean—” A frustrated huff escaped Claire’s lips. “On the one hand, I get it. I get why the public needs a voice in choosing the people who have some of the highest authority in prosecuting criminals. But at the same time”—she shook her head—“it’s all the goddamn politics, Jack. We’re supposed to be lawyers, and yet some DAs out there would rather make a ‘statement’ than actually help the people they were elected to protect.”

“You’re right,” Jack said without missing a beat, and Claire looked up at him, surprised.

“Seriously? No debate from Jack ‘I have to disagree with everybody all the time’ McCoy?”

Jack snickered at her sarcasm. “Yes, I’m serious. I can’t stand how politics interfere with the law.” He shrugged. “The way I see it, someone innocent always ends up getting hurt. And you’re right—that is bullshit.”

A smile twitched at Claire’s lips. “Wow. I like when you agree with me.” She kissed his jaw. “You should do it more often.”

This time Jack burst into full-on laughter. “Well,” he said, grinning, “that might be—”

xxx

“—amazing!” Connie beams at him. “You’ll be a fantastic DA. Assuming you keep me around, I’d be honored to work for you.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, a smile inching onto his lips. “Trust me, Connie. If you had about five years more experience, I’d gladly make you my EADA.”

A blush rises in her cheeks. “Thanks, Jack.”

Jack leans back in his seat, dropping his hands to rest clasped in his lap. “I take it you think I should accept the position, then.”

Connie stares at him. “Is that even a question?” she says. “Yes, obviously. You would be brilliant.”

Jack shrugs. “I’m not a politician, Connie. I don’t want to become one, either.”

“Then don’t.”

Jack chuckles. “We both know the district attorney doesn’t have much of a choice.”

“Says who?” Connie challenges, and her adamance is one of the many reasons Jack wishes she had the experience required to be EADA. “Okay, so DAs of the past have tended to be politicians. That doesn’t mean you can’t be the first one who isn’t.”

Jack stares at her for a beat. “You know,” he says, smiling as he shakes his head, “your attitude sure reminds me of someone.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“An old friend of mine. Claire,” Jack says, but before he can say more, Connie tilts her head.

“Oh, Claire Kincaid?”

Jack pauses. “You know her?”

Connie makes a so-so gesture with her hand. “Not quite.” She gives him an awkward smile. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I checked you out before I accepted this position. Trust me, it’s not personal.” A grimace flickers across her features. “I’ve gotten hit with the one-two punch of racism and sexism by a few bosses in the past. Learned a hard lesson about unhesitatingly accepting job offers out of desperation.”

Jack nods in understanding. “No offense taken.” He raises an eyebrow. “So… How much do you know about Claire?”

“Not much,” Connie admits. “Just what’s in the record. She was an ADA of yours under Adam Schiff. Died in 1996. Car crash.”

Jack nods again, and Connie throws him a questioning look.

“I’m guessing there was some stuff excluded from the record?”

“We were together,” Jack says after a pause, and Connie’s eyes widen.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, and he means it. “That was 11 years ago.”

Almost 12, he’s fairly sure. Jack would be lying if he said he didn’t miss Claire, because time has taught him no one truly stops missing those they love, but the past has gotten easier to remember, to talk about, to reminisce through every year.

This conversation is no exception.

“Were you married?” Connie asks, and Jack shakes his head.

“No. No, I don’t—”

xxx

“—know if I could get married again,” Jack admitted. “It’s funny, marriage always seems to put an end to perfectly happy relationships.”

Claire snorted, shaking her head with thinly veiled amusement. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure that’s what happened for you, Jack.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, but he was grinning.

Claire rolled over in her bed so she was facing him directly, and it took all of Jack’s willpower not to get distracted by her bare shoulders, by the softness of her dark hair that framed the delicate angles of her face. “Let’s just say you’re an eternal bachelor, Jack McCoy, and leave it at that.”

“Mm. No, that can’t be right.” Jack moved closer so he could press a kiss across the arch of Claire’s cheekbone. “My relationships have always lasted longer than a few months.”

Claire hummed as his lips brushed her skin. “But they don’t last longer than a few years, either.”

“Who knows?” Jack moved his kisses down her jaw. “You could be the one to break me in.”

Claire turned her head to catch his next kiss with her own lips, smiling into the touch. “Now wouldn’t that be something?”

“Hey, this is the longest relationship I’ve been in for… a while,” Jack admitted after a pause, pulling away slightly to better take in Claire’s reaction. They’d be coming up on three years soon, and three years was how long he’d been with Diana. “How does that make you feel?”

Claire arched a brow in response. “How does it make you feel?”

“I asked first.”

“My apartment, my rules.”

“Ah, touché.” Jack reached out to gently push Claire’s messy waves behind her ear. “I think… I think whatever happens, this—us—was more than worth it.”

Claire chuckled. “But maybe not too sensible.”

Jack shrugged. “Since when does love make sense?”

Claire stared at him, maybe because he’d used the L-word or maybe because of the honesty ringing clear as a bell in his tone or maybe just because he was looking at her like she was his entire world.

Hell, maybe all three, Jack thought, and a smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re not wrong,” Claire said, and Jack’s smile widened. “I like to—”

xxx

“—think marriage was something we were ready for.” Jack shrugs. “And maybe we never would be.” He and Claire hadn’t needed marriage to be committed to each other, really, at least not from Jack’s perspective. Maybe Claire would have changed her mind later in life.

He couldn’t be sure, now.

Some questions would always go unanswered.

Connie nods. “I understand.”

And Jack isn’t sure she does, but he appreciates the sentiment.

“But Claire was a firm believer in a better future, too,” Jack continues after a pause, and he chuckles. “One with less politics in the law.”

A grin tugs at Connie’s lips. “She sounds like a smart woman.”

“The smartest ADA I ever had the chance to work with.” He winks at Connie, and she laughs.

“I don’t doubt it.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. “So why don’t you prove her right?”

Jack raises a brow. “I’m sorry?”

“Accept the interim DA position. Prove Claire’s faith wasn’t misplaced, that the district attorney doesn’t have to be a politician.”

Jack hums, tilting his head. “You think I can?”

Connie shrugs. “You won’t know until you try.”

And that, Jack thinks, might be the best damn advice he’s ever received. “Then it’s settled,” he says. “Tomorrow—”

Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep.

“—we’ll have to go into the office like nothing has changed between us,” Claire whispers into the darkness of Jack’s bedroom. “Can we do that?”

Jack shrugs. “We won’t know unless we give it a shot.”

Claire chuckles. “You’re a bad influence.”

“As if that isn’t half my appeal.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, and Jack snickers. “Listen, McCoy. Don’t think—”

I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow.

“—I don’t realize what you’re trying to do here, Jack,” Claire murmurs as Jack kisses up her neck, dropping his hands to her waist as he closes the distance between them from behind.

“And what’s that?” Jack mumbles between kisses.

“You’re trying to”—Claire inhales sharply when his lips graze behind her ear—“oh, fuck.”

“What was that?” Jack says, biting back a shit-eating grin as Claire frees herself from his grasp and turns around to stare at him with narrowed eyes.

“You are so—”

I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain.

“—lucky Adam didn’t fire you for that,” Claire says, and it doesn’t take a mind reader to detect the disapproval in her tone. Jack rolls his eyes.

“If Adam wanted to fire me, he could’ve done that about a dozen reasons ago.”

“For Christ’s sake, Jack,” Claire says, uncrossing her arms and shaking her head in disbelief. “Can you take anything seriously? You concealed potentially exculpatory evidence. You’re lucky you’re not getting disbarred!”

“Don’t jinx me,” Jack says, only half joking, and it’s Claire’s turn to roll her eyes.

“For once, I wish you would—”

When you awaken in the morning’s hush, I am the swift uplifting rush

“—take me to Ireland, huh?” Claire teases, and Jack raises an eyebrow.

“Not trying to follow Diana’s footsteps, are you?”

“Don’t worry, I know how to learn from the past,” she says, and Jack remembers a judge’s robes shadow her youth the way broken hearts of three assistants do his.

“You really want to go to Ireland?” Jack asks after a pause, and now Claire has to do a double take.

“Jack. I was kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Claire stares at him a beat longer. “No,” she finally says, “I’m not interested in Ireland. I’d rather—”

Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night.

“—see a smile, Jack, come on!”

Jack’s childish response is to clamp a hand over his mouth, and Claire groans, exasperated.

“You’re such a shit.”

“Love you, too,” Jack teases from behind his hand, and the silence that falls in the photo booth is heavier than clouds before a storm as Claire stares at him with wide eyes.

“Do you?” she whispers, uncertain, and Jack’s hand slowly falls from his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, honestly. “Yeah, I do.”

And a small, almost bashful smile tugs at Claire’s lips. “Good.” She reaches over to lace her fingers through his. “Because I think I might love you, too.”

Jack grins, too, because they are—

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

—standing at his door with wet eyes and weary faces.

“There’s been an accident, Jack,” Anita Van Buren says, her voice cracking.

“It’s Claire,” Adam Schiff says, older than he’s ever been.

Jack can’t breathe, because he is—

I am not there.

—kissing Claire Kincaid for the first time, his heart pounding out of his chest.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Jack murmurs, pulling away.

“I want to do this,” Claire counters, tugging him down into another kiss.

She wants to do this, because she is—

I did not die.

28 years old when a drunk driver smashes into the left side of her car.

28 years old when she goes to pick up Jack McCoy from a bar, finding Lennie Briscoe.

28 years old when she wonders if she can really be an ADA for the rest of her life.

28 years old when she confronts her stepdad about lethal injection and its moral quandary.

28 years old when Jack McCoy says she has the flu, promising to cover her cases.

28 years old when she watches a man die at the stroke of midnight.

28 years old when she and Jack McCoy prepare to celebrate three years.

27 years old when Jack McCoy first tells her he loves her.

26 years old when she first kisses Jack McCoy.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and she will never be 29.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and it’s not enough.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies, and it’s too much.

Claire Kincaid is 28 years old when she dies because time has stretched strained severed her thread of life, and yet—

Forever, forever she is loved.

(Do you know, do you get?

It’s just goodbye, it’s not the end.)