Chapter Six

Imogen looked down at her texts. In Jay's dark living room, her phone provided just enough light to send shadows every which way beyond the couch cushions. Somehow that was more comfortable than his ceiling lights.

7:19 PM. "We're gonna have another late night."

That last text had come in just under an hour before. Throughout the day she'd filled her time with shopping, paperwork, and pacing in Jay's apartment. But now, with the sun down and everything but restaurants and bars closed for the day, the sting of dread in her stomach crept back in.

Her right hand shook as she turned away from the phone and went back to pacing the hardwood. Too much silence. Too much stillness. Imogen didn't want to have the time to think, to remember. Better to forget.

She attached her badge to the waistband of her jeans. The gun came next, hidden under her leather jacket. Almost done. Her right combat boot concealed her ceramic dagger, her wallet and pepper spray went into her coat pockets, and with a final deep breath, she walked out the door. If she was going to be pacing, she figured it might as well be outside.

A light misting cooled her face. Imogen didn't mind the rain. It grounded her. Ignoring the pain in her left arm, she shifted her leather jacket up a bit and moved off down the sidewalk. She had no real plan. She just knew she needed to get out.

One foot in front of the other. Focus on the environment. Imogen counted the number of parked cars. She silently recited each street name and intersection. Whenever she passed another person on the sidewalk, she looked first at their face and then their shoes. Male, black, mid thirties. Male, Hispanic, twenties. Female, white, early forties. Black steel-toed work boots, red and white Adidas gym shoes, nondescript black business flats.

No one would be able to ditch shoes in the rain. Easy identifiers. With a deep breath, ignoring the way the misting rain gathered on her forehead and began to drip past her eyes, Imogen continued down the sidewalks lit by stoplights and weak streetlamps.

Imogen wasn't sure how long she'd walked. Water dripped from her dark hair and had soaked her clothes all the way down her undergarments. She didn't want to stop. Counting cars, pedestrians, even the rats and raccoons that skittered between alleys helped her forget. She didn't want to remember them.

Molly's sign shined like a neon beacon as she passed Wicker Park and continued east. The rain had stopped almost completely. A beer or a few shots of whiskey couldn't hurt.

Just like the night before, a good thirty people sat or stood around the bar. Herrmann and the other one she'd not spoken to, Otis, cleaned glasses and laughed with another handful of patrons. In the right hand tables, Imogen noticed a few of the Chicago Med staff. Dr. Rhodes sat sipping at a beer across from two African American women, nurses if she remembered right.

Imogen moved over to the bar. She didn't mind that neither bartender noticed her. Instead, she counted 37 bottles of alcohol behind the bar, including ten whiskeys and five vodkas. Pulling out her phone, she checked the time. 9:38 PM.

"Hey! Adler, right?" Herrmann's voice tore her attention away. He grinned ear to ear as he moved down the bar to meet her at the end. "You're back!"

She forced a smile and sat up straighter. "You have a good bar."

"Eh, that we do. So, what'll it be? Is your friend coming tonight?"

Imogen shook her head. "He's on duty. I'll just take whatever the most popular beer is."

"Comin' right up."

A small group left the bar. Imogen found herself memorizing faces and shoes again. She closed her eyes and looked away. Stop it. Focus. Part of her knew she needed to play the role of a calm citizen just visiting a bar. But after years of playing roles, the prospect exhausted her. Acting ran in her blood. That didn't make it easier when her arm, face, and chest ached and her clothes soaked her to the bone.

"Here yah go." Herrmann placed a cold beer in front of her. "Hey, I forgot to ask. Who's your cop friend?"

Imogen glanced at him over the beer as she let the liquid chill her throat. He held her gaze. Setting the beer back on the bar, she shifted in her seat. "Detective Jay Halstead, 21st District."

"No way!"

Based on his huge grin, he knew the name. Pleasantly, it seemed. Imogen hadn't really considered that he would be known by name at Molly's. She should've guessed it.

"Hey, guys." He turned to the small group near Otis at the other end. "Come 'ere!"

She took a deep breath. Time to play the social extrovert role. All the times she'd joked with Jay about how they played great extroverts on TV whenever undercover filled her mind. Time to do it again.

"This is Officer Imogen Adler. She's friends with Jay Halstead and just moved back to Chicago," Herrmann said.

Imogen flashed a small smile at Otis and the Hispanic man she remembered from the day before. To her surprise, she recognized the third: the blonde paramedic. Her chest tightened. But she just forced herself to calm down and looked back at Herrmann.

"Detective, actually."

"Nice to meet you," Otis said.

"Joe Cruz." The man held out his hand and she shook it.

The paramedic smiled at her. "Nice to meet you formally, Detective." No wonder she was a paramedic. She had a nice smile. Comforting. "Sylvie Brett."

"You two met?" Herrmann grabbed a glass and started cleaning it.

Imogen decided to get ahead of this. "Briefly. On a call."

Brett nodded. She pointed to Imogen's left while clasping a beer. "How's your arm?"

"It's fine."

"Wait, so how do you know Jay?" Otis said.

Imogen paused. She masked her hesitation by taking a long drink of her beer. How to respond. Honesty? Simple story? She placed the beer back on the polished wooden bar top.

"I grew up down the street from him and Will," she said. "After I went to college, we both ended up in the Academy."

"Jay's a good guy. Almost cost us Molly's though," Herrmann said. He placed a fourth shot glass away. "Some wannabe mobster tried to burn us down and he just stood there."

"He was undercover," Otis said, rubbing his forehead and rolling his eyes just a bit. "What was he supposed to do?"

"Yeah, well, we had to replace like three dozen bottles. Took forever to get the District to pay for it!"

Otis just shook his head and turned back to Imogen. He passed her another beer. "So what made you move back to Chicago?"

"Work. Came off of a long term position and was offered a spot here in Intelligence," she said. "Couldn't pass that up."

"Where were you before?" said Cruz.

Imogen's gaze flickered to Brett and then back. "Classified," she said.

"Eh boy," Herrmann muttered. He shook his head and moved to grab a couple their drink orders. "Cops."

She couldn't help but smirk a little at his reaction. The friendly feud between fire and police ran back as far as she could remember. "So, I know you're a paramedic. Are you two firefighters as well?"

"Yep! Firehouse 51," said Cruz. "Best house in the city."

"You should stop by," Brett said. She flashed Imogen that warm smile again. "We're all on shift tomorrow."

"I don't know."

"Come on. It'll be nice! Better than going to some bar by yourself," she added.

A compelling argument. Probably even more than this Sylvie Brett realized. After all, Molly's only stayed open till what, 2AM? She didn't want to pace alone in her apartment or bar hop to less savory establishments.

So she took another drink. "I'll see what Jay's doing."

"You two a thing?" Cruz said.

Imogen laughed. She didn't mean to, and tried to subtly cover her grin. Wasn't that the eternal question. Always had been. Were they an item? More than friends, less than dating.

"Romantically, you mean?" she said. "No. But we were partners for years. As a cop, your partner's everything, especially in our line of work. Besides," she said, "Jay's my only contact left in the city. He's helping me readjust."

"Come by the firehouse," Brett said. "Really."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Apologizing, she pulled it up and saw Jay's text, asking where she was. He must've gotten home early. She let him know she was at Molly's. A moment later, she graciously accepted his offer to swing by and pick her up. Her whole body had started to hurt from the cold and the walk and the rain.

"ETA 10 minutes."

Imogen slipped her phone back in her pocket. After another few minutes of listening to Brett, Cruz, Otis, and Herrmann chat about the challenges facing the fire department or the bar or any number of things, she paid her tab and bid them good night. She checked the time. 11:00 PM.

When she opened the door, Imogen felt exhaustion and pain sink into her shoulders and neck. Her body felt heavier than ever. Even as the wind picked up, drying her a bit where she stood, Imogen could feel her right hand begin to tremble ever so slightly.

She looked left at the sound of footsteps on pavement. In the light of a pale streetlamp walked Will Halstead. He stared down at his cellphone in his right hand, his left in his jacket pocket.

"Will."

He glanced up. He didn't smile, but he also didn't look quite as angry as he had at the hospital. Imogen took that as a good sign.

"Imogen," he said. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he joined her to the left of Molly's front door.

She frowned. "Listen. Will. I'm sorry. Really. For everything." To hide her shaking hands, she folded her arms across her chest and ignored the pain it caused.

But Will just looked at her closer. "How's the pain? Any issues?"

"I'm fine," she said. Ignore it. Ignore the pain. She could only focus on one stresser at a time and right now, she couldn't ignore the burning pit in her stomach from years of lying and betrayal.

"Good."

The wind blew her hair into her face as she stood facing off with Will. It had been years since she'd actually missed growing up on the weathered streets of Canaryville. But she did. She missed following Will around with a scraped up hockey stick a foot too long and a cheap plastic lilac Polly Pocket locket around her neck. There hadn't been many girls on their street. But that was ok. She had Jay to get into trouble with and Will to imitate.

He gave her almost an imperceptible nod. In one motion, he wrapped an arm around her. "I'm glad you're back, Midge."

Imogen couldn't stop the tears in her eyes at the hug and her nickname from two decades ago in Canaryville. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve a warm hug. Some part of her felt she deserved the sharp wind on her face, the painful gunshot wound in her arm, and the knot in her chest.

"So, you two talking now?"

Jay had pulled up, the passenger side window of his matte grey truck rolled down. She could see the hint of a smirk on his face.

"Bout damn time," he said.

"Make sure she's taking care of that gunshot wound." Will took a half step back and pointed at Jay. "Your responsibility now."

"Yeah, yeah. Get outta here."

Imogen chuckled through a few remaining tears. After a quick goodnight to Will, she pulled herself up into Jay's truck and they drove off. He didn't say anything for several minutes. Imogen shut her eyes and tried to think about elementary school summers in Chicago instead of the lifeless eyes of the friends she'd made and lost over the past few years.

"The hell were you doing, walking to Molly's?"

At his sharp tone, Imogen opened her eyes and turned to look at him. They sat at the stoplight a couple blocks from his apartment. The red light highlighted his tight jawline.

"I needed air."

He shook his head. The car gave a small lurch forward as the light turned green. With a quick glance her way, he softened his tone a bit. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just needed air."

Whether she'd successfully convinced him or not, she didn't know. But it didn't take long before she sat on the couch rewrapping her gunshot wound, wet hair soaking her black tee-shirt where the tips lay against fabric and listened to the rhythmic sound of the shower going in the background. They didn't say anything more about it.

She climbed into the left side of the bed at midnight. Jay had the TV in the living room turned down low, enjoying a dinner of leftover Chinese. It didn't take long to fall asleep between the booze and the exhaustion. But it didn't last long.

By three, she had woken up again. Jay lay on the other side of the bed, sound asleep as he clasped his hands under his pillow. With as much care as she could manage, Imogen tiptoed out of the room in her shorts and tee-shirt, not bothering to put on socks or slippers, and settled on the floor by Jay's floor to ceiling window.

With her right shoulder against the glass, she watched people and cars coming and going a few floors below. She counted them. She memorized them. White male, dark clothes, middle aged. Black teens, two female and one male, cell phones shining. Latina female, purple running clothes, thirties. Black gym shoes.

Like counting sheep.