It's Saturday, July 12th, 2014, 9:43 p.m., and I, Detective Alfredo Mariano, am conducting an off-duty stakeout at Timothy's Bar and Grille.

Person of Interest–a brunette, hazel eyes, approximately 5'6" and 110 pounds, 33 years old as of today, wearing a sleeveless red blouse, dark jeans, and she is, needless to say, very attractive. She entered said establishment exactly one hour ago with three associates–two nondescript white females, and one unlikable male with an irritating faux five-o'clock shadow.

Now concluding the obligatory waiting period, I leave the safety of my black 2011 Chevrolet Tahoe and enter Timothy's main entrance. I scope the scene, confirm the location of the POI, and take a seat in a booth at the perimeter of the bar area.

She is drinking something that looks like carbonated water. It's hard to tell for certain at this distance.

My concentration is about to be interrupted by: "Would you like to see a menu?" 

The waiter's tone: rude, impatient. It appears he's killed too many brain cells in his frat-boy years and can't wait to relive his hockey-player glory days as soon as he's off duty.

"No, just a Molson."

He leaves in no hurry. This means I have plenty of time to watch POI among her peers before "Doug," my waiter, returns and I burden him with my next request.

The POI, Gwyneth Strattner, formerly known as Gwyneth Fitzpatrick, is chatting and laughing. There is no indication that she is still haunted by the incident. And for that, I envy her.

Clunk. Oh good. Doug's back. "Should I start a tab?"

"Yes, please." I take a sip from the bottle and he's already walking away. "Wait! One more thing. See that brunette over there?" She's the only woman in the whole damn place worth the inquiry, so I believe the nose bob in Gwyn's direction is unnecessary.

But leave it to Doug, a proud member of the Neanderthal subspecies of the male population, to mess this one up. "The one in the ugly dress?"

I figure I should try to speak his language–grunts, monosyllables. "No, the hot one."

"Oh, red shirt, nice cleavage...?" 

I throw one hand up to confirm the obvious. "That's the one! Can you do me a favor and find out what she's drinking?" He looks at me like I just told some crappy dad joke. "Please?" By my ear, I fan out a $20 bill.

He pockets the cash and only makes a few other stops before he initiates a conversation with the bartender. They aren't exactly discreet, though. The Blue Jays cap I'm wearing is a good disguise, but I defer my eyes and feel myself sinking deeper into the booth cushion anyway. One of the women in Gwyn's company, a mousy blonde, has already peered over at me. But Gwyn...hmmm...seems entertained by five-o'clock-shadow guy's douchey antics. He's getting a little too liberal with his hands and I have no right to be like this, but I don't like it. Not at all.

Doug is now heading back in my direction. It's a good thing, too. I need the distraction. "Sparkling water," he informs me. "She gave up drinking a few months ago."

Shit. That was my angle.

"And they just closed their tab."

How did that happen so fast? Gwyn is all of a sudden standing and giving everyone a hug with her purse on her shoulder. Meanwhile, I'm fumbling through my options, none of them good. I should have brought a card or something, but I'm an idiot!

In my wallet, there's an old receipt. I flip it over and want to kick myself. An oil change? How fucking romantic!

"Do you have a pen?"

Doug's reaction to my desperation is one of amusement. I wish I could knock that cocky look off his face, but he does, at the very least, cough up a click pencil.

I fold up the pathetic excuse for a piece of paper into a small rectangle.

Gwyn,

Happy birthday.

From,

Someone who you believed was worth saving 

It's the thought that counts. Yeah, something like that. I fold the paper one more time. Doug knows what I'm going to ask, but he makes me ask anyway. "Can you give this to her?" I get that blank look again. "Would you help a brother out?" I flash another $20.

He trots off $40 richer than I am.

The first thing I admired about Gwyn, all before I made the mistake of getting emotionally involved, was her honesty and not just in her words. Her tone of voice and facial expressions tell the rest of her story. That admiration vanished after she shot her husband in the head at close range. I wanted her to find a way to lie because the honesty scared the shit out of me. I wasn't sure she'd ever recover from the shock. She didn't speak, she didn't react, she barely moved. It was like she died, too.

I never thought it was possible to hate someone more than Rebecca Donovan, the Goldilocks Killer, the woman who shaped and defined my career in Homicide. But Sam Fitzpatrick proved me wrong. I hope the two of them are rotting in hell together.   

Well, six months has done amazing things for Gwyn. She is stronger than she looks. And it's a relief and a miracle that after receiving my message, her face can go from a confused curious to a bright gleam of recognition that she keeps under wraps with the back of her hand. I can't see her smile, but it's shouting from her eyes. She brings that down to a contented neutral as she scans the faces of the other restaurant patrons. When she squints in my direction, I lift and tip my beer bottle at her.

Gwyn whispers something to her matronly friend, the brunette with the weird dress and librarian glasses, and moves in my direction. Slender, long-legged, and with clothes to accentuate that, her walk certainly holds my attention.

I take a swig of beer, wishing it would take the lump out of my throat. But no such luck.

"I barely recognized you in the hat. It makes you look..." She purses her lips and lifts an eyebrow as she considers her answer.

"Younger, I hope?" I'm eight years older than she is. I wonder if she knows that or suspects, and if she'd care.

"Well that, and...you look...relaxed."

"And it's about time, eh?" 

She smiles at that and takes the seat across from me. "How are you, Detective?"

"Getting by. You?"

"Same. I'm surprised to see you, though. How did you know I'd be here? Oh, wait, did you...?" She pulls out her cellphone and jiggles it at me, suggesting that I tapped into her phone with my law enforcement powers. 

"No, I located you the old-fashioned way. I followed your friend's car."

"If you were anyone else, I'd be really freaked out right now."

"Don't worry. I reserve the stalking for special occasions. But your birthday qualifies, so today is your lucky day."   

I drink to that.

"You could have just called, or texted, or emailed..."

"I know. But I didn't think you needed the reminder of..." I shrug. It's not like I need to say the words. "And you could have done the same. I don't recall denying any of your correspondence."

"You're right. I should have. I had been meaning to. Once I was...better, I should have thanked you."

"For what? As much as I wish it were the other way around, you saved my life, remember?"

As she searches for the words, the vibrancy in her eyes is being replaced with tears. We're here and we're talking. That should be a good thing. But if she's not ready, then I've picked the wrong night to spring this upon her. "For getting me out of trouble."

"C'mon!" I lean back into the seat cushion and shake my head. "It was clean-cut self-defense. No jury in the world would have convicted you of anything."

"Yeah, but..."

"You had been through enough. All I did was make a few calls to expedite the process. The end result would have been the same. So I'm the only one here who should be muttering thank-yous."

Her friends are now coming in our direction. I nod at them to warn her. Gwyn dabs her eyes with a paper napkin right as they arrive.

"Gwyn, are you ready?" The woman with the black glasses levels her man-hating gaze on me. Unfortunately for everyone, I'm accustomed to standing my ground and I meet her eye to eye, and it's not winning me any points. "We should get you home."

If Gwyn wants to go with them, I won't stop her. But I want to make sure she knows there's an alternative. "I can take her home."

While Gwyn is looking at me, she smiles and assures them, "I'm in good hands."

That sparkle in her eye is back, so I know she believes it and I have to admit I'm pleased she trusts me.

Once her friends seem convinced that I'm not the next Sam, they leave with only a few suspicious glances back in my direction. I know they are just looking out for her, maybe a little more vigilantly because of what happened. Sam was such a good liar that no one besides Gwyn even suspected that he was evil to the core. But, if her friends are anything like I am, they feel guilty anyway. Perhaps if we had been more perceptive, took Gwyn's concerns more seriously, we could have spared her the trauma.

Since Gwyn already ate and gave up drinking for good–it had become too much of a crutch for her both before and after Sam's demise–we close out my $4 tab–I'm sure Doug is thrilled about that–and stand to leave. It appears Doug has no hard feelings, though. I do get a thumbs-up from him on the way out.

The ride to Gwyn's house isn't a long one. I find myself driving a tad slow once she starts talking again. I find out she's had a few book offers...

"Am I in it?" I ask.

"Every book needs a good hero."

"Ha! Aren't you misinformed!"

And though she didn't need the money and never wanted the attention, she eventually accepted the best offer. And an added bonus: "It's helped me sort through things and make sense of it all," she says.

"I'm happy for you, then." Now only a few blocks away from her house, my fingertips are thrumming the steering wheel to the beat of the music, one of my nervous habits.

When I set my hand down on the gearshift to force the movement to stop, Gwyn slips her fingers between mine. It does little to calm my nerves.

I park in her driveway, but let the engine idle. There is that heavy "what happens now?" silence which I'm eager to break. "Is it hard still living here?"

She shrugs. "The house was mine before I met Sam, so it's not that bad. The memories are ordinary lousy husband memories and not..." She glances back at the house across the street, the photographer's old residence, and the place where I found her curled up in a pool of Sam's remains. I've seen some pretty horrific things in my life. That one stands out as the worst for me, though, by far, and that's even considering Rebecca's murder in my former apartment. I wouldn't want to remember something like that every time I walk by a window or leave the house. That's why I moved out of my old neighborhood...

"I don't know if this will help you make peace, but for the record, that Sebastian guy fell off the grid sometime the night before the pictures of you were released. And most of his camera equipment ended up in various pawnshops. So..."

"He may not have been the one to sell them," she finishes.

"Likely not. He was a jerk, but not a colossal one."

"I've considered that. He was always more about the art than the money and he intended to remain engaged to his partner, or so he claimed. And Sam...well...smearing my reputation seems like something he would have done to get back at me. And lure me over there. Any leads about Sebastian, by the way?"

"No. He vanished without a trace. Sam knew what he was doing. Sebastian will probably never turn up. But you never know. Stranger things have happened."

"Are you still...?"

"What?" I ask. I really have no clue.

"Upset about the pictures?"

I chuckle for a blip. After all we've been though, she thinks I still care about the stupid nude photos. "I admit it wasn't exactly what I needed to see the morning after. But, once the events of that day started to unfold, I was over it and more concerned about your wellbeing. I had no idea how concerned I should have been until it was entirely too late. So, anyway, case closed, right? And we're still here..."

I take one last look at Sebastian's house in my side-view mirror. Then I hear Gwyn's seatbelt click open and the next thing I know, her hand is resting on my shoulder and she kisses my cheek. It wanders for a few seconds to my ear and then neck. I'm about to shift and move in for my turn, but she pulls back. My teeth clench with the missed opportunity.

Gwyn opens the passenger side door. "Well, I don't want to hold you up. I'm sure you have places to be."

That's not true, not tonight, but I don't argue. I nod, force a pathetic excuse for a smile, and give her a quick wave goodbye that probably looks more like a salute. It shouldn't come as a shock to anyone that I'm still single.

"Good-night, and thanks for the ride." Slam. I watch her walk up the driveway, wondering if I'll ever see or hear from her again. But then she stops and turns back. She leans her elbows on my open windowsill.

Doug was indeed correct. She does have phenomenal cleavage–not too much, not too little. But I knew that already. It's not something my mind will ever let me forget.

"How about this?" She bites one side of her lower lip. "You can come in under one condition."

"And what's that?"

"You call me afterwards this time."

She gives me an unsatisfying peck on the mouth and does that confident strut away from me.

Moment of deliberation. Moment over. I pull the keys from the ignition and follow her inside. And I hope I won't have a reason to resurface until Monday morning...