I stop by Walgreens on the drive home to pick up the largest bottle of sleep aid tablets that I can find. I also wander through the empty aisles in hopes I'll come across something good to bring back to Brendon. He's not expecting anything, which is the point. It's the little things that excite him, like a pack of gum flavored like cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon roll gum is not very tasty.

The local news channel broadcasts on the television mounted in the corner of the ceiling. It's covered in dust and thin spiderwebs torn apart by the blasting air conditioning unit beside it.

They're continuing a report on the two cars in the ditch. The captions reveal less than half of the story, because the department has refused to release causes of death, for good reason. The media would have a field day if they knew the state of the driver. They broadcast the phone number to call if someone suspects their family or friends were involved in the tragedy. They include a rough sketch of a few of the victims that we did offer to the public, but I don't believe anything will come from the photos anymore.

The case files in my backpack burn holes through the fabric as I watch them wrap up the subject. I could be solving the incident right now among my coworkers.

I grab a package of double stuffed Oreos and head to the checkout counters. There's only one register open, and I'm the only one in line.

The teenage girl chewing her gum doesn't bat an eye at my purchases. "Thank you for shopping at Walgreens. My name is Anne. Hope you found everything you needed today. Got any plans for the weekend?" She asks like a computer program.

Her nails are painted blue but are chipped and dull. They contrast against the thin silver rings around her fingers. Strips of her blonde hair are dyed a pale and fading lavender, most likely temporary dye. Scars spatter the backs of her hands from miscellaneous accidents, likely from childhood. She can't be older than nineteen. "Just work. You?"

She shrugs and taps on the register screen. It freezes twice and demands a code. Eight, seven, one, three, nine. "Trying to find a better job. You know how it is."

The screen screams at her again for a correct code. She types in the exact same numbers again. Eight, seven, one, three, nine. The screaming continues. She sighs, deeply. "I'm so sorry for this inconvenience. My boss is a Luddite. You don't happen to have exact change, do you?"

I have flashbacks to all the retail jobs I took up while I was trying to complete my college degree.

The balance tops out at sixteen bucks. I dig around in my pocket and slide her a twenty dollar bill. "You can keep the change. Can I ask how old you are without sounding weird?"

"Eighteen. And before you ask, no, I don't have any plans for college, and no, I don't intend to go until I can afford it." She's strangely comfortable in the discussion. It's better than being rigid and curt. The thin gold chain around her neck slides out from under her shirt collar to reveal a sleek black gemstone encased in sparkly resin held hits above her collarbone.

From my pocket I fish out my badge, a pen, and a business card for some pushy chiropractor that I never needed to see. Her eyes widen at my identification as the realization hits when I pass her the card with my email.

"We have an internship opening at my precinct, or at least I think it's an internship," I take my badge back and grab the Oreos and sleeping tablets, "it pays more than minimum wage, which I assume you make because you work at a Walgreens. I'll send you a link to the application and put in a positive word for you if you can send me an email."

"T-Thank you, but you really don't have to," she stammers and tries to hand the card back to me, "I don't know if I could do what you do. I'm not the best with crime scene investigation."

"You ever tried it?"

"I mean, no. It's not really a common thing to find in school, you know? I haven't given it much thought. I haven't even seen any crime shows. I wouldn't want to waste your time."

"It's worth a shot. Business is slow — if it wasn't, I wouldn't be here buying Oreos on a Friday night." I say and head to the door. "Keep the change. I'll keep an eye out for your email."

She manages to call out a thank you before the sliding doors shut. In hindsight, it's another excuse to pester Taylor into letting me back into work to introduce her. And it gets her out of Walgreens, whoever she is.

I hear my phone chime halfway home. I have the urge to check it and make sure that was the email ringtone, but I'm on the back road to the neighborhood and the kids on the corner are always running into the street when you least expect it. I have the feeling it's Anne.

As soon as the car engine hums to silence, the front door swings open and Brendon sprints to the window, smushing his face against the glass and grinning from ear to ear.

He knocks like I didn't see him almost trip over nothing twice. "Hey! Hey, hey, hey! You're home early! Three hours early!"

The second I unlock the car, he yanks the door open with all his strength and tackles me into the passenger seat, wrapping his arms around my neck and pressing his lips everywhere he can reach. Today wasn't so awful after all.

"Yeah, I came home early," I say into his shoulder and hug back, "wanted to see you."

"I'm so happy you're here! We can make dinner together, it'll be so much fun. We haven't done that in so long." He sits up and thinks about climbing out to make food, but he gets overwhelmed when he looks at me again and falls back down.

But then the realization hits. "Wait. You're home early. Tell me what happened."

"Nothing, really—"

"Don't lie to me."

His grip loosens but he doesn't move. He's waiting, listening, preparing to hear the very worst. It's not the worst for him, but for me.

When I vaguely explain the forced vacation days situation, he relaxes completely in relief instead of fear or anger. "Oh, thank god. I thought you were fired."

"If they fired me, it would be their loss. They'd lose one of the best employees they've ever had."

"Confident much?"

"Statistics don't lie, love." I press a quick kiss to his cheek and start to coerce him off me so we can go inside. "Got you something."

He slides off and waits until I've grabbed my backpack to latch on to my arm and bump the car door shut. "Aw, you didn't have to do that."

"But I did. Good start to the weekend, right?" The house is cleaner than I left it this morning. The picture frames have been rearranged and a wreath hangs on the inside of the front door. Christmas is just over a month away; thanksgiving hasn't even passed yet.

Sushi has moved to the windowsill, denting the blinds where she sits. The dining room table has been set with a complete round of plates and silverware even though we only eat there in presence of company. The television in the living room plays some B-list romantic comedy on mute. The captions try to keep up but are barely a second delayed.

"I take it you haven't done much today?" I ask as I set my bag down at the base of the countertop. There isn't a single food item set out, despite the previous statement that we would make dinner together, also despite the early meals Brendon has in comparison to mine.

"Why would you say that?" He frowns and heads to the cabinets for a bag of bread.

"The photographs in the hallway are rearranged but nothing else is, so your cleaning kick didn't take effect today. The movie you're watching is an hour in, and it's part of a network marathon that has been airing for about eight hours now. Your shirt has a piece of cereal stuck on the collar, and I know you hate breakfast for lunch. You wore those pants to bed last night, and you haven't gone grocery shopping yet."

Brendon clenches his jaw and stares me down. He flicks the Froot Loop away. "Stop analyzing me, I'm not dead. And for the record, I did go grocery shopping. Went to Vons."

"Is that why we're having sandwiches instead of spaghetti?"

He sighs and tosses the bag onto the counter. I'm right. "I hate you."

"I'm just stating the facts, love."

"Go on a date with this guy I know," he mocks our friends from college, the ones that set us up, "he's studying to be a forensic analyst. He's really smart and super hot. I think you guys would get along well together."

"Don't act like that didn't turn out for the better," he resists when I try to pull him into a bone-crushing hug, but ultimately gives in, "you know I've got a thing for journalists."

"Oh, do you now?"

"Mmhm. Why do you think I tried so hard to go back to your apartment after I met you for the first time?"

He shrugs. He tries to shake me off so he can head to the fridge for the rest of the sandwich ingredients, but I refuse to let go and we waddle over together. "Because I had a pet chinchilla named Troy Bolton."

"Rest in peace, chinchilla Troy Bolton."

"Rest in peace, chinchilla Troy Bolton. What do you want on your sandwich?"

"Everything."

"Everything including ketchup?"

"No ketchup. I thought that was the universal rule for sandwiches. I can't believe you would even include those words on the same sentence."

He shrugs again and begins to pile bags of deli meats, vegetables, and condiments onto the counter, leaving the jar of speared pickles on the side of the refrigerator. "Just making sure."

I take a bit of everything and he picks through the vegetables to find the most favorable. He doesn't end up with much, because we need to go grocery shopping, but it's enough for a decent dinner.

We sit at opposite ends of the couch set in front of the television, but our legs still overlap in the light of the worst romantic comedy to be aired.

"So you know what I did today," Brendon gestures to me with the end of his sandwich, "but I do have a vague idea as to what you did today. Like, I don't know much but I know some."

That intrigues me. "Really? After all these years, you have learned something from the master himself?"

"Not necessarily, don't get too cocky here. I don't know what you ate for breakfast or how traffic was, but I do know you well enough to figure out a couple things."

I set down my food and fold my hands in my lap. "Alright. You have my full attention. What have you learned, young padawan?"

Brendon smirks at the comment. "You brought me something. You have bad news that might be upsetting to just you, just me, or both of us. And you came home really early, so I think it's upsetting to just you. The issue probably expands beyond what you told me. Your backpack wasn't zipped up all the way so I saw the Oreos and the sleep aid tablets, and I know you tend to lose sleep when something bothers you."

I'll admit, that catches me off guard. "Wow. Impressive."

He nods. "Thank you. Also, another thing I've noticed. You usually put your badge in the cup holder while you drive home, but tonight it was in the front pocket of your backpack. You didn't want to see your badge. Work problems? Beyond your forced vacation?"

My jaw threatens to drop. Last week, I got a call in the middle of a meeting to ask how the washing machine works because he forgot which buttons did what. "You want to go back to school and get a degree in forensic analysis? That was pretty solid."

"Oh, no, I'm not that good at this. I just memorized your routine because I love you very much. I know everything about you." He smiles sweetly, but it falls almost immediately. "Now tell me what's wrong or else I'll be really mad."

"You won't be mad."

"No, I'll be really mad. I'll be sad that you didn't feel like you could confide in me when something was bothering you."

My heart flutters. Just a little bit. He looks so cute I want to hug him to death. "Can we talk about this later? I just want to enjoy the moment with you."

If I discuss my current position at work, there is no guarantee that I will not have a breakdown. Not a breakdown that is paired with life falling to pieces in the matter of seconds, but a breakdown that is signified by anger and exasperation.

He purses his lips but nods. "I won't push it just as long as you tell me later. And by later, I mean tonight. I kind of care about you, believe it or not."

"I believe it, my wonderful chef. Thank you for dinner."

"It's just a sandwich," he rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the movie, "nothing special."

Everything is special when it's from him.

We both finish our dishes at the same time, so I take the plates to the dishwasher and grab the Oreos for dessert. It's a hit, obviously, because those are his second favorite cookies. The endgame cookie is any type of Chips Ahoy.

He doesn't bring up whatever's bothering me, not even when we're sitting in comfortable silence together. He doesn't say a word when we lock up the house and turn on the alarm. He doesn't say anything about it when he does a sniff test through the house to reassure me that nothing is wrong. He doesn't bring up anything related to it until we're standing in the bathroom, brushing our teeth even though the thought has been dragging my brain through miles of hot coals and I just can't hold it in anymore.

"Taylor said I have to take time off." I say. Toothpaste spills into the sink and threatens my old basketball shirt from my second year in college.

Brendon pauses. "And... and you don't like that? You kind of told me that already."

"No. I mean yes. Well, I do and I don't. We just had to investigate this car crash, and it's still unsolved despite the autopsies being finished, and the crime scene team can't figure out anything, and I'm trying to help because that's what I'm good at, but Taylor — Lieutenant Swift — said I spend too much time at work, and she told me that it's not healthy when I get so wrapped up in these things. She said it's unhealthy and a shitty coping mechanism, even though it isn't a coping mechanism at all. She and her superiors concluded I need to take some time off."

He takes a minute to register the load of information I dumped on him like an avalanche. He does not stop brushing his teeth until he has his response. "No matter what I say, you have to promise you won't get mad. You have to promise me we'll go to bed together without being pissed off at each other."

I cross my arms and stare him down. I will not be receiving any support in this. "So you agree with her?"

"Promise me before I say anything. Don't try to twist my fuckin' words either. I know you make up shit in between the lines." He snaps. A knife could cut through the tension between us.

I let out a long sigh. "I promise. I'll always keep that promise, you know that. We've argued over bigger things than this and we would still share the bed."

"I know," he mumbles, "I'm just making sure. You can get pretty upset over these things sometimes. You are also a drama queen."

I do. My temper can be short on occasions. I can also be dramatic. Sometimes. "I know, I know. I promise. Do you agree with her?"

The amount of time it takes him to say something does not soothe the blood beginning to boil in my veins.

Brendon drops his toothbrush into the cup, shifts his weight to one foot, and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his joggers. "Yes. I do agree with her. I think you can get too wrapped up in your work, and that can hold serious consequences whether you notice them or not. Your line of work affects you and everybody around you as well."

"My job needs to be taken seriously and it needs to be handled in the most efficient manner possible—"

"And you're one of the only people capable of doing such. I know. We all know. You're a fucking genius." Brendon cuts me off and grabs my hands, squeezing gently. "The problem is that you can't let these things go all the time. You let it consume you. It's happening right now. You should be glad you get to escape all that chaos and death for a little bit, but all you want to do is dive in headfirst, all over again."

"I don't do that."

"Huh. Remind me of what happened last October?"

A group of kids went missing while trick or treating on Halloween. "Seven missing teenagers in one night. Rightful concern."

"I didn't say your worry was, like, invalid. But what did you do?"

"Turned the dining room into a grid map of the nearest forest based on a trail of footprints and tootsie rolls because I thought they'd been kidnapped and held on one of the properties out there."

"And what actually happened?"

"One of the mothers forgot they were having a party for a couple of days just a few towns over, and her hysteria convinced the other families their children had been kidnapped."

He rubs circles on the back of my hand with his thumb. "You took it too far. We've been over this before. Just because—"

"Just because I went through the worst doesn't mean everyone else will. I know. I get it. You tell me that every fucking single time I come home with a new case." I rip my hands from his grip and stalk off to bed. He turns off the bathroom light and follows close behind, jumping under the covers before I can.

"Can I be honest?" He whispers when I pull the cord of the lamp sitting on my bedside table, enveloping the room in darkness. The only light in the room drips through the slats of blinds and the orange street lights outside.

"No."

"I'm going to say what I wanted to anyways. You're wonderful, smart, and perfect, but you just need to take a step back and let someone else handle this for once."

Nobody else will be able to handle this. There is no definitive cause of death for anybody but who we assumed to be the driver of the yellow mustang and the woman sitting in the passenger seat. There are too many loose ends to burn in so little time. The case is going cold. "I don't think I can."

"You can," he shifts closer until we're in the usual position for the night, "I just told you that you're wonderful, smart, and perfect. You'll figure it out. You always do."

I don't think I can.