With a maximum of around 5 hours sleep, I could feel the bags beneath my eyes bulge. Staring at my washed out complexion, I attempted to cover the imperfections. I was thankful for my naturally dark skin, courtesy of my mother who had Peruvian heritage, finding it much easier to cover the lighter areas with a small amount of foundation.

Mascara was not an option, I knew that by the end of day I would look like a wild racoon had I of decided to go all out.

Standing back in the bathroom mirror, I examined the outfit I'd chosen. I wore a fitted black skirt with a length reaching just below my knees and a black buttoned blouse, rolled neatly to my elbows. I had brushed down every inch of my dark chocolate hair, straightening it so not a single piece would frizz or spike, ensuring I was respectful and tidy.

Satisfied with my appearance, I stepped out into the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, I pulled on my pair of vans. I hadn't anticipated needing heels, or formal shoes to attend an event such as Tony's funeral, so I did the best with what I'd had. I was almost positive no one would care, shoes were not important, not to Tony's family anyway.

"Jasmine" Dawson called from downstairs "It's time to go"

I had mentally tried to prepare myself for the funeral in all the ways I could, but I knew that with whatever preparation I'd had, I would struggle to cope. Tony's family would be there, his wife, his kids, I was not ready, nor would I ever be ready to see them shredded to pieces over losing Tony in such a savage way.

"You good?" Dawson asked once I reached the bottom of the stairs

I nodded, saving my voice, unsure if it would break me with my already fragile state of thinking.

There were two visual sides of Detective James that I had seen since being within his presence. The cop side of him, and the morning side of him. They were both very opposite, but they helped to ground me to reality.

On our third day together, I could add the funeral side of him, this was a side that made me catch my breath. It was only slightly that my breathing had haltered because of the reality he was attending Tony's funeral with me, but the majority of the surprise came to me in another form, an indescribable form.

He respectfully wore black dress pants and his usual black, brown lace shoes, the hint of a white buttoned up shirt beneath his black suit jacket. I'd come to know his hair as the kind that had a mind of it's own, wild and askew at the top while the sides were kept short and trimmed. It hadn't ever looked bad, even at 7am in the mornings when he'd stepped out onto the patio without even touching it. But now, he had put effort in, brushing it so it appeared thicker, smoother, waxing it into place so that it had no option than to remain still.

I tried not to stare, blinking unnaturally faster than I should have. There had been a strategic method to having left my hair out, using it as a shield to avoid the uncomfortable expressions I could not explain. This was not about the unusual way my body had reacted to Dawson, this was about Tony, this was about saying goodbye.

With what felt like hours, we had pulled up to the police station, memories overloading me with the events that had occurred only a few days earlier. The car hummed as I stared out the passenger side tinted window, Isaia Wood walking down the stairs from the building. He dressed in a similar fashion as his partner, brown pants, dark shoes, dark jacket and a white button shirt. The pair had both ensured their gun and badge were in place on their belts, visible to any threat that they were ready to use force wherever necessary. It was a daunting reminder of the possibilities, but all I could focus my attention on, was Tony and his send off.

"How are you doing Jasmine?" Detective Wood asked as we began towards the church

"Getting by, how have you been?" I turned the question, genuinely interested in his well-being. There was something incredibly likable about Isaia. He was welcoming, warm, someone that you naturally wanted to be around. He made me feel safe, and when he spoke, his deep velvet voice made me forget about the worries of my life.

"Yeah, getting by" He matched "It's been nice not having this guy around 24/7" He let out a small joke aimed at his partner

I aimed my head backwards "Is he that bad?"

"I've been with him for almost 4 years now, and not once has he ever told me about himself, he holds his cards pretty close to his chest, no matter how much I rant and rave on about my wife and mother-in-law, he won't break" He was shaking his head

I looked back to Isaia and gave him a smile, yet my mind confused. In 4 years he hadn't opened up to his partner, someone he spent every single day with. In 3 days I worried that I'd learnt more about Dawson than his partner had in years, why was I more deserving of that information over Isaia?

The closer we became to the church, the quieter the conversation. Pulling into the street where dozens of cars were parked, the ambience turned cold, sad. This was where Tony would be laid to rest, forever gone. It hadn't taken long for me to notice the amount of police presence Dawson had warned me of. I could spot the unmarked cars, as well as the marked. Detectives in plain clothes carried their weapons on their hips, talking in small groups while the more obviously uniformed officers in navy scattered into positions, their eyes vigilant beneath their formal hats.

"The police are here to both pay their respects and to ensure the afternoon goes on without a problem, you should feel safe here, but in the event that something sinister does happen, you listen and do exactly what Detective James and I say"

I nodded as the car engine subsided, parked.

This was it.

Exiting the car, swarms of people in black were scattered throughout the church entrance and undercover terrace. Soft music could be heard from the church, two pastors standing by the door. Instantly I recognized Tony's wife Loretta, her hands held tightly in another woman's hand, the pair sharing a gentle word. Beside Loretta were her 3 children, I avoided looking to their faces, but could already tell by their postures they were struggling. I swallowed the hard lump forming in my throat, forcing back my emotions.

"James, Wood" An approaching detective shook hands with my guards, his eyes meeting mine "This must be.."

"Jasmine" Dawson introduced for me "Jasmine this is Detective Oliver Harding, he works with the robbery unit"

"You are the one who recognized Ben Thomasin aren't you?" The name spoken from his lips had my attention immediately. I froze, what story had Dawson fabricated without revealing the fact I'd been nose deep in his confidential case files?

I nodded, keeping my mouth shut.

"Well you deserve a huge thank you, we've been working on that case for almost a year and now we finally have the perpetrator in custody"

"Ben? He was arrested?" I questioned

Oliver nodded "He confessed once he realized the evidence we found inside his home was so overwhelming"

"Wow" I breathed, my heart racing. There was a tally mounting for the sets of evil eyes I'd made contact with. First the men who had hurt Tony, then my attacker, but not before the man I had wanted to sleep with in the bar that had turned out to be a serial psycho.

"C'mon, it's time to head in" Dawson instructed, his hand on the small of my back.

Floods of people began shuffling like zombies into the church alter, taking their seats along the long pine benches on either side of the centered coffin at the end of the aisle. Loretta and her children sat at the very front, tissues grasped at their faces, not ready to officially say goodbye.

I followed closely wedged between Dawson and Isaia, taking seat in the center to the left. Police lined the outskirts, some subtle, others not so much. When the room filled, I could feel my lungs constrict with the pressure of loose emotions within the air. Sobs could already be heard, sniffling and the clearing of throats when silence reigned.

Packed like sardines, I admired the crowds, despite the anxiety it gave me. These people had all come to see Tony, to tell him that they loved him for one final time. I liked to think that he was watching down, his eyes filling with tears as he reveled in the love and support that was being given to his memory. He would be proud, he would be smiling. I tried not to think of his face, because the moment I knew I did, I would burst open.

Isaia and Dawson sat on either side of me, their hands clasped neatly together while I roughly fiddled with my fingers in my lap. Seconds later, the service began.

There were moments that I had needed to remove myself from the words being spoken. There were moments where I knew I would break that I forced my eyes down, my hair over my face. Halfway through the service, it was noticeable that word had spread of my attendance. More than a dozen times, someone would attempt to subtly turn in my direction, whispering to whomever was beside them. They knew who I was, not by name, but by the scar scratched across my forehead, but the news stories that had initially reported of a young woman having been inside the store with Tony during the ordeal. I tried my best to ignore the glances, the whispers, but I could not avoid reacting with shifting where I sat, picking at the skin around my nails until they stung.

I was holding myself together, barely, but the moment Loretta and Tony's fifteen year old daughter Kenya took to the stand with a shaky note she had written for her father, I knew it was over for me.

She tucked a stray strand of wavy black hair behind her ear, cleared her throat and began to speak into the microphone. She was brave, she was determined to say her piece, to say her goodbye. I admired her already.

"To my dad" Her letter began, her frail voice trembling.

The remembrance of tender moments between Kenya and her father were spoken of, some that would earn a laugh, some that would entice tears. She spoke of the moment she had come home from a date, crying, disappointing that the boy had not turned out the way she had hoped. Tony, her dad, he had told her that unless the boy had hurt her, that she didn't even have to talk about it, instead, he offered her a day off school, popcorn, junk food and a movie night without their siblings to cheer her up. He did whatever he could to make her feel better, and by the smile on her face as she recounted the event, I could see that it had had an impact on her, even to the day.

Kenya spoke of nothing but passion and pride for her father, he was her hero and now that he was gone, I could see that her heart had been broken. With a shaky voice, tears rolling down her cheeks, Kenya's uncle stood beside her, his arm over her shoulders, encouraging her and supporting her to continue until the end.

"I will always remember you Dad, I will always look to the sky for your spirit when I feel that I need it and I will always know that you are there, watching me, supporting me, until the day we meet again, I love you" She finished, by now her mental state a complete and blubbering mess.

Sobs and cries could be heard throughout the church, the innocence of her speech having broken many. When the Pastor took to the stand again, he had taken a moment of silence to compose himself, returning with a low and unstable tone.

My eyes were stinging, my head pounding. I had been forcing back my emotions, saving them for a more secluded setting when a slideshow of photos and home videos began to play on a dull projector, the music sombre, upsetting within itself. I stared ahead, picking at the skin around my left thumb until I felt blood smear against my touch.

"Hey" Dawson softly breathed in my direction

His eyes were on my face, and when I angled my head towards him, our eyes met

He shook his head slightly, his gaze moving to my hands

I knew what he was insinuating, the obsessive movements of my hands were drawing blood. Avoiding the instinct was difficult, so I intertwined my fingers with one another and held on tightly, squeezing my palms together in my lap.

Within minutes, my habit having been taken away, while watching the photos on screen, I could no longer avoid the emotions threatening to spill. All I could see was a polar difference in the image of Tony with his family, smiling, happy, blessed, to the moment he had been shot, blood splattering the walls and floor.