A/N: Hey, guys! I couldn't stay away for too long. Not with how I left the last story. I've been planning on following up with a sequel since the middle of The Rouge Brothers. I felt I couldn't properly tell their story without another few dozen chapters. So, Voila!
A short one to begin with, but I appreciate hearing from you guys! xx
She breathed out, blinking once slowly.
Her forefinger pulled down on the trigger. It was a quick, staccato movement. It was just one round, it was fast, and it was effective.
It was a good shot.
It needed to be done. She just couldn't help but think of what he will do. But consequences drifted from her mind when she saw the way the blood weaved over her target's chest. It was mesmerizing. Her skin vibrated with the last dregs of adrenaline.
It wasn't just fear that coursed through her veins, it was victory.
She'd finally won. She'd finally come out of the shadows on the other side, a winner. There was no pity here, as the victim's skin drained of colour. She'd practiced this, prepared for this. Her brain thumped almost as hard as her heart as she lowered her gun.
Her eyes watered and she knew she'd allowed this task to take a piece of her soul. But she was prepared to do that.
Her ears still rang; like the bullet had only just left the barrel. The wind, tepid and smooth, brushed her hair from her eyes, as if pulling away a curtain to reveal the scene.
Her chest rose and fell evenly as she stared at her work. It was a bizarre feeling, killing someone. Too hard to put into words; you can only know if you do it yourself. There is nothing similar, nothing to compare it to.
However, she was somewhat surprised at how light she felt in that moment. It was over; and they were free.
She had to find Sam.
~SIX MONTHS EARLIER~
Heat wave.
"Honing in on our third day of record high temperatures, people. Prepare yourselves, it's gonna be a hot one."
Andy clicked off the radio in frustration. The air-conditioning in Sam's truck was on the fritz, of course. The highest temperatures on record for this time of year, and of course Sam's truck has to crap out.
The windows rolled all the way down, Andy still didn't feel like the breeze was helping. Even the wind was hot. It felt like somebody was throwing hot soup over her face. It did nothing to cool her down.
And yet Sam loved this weather. He slept like a log, and was always in a good mood. Andy didn't mind the heat, either, if it weren't for the fact that she was on a stretch of night shifts this week, with not even a glimmer of hope of getting to the beach to cool off.
Sleeping in the heat of daylight was also a poke in the ribs. It was impossible to get comfortable.
She'd never been this frustrated in the last few years living in the city. Perhaps it was because she was staying at Sam's place so much. His apartment was pretty low set; it didn't get the breeze like her loft does, nor does it help that the sun pretty much sits on it the entire day, heating up everything like a sauna.
Andy was on her way home from her second night shift. It was ten a.m and already sweltering. Maybe she was overreacting because she got cranky during night work. Trying to rationalise it didn't help, though. Sam had driven to work and handed her over the keys so she could drive home comfortably, but the gesture died as quickly as the AC.
Andy was also trying to ignore the fact that two weeks ago, when everything was cool and easy, and not perfect but close, something had changed. That stupid green pickup truck had really done a number on Sam.
Two weeks.
Two freaking weeks and Sam had barely peeped. Andy also thought maybe that's why he "slept" so well in the heat, that's why he "enjoyed" being at work, away from her, not because he liked this weather, but because he could easily avoid the conversation Andy had been practically begging to have.
What the fuck?
It might not even be a big deal, but because he refused to talk, it made Andy increasingly frustrated and curious.
Sam's talent for avoiding was award-winning. He'd somehow managed to make it so that they wouldn't have a spare moment together alone. They were even working opposite shifts so that when one of them was home, the other was at work.
It could be the sleep deprivation and the humidity drowning her brain, but Andy was beginning to suspect that Sam asked to have his shifts separate from hers. He was staying away on purpose and she hated to admit, even to herself, that it hurt something inside her.
Just when the dust had begun to settle, and the tide was calm, things had been flung unceremoniously in the opposite direction.
If it wasn't the heat that kept her from sleeping, it was the incessant thinking. Not just about Sam's aloofness, but The Rouge Brothers, and Phillip Couperet, and Katie Couperet. She dreamed of Carl's hands around her throat, his sinking chuckle, the smell of his breath as he had leaned so close to her.
Things were still raw and chaffed.
She'd even, stupidly, gotten used to sleeping next to someone almost every night. But whenever she came home alone to an empty hot apartment, she felt like she was suffocating, like before, when everybody else was on the outside looking in.
She was in the glass case alone again, scratching fruitlessly at the walls.
Where was Sam to help her fight her way out?
Once she'd calmed down from her tirade over the broken air-conditioning, Andy drove aimlessly around town for a while, stopping to pick up some milk, bread, and eggs. She didn't eat the bread, but Sam always had toast in the mornings.
Turning on to Sam's street, for the first time this week, Andy was glad she was home at an odd hour. The street was empty, and for once it wasn't a nightmare to find a parking spot.
At dusk, the street filled with the rest of the neighbourhood on their regular nine to five hours. Andy must have been the only person home. She pulled up on the curb right outside Sam's house, pulled the key out of the ignition and opened the door.
She had her bag half slung over her shoulder when she noticed it.
The green pickup.
She bit her lip, staring at it for a moment longer than necessary. She memorised the licence plate, seriously considering looking it up when she got back to work for her next shift.
Andy kept her eye on it, as if it would move while her back was turned, or somehow reveal its salience. It did neither.
Instead of watching it all day, she resigned herself to the couch to wind down before getting some sleep. Early morning breakfast shows were among the pickings, not one of them even vaguely appealing. But it was either that, or some infomercials.
Her mind kept flashing back to that freaking pickup truck. Was she overreacting? Had she imagined the whole thing? Was Sam's reaction even that big?
She closed her eyes, going back to that day.
Yeah, it was that big.
No, she couldn't be overreacting.
There was something else going on with Sam and whoever that car belonged to.
After another half hour of dozing on the couch, Andy was shuffling like a zombie to the bedroom. She took a deep breath before flopping ungracefully onto the mattress, fully clothed and on top of the covers. She pulled Sam's pillow toward her, hugging it to her chest.
She could so easily drift off at this point.
That is, until she heard the scratch.
Like a branch against a window pane.
It was quick and subtle, but it caused her to shoot up off the bed with shock. That was the thing about post-traumatic stress; it tended to leave you wound up tighter than piano wire.
Every noise or sudden movement would rake through her like a set of sharp claws.
She stood up, heart thumping too fast, stumbling slightly, disoriented.
"Sam?" she called out, glancing down at her alarm clock as she tried to regain balance.
One p.m. So she'd been sleeping for longer than she thought.
Bleary eyed, she stepped out into the hallway, curling her lip at the wall of stuffy heat she stepped into. The apartment had shitty ventilation.
"Sam? Are you home?" up and down the hall, nothing but emptiness.
She wasn't sure what unnerved her more; the idea that there was somebody there, or the opposite.
It was hard to discern what she was more afraid of, now. Emptiness could have as much horror as presence.
She padded into the living room, running a shaky hand through her hair, swallowing to soothe the dryness in her throat. Her other hand was stretched out to touch the wall, fingertips splayed, dragging against it as she walked.
"Hello?" it wouldn't be Sam or he would have answered by now.
Her calls were met with another scratch; Andy zeroed in on the glass surrounding the front door. Squinting hard, she discerned a dark shape through the frosted glass. Eyes widening, she tip toed closer.
The shape moved again, and she move instinctively.
"Hey!" she cried out, pulling the door open suddenly.
The older man on the other side looked more surprised than lurky.
He stumbled back a little, almost losing balance on the concrete steps.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she glared, strong-postured, into his dark eyes.
The old man chuckled and shrugged a little sheepishly.
"I'm sorry, I—" he looked back over his shoulder and Andy tensed even further.
He looked like he wanted to run.
"You better have a good reason for lurking around outside a police officer's residence." She ground out, trying not to cringe at how weirdly formal and authoritative she sounded.
She probably looked pretty horrific after just waking up. She felt like crap, so she probably looked it. Maybe that's why he had trouble keeping eye contact.
"Speak up, or I'm calling the cops." She warned him, taking a step back inside, as if making a point.
"I thought you said you were a cop?" he frowned, fumbling with his hands.
"I am," Andy cleared her throat. "But so is the guy who lives here."
His eyes widened a little more. Then his eyebrows pulled back over them.
"I'm actually looking for someone," he cleared his throat, and Andy narrowed her eyes at him.
He looked back up at her.
The man was about half a foot taller than her, with thick wiry grey hair, and deep brown eyes. His dark eyebrows engulfed his face. His cheeks were sort of hollow, and he had deep, deep wrinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes.
"The man that lives here, he's—he's police?"
Andy squinted at him harder, not to intimidate, but out of confusion.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"My name's Tony. I'm looking for Sam. Sam Swarek?" he said his name carefully, as if he was unsure of how to pronounce it.
Andy's confusion grew; her posture relaxing now that she gauged the man posed no threat.
"Who's asking?" she looked the man up and down again, more closely.
If she'd done it the first time, she would have realised. She wouldn't have had to ask the question.
"I'm his Dad. I'm Anthony Swarek."
