AN: This is a sequel, so read "Between Brothers" first. I know I said I wasn't going to write a sequel, but a huge storm of ideas came upon me and I couldn't resist. Besides, for such a dark story, I feel like I let Malcolm off a little too easy. (Consider this a warning: This story will most likely end in a very, very twisted fashion. More so than last time.) Anyway, here's the beginning, and I hope you like it!

He could never really escape from himself. His disfigured shadow was always in the periphery of his vision, a constant reminder of the ghosts of the past, which lurked just beneath the surface of every moment of his waking life, creeping in the dark corners of foreboding rooms and waiting to pounce at a moment's notice. The threat lay in wait, gnawing at the back of his mind like a mental tumor, slowly eating away at whatever humanity remained.

However, ever-present guilt aside, Malcolm had to admit that the first several years were good, perhaps even the best of his life. He and Reese moved into an apartment together after college, citing expenses and convenience to avoid suspicion. The place was decently sized, far enough from home to visit on weekends if they wanted, but far enough that Lois couldn't just drop by unannounced whenever she pleased. And it was just a few minutes away from Dewey's college, so they were able to see him as often as they liked. It was a nice set-up.

By the time Malcolm turned 24, the two of them had fallen into a weirdly stable rhythm that was somehow completely different than anything they'd had before, but not fundamentally different from the brotherly playfulness that had defined their interaction during childhood. Reese had somehow managed to work his way up to a supervisor position at a nearby waste treatment facility, and based on the few times Malcolm had visited him on the job, he was actually surprisingly good at it. Malcolm himself was working as a personal assistant to the governor, getting a head start on his seemingly unavoidable political career. It wasn't a job he particularly enjoyed, but he was learning how to play the game and put on a good front. Which would doubtlessly be useful skills if he ever fulfilled Lois's dream for him to become President someday.

Somewhere in the midst of these new changes, the boys had grown almost completely comfortable with the sexual and, indeed, romantic nature of their relationship. The secrecy and caution, of course, remained of utmost importance, since even Reese knew fully well how thoroughly they would be fucked if anyone else caught on. But they had the support of Dewey, who had long since abandoned his initial squeamishness, and since their social lives were contained mostly to water-cooler talk in the workplace (and occasional contact-establishing brunches with politicians for Malcolm), the two of them were able to exist openly within the confines of their own home. It was almost normal; by their standards, anyway.

In fact, during one weekend visit, Dewey actually remarked with a surprising note of jealousy that the two of them actually came across like a real married couple when they weren't hiding behind their public masks.

Neither Malcolm nor Reese was sure exactly how to take that, but even as he reached over to flick Dewey's ear, Reese had a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and a light blush rising in his cheeks. And Malcolm felt a warm, happy sensation in the pit of his stomach; something he was feeling less and less as time went on.

Since that hot Sunday afternoon all those years ago, he and Reese had not spoken about Francis a single time. Sure, he came up occasionally in family gathering settings, usually in the context of one of Hal's tearful reminiscences, but the abuse was never brought up verbally, and Francis's name was never uttered in Malcolm and Reese's home. It was an unspoken agreement of sorts.

Every once in a while, when Malcolm took the dominant role during sex, Reese would have flashbacks and go into panic mode, and Malcolm would have to cradle him until he calmed down and fell asleep. But those episodes became more and more infrequent as the years passed, and they would never talk about it the next day.

For the longest time, Malcolm simply assumed that Reese was unable to remember the good in their older brother, and as a result had decided to just pretend he never existed. But he was proven incorrect one day when he spotted a charge for a bouquet of flowers on the monthly bill.

"Hey, Reese?" he called, putting down the paper and calculator.

Reese popped his around the corner, hair still wet from his morning shower. "Yeah?"

Malcolm pointed at the bill. "Did you charge some flowers to the card?"

"Oh," Reese grimaced, almost unnoticeably. "Sorry, man. I forgot to tell you about that."

"No, no, it's cool," Malcolm said cheerfully, turning back to the table. "Just wanted to make sure it wasn't a mistake. What were they for, anyway?"

"I took them to the cemetery," he responded quietly. Malcolm frowned slightly, then, getting it, looked back up in surprise. Reese shrugged. "It was the anniversary of...you know."

Malcolm nodded. "Yeah, yeah..." He swallowed. Cleared his throat. "So, umm, how many times have you gone?"

"Every year since," Reese said nonchalantly, and ducked back out of sight to continue dressing.

And that was it. They didn't continue the conversation later that night, opting instead for Chinese take-out and a scary movie. But it proved something that Malcolm had suspected for some time: that no matter how solid his relationship with his brother was, there would always be that dividing wall. That shared secret that bound the two of them together.

And there was also, as desperately as Malcolm tried to forget it, the uncomfortable truth that Reese still didn't know the whole story. He knew what Malcolm had done to protect their family, but not why. Up until Francis's unexpected demise, Reese had been under the impression that their brother had truly changed his life around and was trying to make amends.

Indeed, weirdly enough, that probably ate at Malcolm more than the murder: the guilt of having covered up that last rape to prevent Reese from backsliding and losing all of the progress he'd made in therapy. Although his chest grew constricted and a small dark weight remained in his heart, on an intellectual level, Malcolm didn't regret killing his brother. Not for a second. He remained adamant in his belief that he'd done the right thing (if only because he couldn't live with himself if he believed otherwise). But whenever the past floated into the forefront of his thoughts, the decision to not tell Reese why he'd done it seemed more and more like a bad idea.

Placing himself in his brother's shoes, Malcolm couldn't imagine how torturous it was to go through every day sharing in the complicity of a terrible crime without even knowing the reason it had been committed. But Malcolm was afraid; afraid to come clean after all this time, unsure of whether Reese would be able to forgive him. His instincts of self-preservation and need for some form of stability overrode his shame, and so the situation remained unaddressed on a spoken level. It hung in the air, heavier some days than other, but always present, lurking in the shadows with the rest of the secrets and lies and pain and deceit.

And the threat of punishment.

Malcolm considered himself a true empiricist, a man of science and rationality and logic, above the foolishness of superstition and fear. But, for whatever reason, perhaps due to years of conditioning to firm-handed "right vs. wrong" parenting, he found himself looking over his shoulder every now and then, wondering if he'd truly gotten away with it all. Most days, it certainly seemed so. The police had been quick to determine that Francis's death was an accident, and the family had no reason to suspect anything was amiss. But the past haunted Malcolm, in the fullness of the day and in the ominous gloom of the night.

He still went to that place sometimes, in the darkest of his dreams: the decimated apartment, blackened walls peeling apart at the seams, smoke and ash billowing out of empty picture frames. The room's nightmare occupant ever-silent, leering at Malcolm judgmentally beneath charred and rotten eyelids.

Malcolm would awake in a sweat, shivering, and Reese would somehow sense it, waking as well and pulling his brother against his chest; a sign of comfort and deepest love. Does he know? Malcolm would think, eyes closed tight as he tried to slip back into unconsciousness with his cheek nestled against Reese's bare skin. Does he know what I see in my dreams?

As it turned out, retribution did indeed come to shatter their lives without warning, but it was not, as Malcolm had feared in his feverish dreams, in the form of divine justice, but in the form of Eric Hanson, Francis's military school buddy.

Malcolm didn't recognize him at first, both because he looked considerably older than he had in the pictures Francis had shown him and because he looked remarkably out of place standing in the middle of the governor's waiting room.

"Do you have an appointment?" Malcolm asked politely, not wanting to say anything in case it wasn't actually Eric.

But it was, and he looked at Malcolm curiously, as though he looked out of place. "Are you?..." he started hesitantly.

Malcolm grinned. "Francis's brother? Yes I am."

Eric grinned back and reached out to shake his hand. "Right, right. I thought I recognized you. It's Malcolm, correct? Francis showed me a picture of you when we were in school together." His grin faded, replaced by a solemn, respectful expression. "I was very sorry to hear about his passing. I liked to think we were pretty close."

Malcolm nodded appreciatively. "Thanks for the sentiment." He glanced at the door to the office and back at Eric questioningly. "So, you do have an appointment, yes?"

"Oh, yeah." Eric fumbled around in his coat pocket for a minute and pulled out a letter. "The company I'm working with now called him and set up a meeting. They sent me as their representative." He beamed proudly.

Malcolm smiled placatingly and buzzed the governor.

"What is it?"

"Eric Hanson here to see you, sir."

"Who?"

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Your 11:30, sir." There was a brief pause, then a quick order to send him in. Malcolm nodded to Eric. "Go ahead."

"Thanks, man." He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "You know," he said, "we should have lunch or something. If that's okay, I mean."

Malcolm nodded, slightly surprised. "Oh, uh, sure. I'm on break in an hour, so we can go across the street then."

Eric grinned. "Perfect," he replied, then disappeared through the door.

A little over an hour later, Malcolm was sitting with his hand in his lap, staring politely across a booth while Eric chowed down on a big sandwich.

"You sure you don't want anything?" he asked through a mouthful of turkey. "On me."

Malcolm shook his head. "No, thanks though." He glanced at the clock on the wall behind Eric's head. It was broken. Suppressing the urge to groan, he instead leaned forward and plastered a fake smile on his face. "So, was there anything you wanted to talk about in particular?" he asked. Eric didn't answer right away, looking down at his plate and chewing slowly. At first, Malcolm assumed he was just swallowing his bite before talking, but it quickly became apparent that he was stalling for time. And then Malcolm began to feel an ice cold chill rising in his chest; an ominous sensation of dread he hadn't felt sense a conversation with Piama in the family kitchen during that last Thanksgiving break together. His fists clenched in his lap, a cold sweat begin to form on his brow. He wiped it away and took a deep breath. "Eric?" he said softly, trying to keep his voice steady.

Eric looked up reluctantly, a pained expression on his face. "I just..." he started. Paused.

"What?" Malcolm encouraged. "What is it?"

Eric sighed, glancing away. "Look, I don't know if I'm doing the right thing by telling you this. I don't have any proof to back up my story, and Francis...Francis isn't coming back, so there isn't really any reason to tell you if you don't already know..."

The icy grip on Malcolm's heart squeezed tighter.

Here it is. It's finally coming back.

"Know what?" he whispered.

Hearing the sound of his tone, Eric looked back at him sharply, surprise written across his face. They stared at each other questioningly, both afraid to lay their cards on the table before the other.

Finally, Eric spoke. "About two weeks before he died," he began, "Francis came to visit me." He paused again, biting his lip.

"Go on," Malcolm said stoically.

"He...damn it...Look, I'm just going to come right out and say it, okay? He told me that he...he told me that he was abusing your brother. Reese." He looked at Malcolm somewhat nervously. "...but I'm starting to get the impression that you already knew about that. Didn't you?"

Malcolm nodded. "Reese told me," he responded.

"When?"

"Several months before Francis died."

Malcolm wasn't entirely sure why he was being so honest. Maybe it was due to a repressed desire to confess his crimes. Or perhaps he simply doubted his own ability to tell a convincing lie at this particular moment in time. Either way, Eric was eying him with a truly uncomfortable stare, and Malcolm was beginning to feel the wheels in his head spinning, plotting his next move.

"Okay," Eric said, fidgeting awkwardly. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, looking as though he was rethinking something.

Malcolm's eyebrows narrowed. "Is there something else?" he asked.

Eric looked deep into his eyes, like he was trying to see into Malcolm's soul. "Maybe..." he murmured, lost in thought. "It's probably nothing, but..." - he sighed again - "...yeah, it's probably nothing. Francis told me he'd been, you know...that he'd done what he did recently, and that he'd done it before. He was a wreck."

"I'm sure," Malcolm interjected coldly.

Where the hell is this going?

Eric held up his palms defensively. "Look, I'm not trying to defend him or anything. I was disgusted when he told me. I was horrified."

"But not horrified enough to report him?"

Eric looked down at his plate again, ashamed. "I should have said something," he admitted. "I should have said something sooner, I mean."

Malcolm's stomach clenched tighter. He leaned forward further. "What do you mean? You told someone about this? You reported it after he died?"

Eric shook his head. "No, no. I just meant that I should have said something right away. He just seemed so desperate and ashamed of himself that...I don't know, I guess I thought he was trying to change. So I wasn't sure whether I should tell someone or who I should tell. And I thought about it...for too long, obviously. Now it doesn't really matter anymore." He trailed off, then added, "Almost."

Malcolm cocked his head. "Almost?"

"Well that's what's been bugging me. What I really wanted to talk to you about." He glanced around the diner nervously, as though someone could be listening in on their conversation. "I was debating whether I should say anything because it's just a suspicion. I have no proof of anything."

"What are you talking about?" Malcolm muttered through gritted teeth.

Eric bit his lip and took a deep breath. "It's just that...Francis came and spoke to me about this. And then he died two weeks later...in an explosion..." He looked at Malcolm meaningfully.

Malcolm's throat felt dry. "And?" he whispered hoarsely. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything," Eric murmured, taking a sip of water. "I'm just suggesting that it's a little strange is all." He shrugged, waving his hand aimlessly. "And from what I've heard, your brother has had...uh...violent tendencies. In the past. That's all."

His heart now pounding in his ears, Malcolm put on his best exasperated frown. "You can't be serious."

Eric shrugged again. "Like I said, I'm not saying anything. I'm just pointing out that it's a little strange."

Malcolm clasped his hands together and dug the fingernails into his palms to keep from screaming out loud. He smiled patronizingly. "Listen," he said calmly. "This is Reese we're talking about. You two haven't met, so that probably doesn't mean much to you. But whatever Francis told you about my brother's 'violent tendencies,' I can promise you that his 'idiot tendencies' are tenfold. Don't get me wrong, he's my blood and I love him, but he's not the sharpest tool in the shed, if you catch my drift. There's no fucking way that he'd be able to pull something like that off without anyone finding out, and on top of that, be able to keep it secret for all these years. You don't know him, but take my word for that. He's not smart enough."

His words seemed to register, as Eric nodded slowly, frowning as he processed this information.

Encouraged, Malcolm continued. "More importantly, Reese would never do anything like that. No matter what Francis did to him. Besides, why are you bringing this up now? It's been years since all of this went down. If you thought something was fishy, why wait until now to say anything?"

Malcolm felt a surge of elation at the look of self-doubt on Eric's face.

I've got him.

Eric kept nodding. "You're right," he said heavily, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring it all back. I just...I know it's all very far-fetched and unbelievable. They're just doubts and questions and weird ideas that crossed my mind in the past few years when I've thought back on the whole fucked up situation. The only reason I brought it up was because...well, I saw you in that office today, and I just couldn't not say anything, you know? It wouldn't have felt right."

Malcolm smiled understandingly. "It's okay, man. No harm done. I know you were just trying to do right by my family."

Eric smiled back and took another sip of water.

The conversation flowed smoothly after that, and Malcolm could feel himself slowly relaxing as the minutes ticked by. They shot the breeze about their careers, and plans for the future, and drama with family. It was actually a relatively nice chat.

And it didn't get shot to hell until right at the very end, when they were standing up to leave and Malcolm was finishing a childhood story about Reese breaking his leg jumping off a roof onto a mattress.

"So your brother isn't the smartest guy in the world, eh?" Eric said with a grin.

Malcolm chuckled. "You could say that. But don't think he's an idiot or anything, he just isn't book smart and doesn't have a huge reservoir of common sense. He's sensitive though, and he can be clever when he put his mind to it."

"Yeah, I got you," Eric said genially. "He's just doesn't have the big IQ like y-."

And time seemed to freeze right then and there. The instant Malcolm heard Eric stop at the end of his sentence, he knew it was over. He turned his head to see Eric frozen stiff, a smile still plastered on his face, but his eyes looked vacant. Malcolm knew he was putting all of the pieces together in his mind.

Fuck.

Time unfroze and they gathered up their things as though nothing was wrong, poker face smiles still intact.

They shook hands at the door and said goodbye, and Malcolm had enough self-restraint to not look over his shoulder as he walked down the street. But he didn't hesitate to make a left towards the general store instead of walking to his car. The animal within him had awoken, and there was no time for second guessing. There could could be no loose ends. This needed to be dealt with immediately.

He grabbed a pair of black gloves off the shelf and paid for them with cash.

On to the next stop.

AN: And that's Chapter 1. You can probably tell the direction this is going, and that bad things are going to happen. Stay tuned, and I shall update within a week!