Hello everyone! And welcome to my new SOA fanfic. I simply adore this show and its characters. It's so deep and unique, I couldn't resist adding an OC. My only request is that if you read it, you review. I request that because I'm trying a lot of new things with this fic. It's from the first-person POV, my OC is fiery and aggressive, and I'm going to struggle with keeping everyone in character. So I am going to need feedback! If something bothers you, pleases you, amuses you - tell me please!

Without further ado, I invite you to sit back and enjoy!

I am a firm believer in destiny.

I believe that everything, from even before the moment of birth, is all happening to you for a reason. It's all working towards some common goal that was determined before you were even a thought; before your parents even had the chance to take a fleeting roll in the hay. Or, in my case, to become the unfortunate result of a broken relationship.

I grew up knowing that I would never know my father. I would never have daddy-daughter moments, or even come close to knowing what it feels like to have an overprotective father glaring over your shoulder at your boyfriend. I didn't know that I would be missing on a lot of awkward stuff, too. All the uncomfortable subjects that daughters and fathers are never supposed to breach – all of the times that his over protectiveness would prove to be stifling and annoying. The real stuff. The stuff that made him your dad.

I haven't always believed in destiny. In fact, for most of my life I believed that fate held a plan for me almost as much as I believed that my father cared I existed. I won't lie, it hurt to know that every day I thought of him, and every day he went on blissfully ignorant of who I am. If he even knew I existed.

The problem was always that I didn't know who he was. My life's single greatest mystery was the identity of my father. I toyed around with a great number of different possibilities. Maybe my mom met a royal prince, and they fell in love and had to carry on their relationship in secrecy – thus, when I was born, I had to be kept a secret. Or maybe my father died and it was too painful a memory for my mother. Or maybe he was some convicted criminal, locked away from the light of day and everyone he ever knew and loved… That last possibility occurred to me at the same time my punk phase hit. Little did I know how eerily close I was.

Overall, there were a few solitary facts that I knew for sure.

One, my father was a douche bag. Like, a seriously manipulative asshole, which explains a lot about my own personality.

Two, my mother and father were – for some length of time – madly in love.

Three, I had his eyes.

That much I knew from what my mother had told me about him. Over the years, I would collect little facts about him like precious gems. I learned early on to neither acknowledge when my mother began to speak openly of him, nor to encourage it. The key is to act casual and not make any sudden movements, lest I bring her back around to reality. She would, although these times were few and far between, occasionally go on mini-rambles about him.

Eventually I knew enough to piece together that he had cheated on her and they had gotten into a huge fight just before my mother found out she was pregnant with me. I knew that on the day she decided to tell him, he decided to move on from her before she could. Or maybe after. I was never clear on that part. I knew that when I get truly good and pissed off, I allegedly look exactly like him.

Mostly, I know that she still loves him very much. In spite of everything, my mother has never truly moved on from this mystery man that contributed to my very existence – and perhaps my existence alone is enough to keep the fire burning for her. It would certainly explain a lot. I am nothing but a constant reminder of him to her.

But as I grew out of adolescence, my insatiable curiosity was inevitably shelved. Real life issues took over – college debt, life careers, the stock market – normal, mundane, every day issues. Daddy's ID faded into background noise. It was no longer important to me. If he doesn't wanna make the effort to know me – if he didn't care enough about my mother to realize what he had, or that she had carried his child… well, then he wasn't worth the effort, either, was he? I had resolved to move on from my father; to get on with my life. I already had a stellar parental figure. I had my life role model, my rock, my spirit guide, my best friend and fairy godmother – and she just so happened to be my real mother, too.

Then, she died.

"I need to know, Martha," I begged, leaning over the counter to get in my mother's best friend's face. She leaned back and stubbornly shook her head.

"I'm not going through this with you again. Nothin' good could come of it. Ain't nothin' you need from him, not now, not never." A brilliant stream of blue fluid sprayed the counter from the bottle of cleaner in her hand, forcing me to back off. She ignored the unappreciative glower I sent her way.

I latched onto her skinny, chicken bone wrist, capturing it in a tight grip and holding firm when she tried to get away. My eyes held her taciturn expression steady, and I matched her bitterness tenfold. "You're an awful liar, Martha. That's something you and my mother have in common…" I paused. "Had in common." Martha's bitterness receded, and something like remorse replaced it. This time when she pulled away, I let her. "Something I somehow skipped learning from you two over the years. Your grammar goes to shit when you're lying, and you just sounded like someone from the set of Justified."

She kept her nose slightly in the air, haughty as she scooted the damp rag across the counter a little bit more. She didn't look at me as she responded. "She made me swear, Liz. She made me swear to never tell you."

"So? She's gone now, Martha. She doesn't get a say in this anymore. What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Martha leveled a disapproving look my way that I ignored. Studying me for a moment, she turned to fully address me, as though sensing that I was missing what she felt was a very important and moral concept. "It's wrong. A promise is a promise. Not even death can erase that simple fact."

Lars cleared his throat from his stool nearby. His tall glass of frothy beer was nearly empty, and he swirled it around for a moment. He watched from the corner of his eye as he said, "Sounds more like a secret than a promise, if you ask me."

Martha looked ready to whack him over the head with her spray bottle. She raised her eyebrows at the older man and leaned in to be sure he captured the sincerity of her response. "If we have use for your opinion, we'll be sure to let you know."

Irritation flared inside me. "God damn it!" I snapped, recapturing her attention. She and Lars seemed surprised at my outburst. "This isn't even about her! This is about me! About what I want!" A little bit of desperation seeped into my voice, and I frowned at Martha. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Knowing your father ain't gonna do nothin' to help you, darlin'. It won't bring her back." She paused, considering something. "Won't bring him back, neither."

"You can't know that," I waved off, and she bristled.

"I do know that! Child, don't be a fool!" She shook her head bitterly. "Listen to me, now, and listen good. That father of yours is bad news, honey. He's gonna bring you nothin' but heartache and you've had enough of that to last you a lifetime."

I grunted at her, beginning to doubt myself for the first time. And that doubt only made me more angry, as if her words lit a fire under my ass. Martha gave me that trademark righteous expression. "Most of that ache came from him," She clarified, and my eyes narrowed at her. Unfazed, she set the spray bottle down and shrugged. "I'm just sayin'!"

"Maybe you should listen to her," Lars suggested. "What's the problem? The family you got right here ain't enough for you anymore? You think you need to go hunt down more?" He paused, at at my intense glower, he seemed to realize something. He leaned back and a knowing grin slowly stretched his thick lips. "Heh. Maybe you'll find some new exciting life with daddy? You lost your momma, so it's time to replace her? Is that it?" The dinner knife in his hand did nothing to curb the thuggish impression he gave, and if I hadn't known the man for the better part of my life I might not have had the courage to give as good as I got.

"And I guess you'd have me duck my head and do as I'm told?" I asked, venom seeping into my tone.

Lars face remained unchanged, keeping that smug, overconfident expression as he looked me straight in the eye. "You're getting in over your head, girl."

My fist clenched. I wanted to lash out. The breath I drew came tight and if it wasn't for Martha placing a comforting hand on my shoulder I might have done something rash. Lars met my hostility unabashed, and Martha offered her pragmatic advice to stave the brewing fight. "This isn't what she would want."

I shot her a dirty look. "Really?" I asked, offended. "You don't get to play a guilt card on me here, Marth. This isn't about what she wanted. Not anymore."

"So that's it?" Lars spoke up. "Your mom's dead and you're ready to tear down everything she's built for you?" I stopped at the unexpected accusation. It wasn't like that, and they knew it. "What? You are! You practically got the hammer in your hands, ready to swing!"

"I don't have to explain myself to you," I seethed, pointing a finger at him in warning, and Martha stepped between us again.

"There's more to this than you know, child."

The urge to throw my hands in the air and scream in frustration was almost too much. I pressed my fist into the counter to gather patience before I said, "We're talking in circles now. I don't have time for this. And you know what? I don't need you to find him. Either of you."

Lars snorted and shook his head and Martha looked desperate. She reached out to try and stop me from leaving. I shrugged her hand off and continued to the door, my steps heavy and my gait tense. Lars scoffed again as I passed him, apparently unimpressed with my decisions. Martha watched me with troubled eyes as I pushed into the sunshine of Nevada.

"Ashes to ashes," said the graying priest, with a grand sweep of his arm. "Dust to dust."

His words were unmoving to me. I was never very religious, and his speech felt cheap and cliched, like something torn straight out of a movie script. I stared at my mother's sleek wooden casket. It was a glossy mahogany color. Dark, and strong. Like she was.

There were two kinds of people. The kind who would look at the sun shining through the barren trees above us and think to themselves: There's proof, shining down on me today. There is all the proof I need to know that she's in a better place.

And then there are those who shift uncomfortably on the packed desert dirt and stifle the urge to wipe their handkerchief between their boobs to sop up the sweat. These people look up at the overbearing sun and think: You think you're pretty funny, don't ya? Yeah, I bet you started the day today and thought – this'll really fuck with her. Let me conjure up a nice, sizzling heatwave that will sweep Nevada more arid than Liz's dryspell. It'll set records and mock her mourning process, seeing as she hasn't shed a single tear since she kissed her mother goodbye.

I find myself leaning closer to the latter kind of people.

The crowd that gathered around my mother's casket was meager, humble, and familiar. I met Martha's worried gaze head on, hoping that maybe today would be the day that my laser-vision pulled through and I would incinerate her on the spot. Unless the sun beat me to it. I flapped the black lacy fan in my hand, never taking my eyes from her. She cleared her throat and tore her red-rimmed eyes away from me, and I scoffed quietly to myself. The old woman next to me scowled at my disrespect. I raised my eyebrow, resisting the urge to mock-lunge at her.

Her name was Gertrude, and she lived in the apartment next to us. I'm pretty sure she has like, fifteen cats, and I know for a fact we aren't supposed to have any pets because of the time I brought home a lizard I found on the playground, and my mom had a conniption. She threw it out the window when Jerold, the apartment manager, stopped by to check out our piece-of-crap air conditioning. I'm pretty sure the creep was just looking to try and get in bed with her though, since we never called him to tell him our air conditioning took a dump in the first place. Funny, but Jerold was nowhere to be seen now, when it actually mattered.

Lars stood shoulder to shoulder with Martha. He was the most dressed up I'd ever seen him, wearing an actual button down shirt and black pants, and his bald head was free from a bandana for once. He dutifully ignored me and I sighed and turned away from him and his fleet of brutes behind him, most of whom I had no use for.

I wasn't sure what exactly Lars was involved in, beyond the fact that he worked closely with a man who owned a rather impressive set of land on the outskirts of town and even the law enforcement called a dozen times to warn of their visits, should they ever need to visit, which was fairly rare. They seemed to hold each other at arm's length.

In the past, if I ever asked what it was Lars did for a living, the most I got was he works for Lee. Doing what, you might ask? Odds and ends. Much like the scarce details I'd collected about my father, I knew a short list of details about what those "odds and ends" might consist of. Or, at least what they might work towards.

I knew Lee was the boss. I knew his family owned the largest estate in this county, as they had for generations. I know he owns a successful hotel that's been here almost as long as his family has been around. And the clincher? He also owned a cement company, and a salon... and the restaurant that Martha runs. If those shady details don't reek of laundering, I don't know what does.

Ten years, we've known Lars. And we're no closer to knowing the details of his line of work than we were when we met him. Everyone seemed content to keep it that way. It felt like one of those need to know situations. Honestly? That's one mystery I'm fine with leaving alone.

"Elizabeth Martin was a woman who everyone knew." The priest continued, and a blank, numb feeling settled into my bones. Breathing became something of a chore with the air as hot as it was, and the threat of tears gripping my throat was almost enough to suffocate me.

"She knew what she needed, she knew what she wanted, and she knew not to compromise those things. She never settled for less than the best for her daughter. The love she felt for Liz was evident in the way she spoke of her."

I looked up at Martha, who stared back at me with tears streaming freely down her face. She sadly shook her head.

"Elizabeth leaves a legacy of friendship, motherhood, and fond memories behind. As she passes into Heaven, let us not grieve for her loss, but rejoice in knowing that her pain has ended, and she is finally at rest, and at Home."

He went on, but I suddenly found it a chore to continue listening. So I tuned him out until he finished, and when it was all over, I approached her casket and touched it with a shaking hand. Someone gently touched my shoulder.

I turned to see Martha standing there. She had a small black clutch which she gripped with white knuckles. She cleared her throat. "I'm - so sorry, Liz." I shook my head, but she held her hand up to silence me. "Lars talked to me after you left. He... he made me see things from your perspective." I frowned, unsure of what Lars had to offer that would give Martha any insight into how I felt about finding my father. But Martha didn't elaborate on that. "The truth is, I feel... well, I guess you could say I feel somewhat responsible for you now that your momma isn't here to keep track of you. And I know you're a grown woman, but it's difficult for me to not see you as the little girl who used to sneak lemon bars in my restaurant when she thought I wasn't watching."

I breathed out a mournful, choked laugh, and Martha grinned back, just as upset.

Her face twisted into pain as she finished her point. "That's why it's so – difficult – for me to have to see you go through this. I…" She looked down, a tear falling from her face. "I do know the name of your father." My heart stopped. I felt as my face went blank and, in slow motion, time stopped. But I didn't dare to hope. Martha ignored me as she pressed on. "I also know that he hurt your momma real bad. He wrecked that woman, and ruined her for any other man. That scares me. And I wish you'd stay away from him. But I also know that it isn't fair to you for me to make that choice for you." She reached up to touch my face. I gripped her hand, knowing it would be inappropriate for me to grab her and shake her to just tell me already. "I do love you, baby girl. So much."

I squeezed my eyes shut, my teeth grinding together. "And I love you, too, Martha. You're the closest thing I've ever had to an Aunt. You're my family. You know that."

"I do." Her voice shook and she pulled her hand away to wipe her tears from her cheeks. Drawing a deep breath, she fixed her dark brown eyes to me, and changed my life forever with a single name. "Clay Morrow."