Thomas Chandler, captain of the Nathan James bent forward concentrating on the papers littering his desk. They were all different colors and shapes, each unique along a similar theme. Not exactly Navy standard, but there was a reason for this marked deviation from normal paper pushing.
"Get out!" Rachel Scott's words rang in his ears. "You are being pigheaded, and I don't want to deal with it." Doctor Rachel Scott had found the cure to the Red Flu, and during that long period of sailing around on Chandler's vessel, they had fallen in love.
In addition, Neils Sorenson, the doctor who created the Red Flu that killed 90% of the Earth's population had been until recently working on a dispersal method with Doctor Scott. Her hatred of the man wasn't a secret, and now he'd turned up dead in her lab.
Tom wasn't sure what started the argument; in truth, they seldom argued but their nerves were frayed from recent events, edginess loomed and the discussion combusted like matches and gasoline in the same space. It blew up, and Tom found himself in the hallway alone, holding his danish and coffee, Rachel's door sealed shut behind him.
Alone in his bed shortly thereafter, Tom wondered what the heck happened. He had brought up the murder but not his thoughts about her lack of involvement in it. He never got that far.
Rachel was frayed by the questions of the day, and she was ready to take on anybody who started that line of questioning again.
"You should believe me, because I'm me," she snarled, turning her back on him. "I shouldn't be put through the third degree, because I couldn't kill anybody."
He brought up the conversation they'd had a couple weeks back about how much she wished Sorenson was dead. His first mistake. It was only a conversation, not a battle plan.
It was only logical to rule her out first. His second mistake. He shouldn't rule her in at all. Reference, his first mistake. It wasn't an executable plan just blowing off steam.
He pulled out his stapler, thought for a moment, then reached in his desk drawer and retrieved tape. It was a small, thin roll that his daughter Ashley had left the last time she visited. The thought of his daughter brought a smile to his face. She was much like her mother, practical and fanciful combined. Her thin tape, she had explained, was for a project she was working on: fairy wings. Every girl needed a set of fairy wings at some point in their lives. It was like nail polish, indispensable.
He used the tape to marry together each part of his creation. He wasn't as dainty as his daughter with the tape, but he got the job done. Looking at his handiwork, he wondered how it would be received. Rachel had been pretty ticked off with him last night. She hadn't even kissed him good night, just closed the door and locking it with a audible click.
Standing in the hallway, styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and a cheese danish in the other, he wondered if he should knock on her door and demand entrance. Dashing that idea for many reasons, not the least of which, discretion, he walked briskly towards his quarters, his eyebrows knitted together into a frown, and his lips were pressed together in a tight, thin line. He hadn't expected to be banished to the corridor after only 10 minutes. He noted that she kept the tea and biscuits — she called them biscuits; he called them cookies — that he proffered on her.
Tom had been looking forward to a relaxing evening with his girlfriend. What he got instead was hissing, snarling, angry glares and finally shown the door. She could be so infuriating sometimes. So, why was he sitting at his desk making silly paper creations? Because no matter how infuriating she could be, he adored her anyway. And, in a way, he could understand her anger. He took another completed paper creation and tossed it in a medium-sized, plastic bag. He knew they would make her feel better about him.
Thank God for Ashley. She had painstakingly taught him how to make these things one Saturday afternoon when he was at home. She'd been a patient teacher, and it was one of the sweetest conglomeration of paper he'd ever put together. He hated to admit it, but at only eight years old, Ashley could get him stand on his head if she asked. So, patiently, all afternoon he had labored with her to make as many of them as possible. Then they'd spread them all over the house; Ashley said they were bringing beauty to a drab world.
Tom finished another three, tossing them in the bag. He wouldn't make as many as he had with Ashley, because wasn't trying to cover a two story house. He did, however, want to make enough to get his point across. He took a pen and wrote words on each of his creations: trust me, love me, forgive me, smile at me, kiss me, hug me — it was all part of the creations. He wrote kiss me and love me more than any of the other phrases. There was a method to him madness.
While it wouldn't solve their overall problem — who killed Neils Sorenson and why — it would take the pressure off the two of them about guilt or innocence. While he would continue to look past the circumstantial evidence that implicated her in the crime, it would allow him to pursue the facts without living in a hellscape without her love and affection. Personally, he didn't believe her capable of such a crime, facts be damned, but he had to look through them to get to the other side and clear her name. Tom's conscience and additional sleuth colleagues deserved that much. What would Slattery, Jeter and Garnett think if he gave into his love for Rachel and cleared her for purely emotional reasons.
Tom taped together more of his creations, smiling at the building results. He wrote, kiss me, again. He wanted to kiss her: kiss her, love her, let her know that even though he was pursuing the clues, everything would be okay. Mostly, he wanted to kiss her. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Lord, man, you've got it bad. She only kicked you out last night.
"Humph," he said. "She's got me wrapped around her little finger just like Darian and Ashley. Women…." Tom smiled when he said it. He wished he had a nickel for every time Ashley painted his toenails pink, and only his daughter could convince him to let her do it. It carried over to Darian who could talk him into trying any number of her concoctions. They always tasted good, but another man of weaker constitution might not hold up under the listings of the ingredients. He laughed at his chauvinistic thoughts. And, now there's Rachel, all spitfire and passion.
"You should be a red head," Tom chuckled to himself. None of what he said was politically correct, he knew, but some stereotypes still worked in the modern world.
Tom gathered the last of his creations into the plastic bag, closed it and headed towards Rachel's quarters. He felt so strange not waking up with her at 5am as was their routine. Instead, he had spent his time from 0500 to 0700 hours making paper creations.
Walking down the still very quiet corridor, he hoped she would open the door and let him in. All this would be for naught if she told him to go away. He didn't even have coffee, tea or anything of the sort, just a bag of paper and hope for a favorable morning outcome.
Tom wanted to see Rachel smile. He arrived outside her quarters and knocked softly on the door. Hearing nothing, he knocked again a little louder. Looking at the doorknob, he noticed the small pink ribbon wrapped around it with a tiny bow. He tried the door; this time finding it unlocked. He smiled to himself. He stepped into her quarters, closing the door behind him. A soft lamp glow from the bedroom washed out in the area. He went to the door and peaked inside, noting that she was sleeping, snuggled up with Bunny, her bedraggled stuffed bunny. Her hair was disheveled, and upon closer inspection, Tom could see light streaks from tears on her cheeks.
He had made her cry; Tom felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He never wanted to make her cry. He wanted to make her laugh, then they could chalk all this up to frayed nerves. He went back into the outer room, and grabbed a handful of his paper creations and threw them up in the air, much like one tosses confetti. Each one landed lightly on the floor, the desk, couch and other flat surfaces in her quarters.
Satisfied with his creation, Tom went into Rachel's bedroom and shook her gently. "Morning, Sunshine," he whispered and watched her turn over, stretch out and smile. For a moment, it was like nothing happened between them, then he saw the emotions from last night make themselves manifest on her features. Before they could settle, he pulled her out of the bed, placing his finger gently on her lips to silence a rising objection. "Close your eyes."
In spite of her initial objection, she smiled and complied. Good start.
He walked her into the outer room of her quarters, turned on the light and watched her reaction. "Surprise! It's a Chandler family tradition. Flower confetti." Each creation was three dimensional, putting three copies of each together in a triangular formation that gave it depth. Phrases were carefully written on each one.
"Flower confetti?" Rachel said, a smile on her face. She picked up one of them and read "love me" off the flower petal. "I do love you, Tom. More than I should, I think sometimes." She reached and picked up another paper flower. "Kiss me," she whispered to herself, then looked at him, half smiling, half quizzical.
Tom bent over and closed his eyes, puckering his lips. He heard her giggle, then felt her lips, soft against his.
Rachel picked up another flower, and this time it said "hug me." Tom wrapped his arms around her pulling her close. He reached out plucking a "kiss me" from the desktop, and leaned in for a kiss. It felt so good to have her back in his arms again.
"We haven't settled anything," she whispered when the kiss ended.
"I think you're innocent," he stated softly again holding her close.
"Why?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Because I love you." He squeezed her gently when he said it. "Last night, I had a lot to think about, and I realized that I couldn't love you the way I do if you were a murderer. I know that sounds silly."
"It's not logical. I needed to know that you are looking to find my innocence, and not my guilt, I know I didn't do anything. I thought you were convinced of my guilt last night."
"No, never baby," Tom said. "I was trying to explain the circumstantial evidence against you. I never said I thought you were guilty."
"It was heavily implied," Rachel countered, some stiffness coming into her body as she spoke. "At least, I thought so last night."
Rachel was right; the way he delivered the evidence against her did seem to imply guilt. His recitation of facts seemed designed to elicit some sort of confession: you went to bed two hours before me and had unaccounted for hours; no one saw you during the time when Sorenson was being murdered; there was blood on your shirt sleeve; you talked about his death, motivation is strong because of what he did to you. The evidence, when presented without emotion, did appear a bit damning.
Rachel's reaction could also be construed as a clue towards her guilt. She threw him out, locked the door and didn't sleep with him that night. When Tom came and found the tiny ribbon tied on her doorknob, and the subsequent discovery that she had cried herself to sleep, it had pushed the evening from guilt on her part to guilt on his. Rachel was passionate, emotional and hot tempered.
'With his recitation of damning facts, he had hurt her feelings. With her in all things except science, she led with emotion. She wasn't an emotional wreck, by no means, but she did have deep feelings, trust issues from childhood and a need to prove her value. Being a murderer hit all her wrong buttons, and an unemotional recitation of facts simply rubbed her all the wrong way.
Tom showed her another flower: "smile at me" which illicited a big smile from her. "I guess I overreacted last night — " she began, but he touched her lips with his again to silence her.
"It was me who was out of line," Tom countered. "I never should have come off like that. My mind is just caught up in finding the killer, and logic and following the clues is all we've got. So, the fact that I came off as a punctilious and pompous idiot didn't help."
Rachel laughed at that. "I was just going to say you were being a jerk."
"That, too." Tom said.
Rachel reached down and picked up another flower — kiss me — and showed it to him.
"With pleasure, my love." Tom leaned in and kissed her, marveling once again about his luck in getting Rachel as his girlfriend, lover and soulmate. He had thought all chances ended with the death of his wife Darian.
Rachel flipped the flower to the other side — Kiss Me — and smiled. "I think I like this family tradition."
The last flower she picked up said, "forgive me", and Tom felt the way she hugged him that she did, in fact, forgive him..