Author's Note: I didn't want to start another story, but this one has stuck with me for weeks and I keep coming back to write more. So I figure that's a sign…I think…? :)

It's a romantic drama with slight suspense/mystery elements. Richonne in this are FAR from perfect. Basically, they've got some issues, lol. There will be some heavy subject matter included, but as always, I will do my best handling these parts of the story. Have I scared you off yet (hopefully not lol)? Here's chapter one…

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

1 – Mississippi

August 1985 – Biloxi, Mississippi

"Your bid. I'm waiting."

Glenn Rhee gulped and lowered his eyes to his hand. A seven, three, Jack and two fives stared at him. He needed a miracle. More than a miracle. He needed Jesus himself. Not only to win the current pot, but to bless him for when Mom found out he'd been gambling and fetched the phonebook. Last time she'd ordered him to squat for five minutes. His thighs burned and neck ached, but he'd learned his lesson to never place prank calls again. He pondered the sentence for gambling as he glanced up at his best friend.

Michonne Wiley smiled sweetly at him. Fifty pounds soaking wet with cottony hair clipped in barrettes, she looked harmless. But she didn't fool him for a second. Behind that sweet smile was the stuff evil geniuses were made of. Armed with a quick wit and knack for cleverness, if asked where he saw Ne twenty years from now, he would've said ruling the world. The eight-year-old girl was that good.

Their friendship had begun by proxy. The only two children of color in their second-grade classroom, she arrived to his relief as a new student. The other kids immediately shunned her much the same way they maligned him. He'd spied on her throughout the morning until certain it was safe to approach. She sat in the shade next to the sandbox, reading a book. Halfway into his stuttered introduction, she sat up, snapped her book to a close, and cut to the chase.

"We can be friends," she declared matter-of-factly. She'd been getting him into trouble ever since.

That summer afternoon was no different. They'd traveled by bike across the vacant lot riddled with junk cars and steep potholes. At the chain-link fence, they ditched their bikes and searched for the break. The stench of motor oil and garbage only hurried them along. The faster they slipped through, the faster they could draw another breath of fresh air. Glenn peeled back the metal opening and held it for Michonne to crawl under. Nimble enough to squeeze through before the metal pinched him, he followed a split second in her wake.

Across the grassy plain, they dashed to the giant magnolia tree. Slats screwed into the bark served as a ladder for them to climb. The dilapidated treehouse was at least a decade old, but it'd withstood seasons of torrential downpours and flash floods. Michonne prided herself in dressing it up as much as possible, swiping a discarded shower curtain and some cushions from her Mama. His contribution had been the flashlights he'd scavenged from Dad's shed. The last thing their second home needed had been a name. He suggested simply clubhouse and so they dubbed thee.

"Well?" Michonne asked.

Glenn scratched his head, stalling for more time. Sweat dripped from his brow thanks to the oppressive heat. They really needed to find a fan for the treehouse. The thick of summer was his least favorite time of year. Dad should've opened their liquor store in a colder state than Mississippi…

"I fold," he said at last. Sighing, he laid his cards on the plastic table traditionally used for tea parties. Another scavenged bit. This time from the local landfill. He sat back and watched Michonne's dark eyes light up as she appraised his cards. Her smile made its triumphant return. He should've known. She'd been bluffing.

"Read 'em and weep—I win!" she announced happily. She revealed her dismal hand, where her highest card was a nine and no pairs existed. In between them, the stacks of Oreos, Chips Ahoy and Nutter Butters never looked more appetizing. She collected them in her hands, stowing most away for later. The few for now she bit into. "Needs milk."

Glenn sulked and she giggled. "Sure, sure…rub it in."

"You can have one Nutter Butter. Here…" She slid the wafer across the table.

"Thanks. Hopefully my dad won't notice all these missing cookies from the store."

"I'll bring some next game," she said not for the first time.

He ignored the empty promise and said, "Anyway, I should go. Dinner starts soon, and my mom's making me help wash the veggies. Stupid Rachel complained that it wasn't fair only she had to help cook."

"Well, it isn't!" Michonne said adamantly. "Boys should help too."

"You guys only say that to make me suffer." He grabbed his baseball cap and slid on his backpack. If he headed back now, he'd make it with a couple minutes to spare. Mom would be none the wiser. "It's about to be four. Are you staying, Ne?"

Michonne shrugged, stretching her legs in front of her. Her expression unconcerned, she said, "I'll ride back later."

"I'd invite you to dinner again, but my dad says it's family only tonight."

"It's okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

Glenn carefully climbed down the wooden slats. His sneakers retouched the grass and he paused for the slightest second to glance up at the treehouse. He'd shifted some blame onto Rachel, but truthfully, Dad had told him only he couldn't invite his friend over. Referring to her as "the Wiley girl", he said she visited for dinner too often. It disappointed him because he liked having her at the house for dinner. They had fun, making faces at each other and feeding Louie under the table. His parents saw things differently.

At least there was always tomorrow for another chance to play. They could go explore the old creek that people said was haunted…

Enthused by that idea, Glenn Rhee peddled home fast. In back of him, the little wooden house perched atop the magnolia tree shrunk and shrunk until it slipped beyond sight. Little did he know that was the last time he'd ever set eyes on his best friend. The next day when he turned up outside her house for their playdate, the Wiley's would be gone.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

January 2001 – Alamo, Georgia

"Crank up that heat and pour the hot cocoa, it's 'bout to be a wet next couple of days! Best to bundle up and stay indoors," advised the TV weatherman. His hand hovered over the digitized map of the state, drifting along the various cities. "As you can see, there's a storm cloud moving eastward headed toward Alamo and Dulla—"

"Turn that shit down, I don't needa hear 'bout how cold it is," snapped Carl. "I already know—I'm living it!"

Rick Grimes begrudgingly abided by his father's wish. He lowered the volume on the TV, muting the weatherman. Carl wasn't a big fan of the news in general. The cheery dispositions of the news anchors bothered him. He called their smiles 'fake' and 'forced'.

"And what's with their helmet hair?" he'd asked on occasion. "Too much damn hairspray, that's what!"

Now, as the temperatures outside plummeted to new lows, the disgruntled man dismissed the weather segment. He turned his back on the TV and doused his rag in Windex. He wiped down the glass case, mumbling something about the 'good ol days'. Rick largely tuned him out.

When Carl resigned as town sheriff, he'd given him a part-time job out of mingled obligation and pity. The 62-year-old possessed a natural can-do, firecracker spirit of a retired sheriff, tackling the job head-on on good days. On bad days, he sulked and bitched and Rick needed to walk away and count backwards from ten to keep from losing his temper.

That more or less summarized their relationship in recent years.

"I've got errands to run. Should only be gone an hour. Two tops. You alright here by yourself, Carl?"

"What am I some sorta child? 'Course I will be."

"We're expecting a big purchase from the Greene's. Hershel's coming in to buy supplies. He needs to reshingle the roof to his farmhouse."

"Yeah, yeah. Expect Greene's ol' preachy ass to be strolling through here. Got it. You can go."

Rick bit down hard and squared his jaw as he fought the urge for an acidic retort. The best thing to do was walk away so not to cause another huge argument. He strode onto the drizzly street, where the sidewalk gleamed slick, and paused to draw in some breaths. He remembered the sage words from the New York Times Bestseller Goodbye Fury, written by esteemed therapist Denise Cloyd:

Weak is the individual who lets anger control them. Strong is the one who learns to channel it into positive energy.

Checking his watch confirmed such a notion. In another hour, he'd pull up outside the daycare and pick up Judith. Even the visualization of her dashing toward him, round little face shiny and long, golden tendrils unruly, lightened his heart. Just yesterday she'd lost another tooth, so her smile was an adorably gap-toothed mess. She anchored him in a way no one else could. In a way Carl used to.

He didn't let himself go there. He got in his Range Rover and turned the wheels away from the curb. First stop, the Alamo Bank…

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"How much?"

"525 a month. That includes water and trash."

"Hmmm."

Deanna Monroe stood aside and let the potential renter scope out the tiny, one-bedroom timber-style house. Truth be told, the place was a dump. Paint peeled off the walls, floorboards squelched with the slightest pressure, and the rusty sink sprayed water tinged yellow. Those were the mild problems. The more serious ones, like the leaking roof, dead lawn and termites chewing the walls, really added to the home's unmarketability. Its only saving grace was that it overlooked the Pine Lake, but even that was not enough to interest the average renter.

Exactly why it surprised her that the woman asked for a tour of the place. She was definitely new in town.

"450." The potential renter stopped by the furnace and swiped a finger along the mantle.

"I'm afraid I can't go any lower," said Deanna.

"425," the woman said. She faced her with a polite smile. The kind of polite smile difficult to dismiss. Gentle enough to be unassuming but genuine enough to carry some sway.

Deanna stammered. "Well, I…I just said I can't go any lower."

"This house has been on the market, how long?"

"Uh, nine months…but…but…"

"The flooring needs some work," she observed as if Deanna hadn't said anything. She shimmied on a board and the weak wood dipped like cooked spaghetti.

"Yes, but…but…"

"I'm thinking it'll cost a couple thousand for a landscaper to repair the grass." She strolled to the living room window and brushed aside the blinds, gazing onto the front yard. The yellowed, weeded grass died of thirst after months under the Georgia sun. "Don't you think?"

"Yes…that's true."

"400," she said, suddenly about-facing. "Trash and water still included, of course."

Deanna sputtered nonsense words like "uhh" and "err" for seconds. She blinked looking into the woman's eyes. The dark pools hypnotized. The shine in them, offset by the occasional fluttering blink of her long lashes held her attention as resolve slipped away. She touched her cheek and glanced around at the ramshackle home.

"Oh…oh, alright. 400 it is, Miss…Miss—what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," she said softly, smile spreading. "Miss Fox."

"Right. Miss Fox. Well, the home is ready for move in as soon as first and last month's rent are paid."

"Cash alright?"

"Uh, yes…" said Deanna Monroe hesitantly, caught off guard. The woman began digging in her purse, pulling out several crumpled hundred-dollar bills. She shoved them into Deanna's hands and waited expectantly for the key. "Oh, right. Here you go. The key to the door and the spare. Here is also the key to the garage. Now, you'll find the fence's gate has a lock on it, but don't worry—it doesn't work. You can replace if you like."

"Sounds wonderful." The tone Miss Fox used was dismissive, as if not truly listening to what she said.

Deanna inhaled haughtily. "I do need you to fill out a couple residency forms."

"Great."

"I'll need your full name, date of birth, last residency and income information."

"Mhmmm."

She watched as her newest renter bypassed her on the way to the kitchen. She scurried to follow. Like the rest of the closet-sized home, the box of a kitchen needed some work. The lime yellow fridge and faulty cabinets stood out as eyesores along with the dated stove.

"It's a very small community on Pine Lake. There's only five homes here. My home's one of them. I'm next-door," Deanna went on, desperate to reel the woman into a real conversation. "I've taken to real estate since my husband Reg passed away. I had to figure out how to pay the bills somehow. Plus, it's great helping people find homes and getting them settled. If you need anything, feel free to come knocking. We're expected some poor weather over the next few days."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You said you're from?"

"Ohio, born and raised."

"I've never been."

"It's nice."

"Do you miss it?"

"No."

Deanna frowned, confusion filling her. Before she could ask another question, the woman rounded on her and flashed another well-crafted smile.

"I appreciate you helping me find a home, Ms. Monroe. I'd be happy to fill out those forms, but after that, if you don't mind, I'd like to start getting settled."

"Of course! I didn't mean to take up so much of your time. Here they are," said Deanna. She forked over the sheaf of papers and waited patiently for her newest renter to scribble answers down. Once returned in her grasp, she glanced down at the documents. Particularly for a first name. "Well, nice meeting you. I'm certain we'll get to know each other in time, Michonne. Do you mind if I call you that?"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Daddy, guess what, guess what, guess what?"

"What, Lil' Bit?"

"Chicken butt!"

Judith found her answer to be the cleverest, funniest reply known to mankind. The four-year-old slunk low in her car seat, overcome by hysterical giggles. Her face shone red as she laughed herself into incoherence. Rick chuckled along, shaking his head and starting up the engine. It wouldn't have surprised him if Lil' Bit grew up to be a comedienne. She loved laughter that much.

"You got a new workbook to do?"

"Mhm! Ms. Peletier gave us one on dinosaurs!"

"That sounds like fun," he said, stopping at a red light. "You think you can sit by and do 'em as Daddy finishes up at the store?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

"You promise? Pinky swear or it ain't the truth."

"Pinky swear, pinky swear!"

As the red light persisted, he reached behind him and she hooked her little pinky around his larger one. That conjured another laugh out of him.

In five minutes flat, they pulled up on Grimes Hardware. Rick braced himself for whatever chaos Carl had caused in his absence. The last time he left his father alone for longer than two hours, he walked into the hardware store to find him in a red-faced argument with Gregory McNulty. He hoisted Judith from her booster seat and set her onto her feet. They walked into the shop hand-in-hand, dinging the bell above.

"Well, if it ain't my Lil' Judy Bit," called Carl huskily.

"G-Daddy!"

Judith burst with glee, dashing for her grandfather with arms in the air.

Rick stood back and let the little girl leap into his arms as if they hadn't seen each other in years. In reality, it'd only been seven hours. Despite his personal misgivings with him, he couldn't deny that Carl was a good grandfather. The man had shown both of his children love through and through, beginning to end.

He busied himself fixing the nearest aisle. He straightened the ladders, lifting the aluminums and stacking them in order by height. Last he checked they'd been sorted correctly, but leaving Carl alone meant giving up the notion things would remain where they belonged. The busier the store got, he usually struggled to keep up.

"What'd my Lil' Judy Bit learn at daycare today?" Carl asked.

Judy sat on his knee, fiddling with his old sheriff's hat. "I learned…I learned that dinosaurs were birds! Did you know that, G-Daddy?"

"Sure didn't. You're lying, Lil' Bit."

"Nuh uh! That's…That's what Mrs. Peletier said. They had feathers and everything."

Rick grinned to himself listening to her indignation. She was a fast learner. As such, she commonly considered herself to be the subject matter expert after only a couple facts learned. This instance was no different as she began to explain to Carl how dinosaurs were related to modern-day birds.

"Wow, an old coot like me didn't know that," whistled Carl afterward. "You're so smart, Lil' Judy Bit."

"I know. Thank you."

She accepted the compliment with such confident grace that both men couldn't help barking out a laugh. Their laugh abruptly ended as the bell rang and the door propped open. In walked a woman neither had ever set their sights on. Judging by how fluently she strolled inside, it didn't matter. She naturally carried an air that struck strangers aghast, capturing their attention as if she were the most interesting person in the world.

Picking up a handbasket, she ignored their gazes and drifted down aisle number one. In a small town like Alamo, Georgia, population 1,341, it was hard not to be at least vaguely familiarized with most faces. Hers was not one. Rick stared. It might've been rude, but for the moment he found little room to care. His blue eyes followed the woman aisle to aisle, hoping for so much as a fleeting glance back. No such luck. Either she pretended not to see him or she lived in true oblivion.

Regardless, she was a sight—nothing short of otherworldly. Her svelte, petite form glided as if walking on water, thoughtfully lithe in each body movement like that of a dancer. The long, loose skirt she wore flowed on its own, juxtaposed regally against the knitted crop top that hugged her bust. Thick locs twisted up onto the back of her head, her entire face radiated in view. She had big, earthy brown eyes that held a mystery in them at any given moment, and the fullest, lushest lips he'd ever seen. Combined with high cheeks and arched, scrutinizing brows, she surely stole the show wherever she went.

"Can I…can I…help you?" he asked awkwardly.

She'd finally arrived in his aisle and browsed the selection of step-ladders. At first when he spoke, she didn't acknowledge him. Her attention narrowed to the three-step ladder inches away, as if considering it a viable purchase. Then her brown, deep-set eyes flittered onto him and his heart alarmed him to her gaze by thundering against his chest.

"I'm looking for a ladder," she said softly. "Which one do you recommend?"

A thousand questions exploded in his brain. Who was she? What was her name? Where was she from? Was she new in town? Would she be here to stay? How could a woman like her be shopping for a ladder alone? Was she single?

"Well," he said eventually, clearing his throat and playing it cool. Or so he thought. "It depends on what you need it for."

"Home repairs."

"That's awfully vague. What kinda home repairs?"

"Everything," she said. She smiled afterward. In a cheek sort of way, that confused him so much he tilted his head.

"Uh, well, in that case…I suggest something standard. That'll cover most situations. The Werner 8 foot is prolly a good place to start," he said, gesturing to the ladder hanging on the wall. "Here, I'll get it for you."

"That's okay. I'm only looking."

"Right." He dipped his hands into his jean pockets, hovering out of uncertainty. The right thing to do probably would've been to leave her be at that point, but his curiosity got the best of him. Scratching the back of his neck, he let a question or two slip. "So, uh, you new in town?"

"Mhm."

"Alamo doesn't see too many new people. What brought you here?"

"Work."

"Yeah? What kinda work?"

"Legislature."

Rick's brow furrowed, utterly thrown by the reply. He couldn't help giving her another once over. She certainly didn't look like the town council type. They were usually forty or fifty, frumpy and one-tenth as attractive…

"Interesting," he said. "Our townhall needs new blood, so…"

"Excellent," she interrupted almost deafly. She smiled at him again and then passed him by as if he hadn't said a word at all.

He turned and stared in her wake. She didn't stop until she reached the counter where Carl and Judith waited for her. Her meager handbasket of screws, a hammer and some other supplies surmounted to less than twenty bucks. She paid in cash and asked about the nearest grocery store. Carl gave instructions. Judith beamed at her and told her she was real pretty.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she said. The three words came across as the most genuine ones she'd muttered that day.

After that, she was gone. As quickly as she drifted into the store, she'd wandered out. Rick walked up to the front counter and continued to stare at the door. Judith had started to play again and Carl scowled.

"Guess we've got more curb appeal than we thought."

"Yeah," said Rick slowly, "guess so."

"Whoever she is, I don't trust her. She's not here for no reason," groused Carl. "She out for something."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Once a week, to make amends, he left the office early. He got in his town car and drove to the cemetery. There was never anyone there. At most, he encountered the occasional grieving widow or gravedigger hauling his shovel to dig up the next six-foot hole. He lurked from afar, hands balled deep in the pockets of his trench coat, biding his time.

The cemetery was on the outskirts of town, fenced in by a measly, waist-high iron gate. On the other side, the frayed georgic landscape stretched out of sight. Not a soul for miles. Both inside and out. The only difference being, the hundred-odd tombstones inside were trapped. There would be no escape for them six-feet under.

He sighed and let his gaze roam the orderly columns before him. The hunks of stone embedded in the damp earth looked identical to the untrained eye, but he knew where. Row fifty-two, seventh tomb to the left. Headstone number eighty-eight. Right along the northern fence where a horde of black trunked trees hunched over. The branches like long, skeletal arms, birds perched by the flock.

They were the only ones there to bear witness to his early-evening visit. Their crows filled the clammy air as he crossed underneath trees, straight for eighty-eight.

It'd rain again soon. Any minute.

He pulled up the collar to his black trench coat and trudged the muddy soil. His shoes rolled along the muck and grime, but he never slowed down. Almost there now, in seconds he'd arrive at the headstone and deliver his white lily. The modest little flower that atoned for what he'd done.

He could never take it back. What happened that day was tragically irreversible. A young life was lost and an entire family was broken. He'd fled and buried the truth as far as it'd go, haunted by tremendous guilt but also too selfish to own up to his fatal mistake. He could never—would never—sacrifice himself for another. A dead one at that.

Straightening after laying the apologetic lily on the ground, he turned and walked away. He crossed the endless rows and abscised trees without a look back.

This secret was to the grave.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The sky only grew drearier as Michonne carried her bags up the rickety porch steps to her new home. The showers had left her clothes damp against her skin, face speckled with raindrops. It might've been time to move 'proper jacket' up higher on her to-buy list. She fumbled with the locks and keys, listening to the pitter-patter on the otherwise silent property.

That's exactly why Pine Lake was suitable. That's why Alamo was.

A quiet little home on a quiet, isolated lake in a quiet, no-name town. No one would ever find her this time.

She hoped.

The keyring slipped out of her hand and onto the creaky floorboards beneath her feet. She was stooping low to pick them up when the distant giggle of a child caught her ear. Beyond the tap of the drizzle, far across the soundless lake, in front of the house opposite hers, a maroon Range Rover parked in the drive. The backseat door had opened and a little girl skipped to freedom. She wore a neon pink raincoat, golden tendrils a wiry mess from a day spent playing, and she hopped into puddles with her polka dot galoshes. Her giggle only pierced the silent sky louder as the water splashed onto her.

Was that the girl from earlier? From the hardware store?

Michonne didn't move, still crouched on her porch, peeking out from between the banisters.

Of course, it was.

The older man had undone her car seat, now grabbing grocery bags out the back. He led the charge to their front door and the girl followed in a hop-and-a-skip. Their house was bigger, more modern. Still of the timber-style with its slanted roofing and bulky wood, it possessed a strangely cozy charm. They hadn't taken their Christmas lights down. There was also an American flag on the porch, as if in residual celebration of the Fourth of July.

That garnered a small snicker out of her until she cleared her throat.

The older man and the little girl had disappeared inside by the time the driver side door opened. The younger man stepped out, looking darker than he had in the store. It could've been the rain impeding on his mood or the fact that he still had a trunk worth of bags to haul in, but he looked dismayed. He pulled up the fur collar to his suede jacket and began piling bags onto either forearm. Then, as he rounded the SUV, he must've sensed eyes on him. He looked up, surveying the trees and lake for the culprit.

His gaze finally landed on the home across from his, but seeing the empty porch, he gave up. He headed inside without another look back.

Michonne gave it a couple seconds before she slipped out from behind the stacked wood. As soon as he'd stopped and looked up, she'd sought a hiding place. The piles of lumber in the porch corner was the only option, even for someone as quick on their feet as she was. Snatching the keys off the floor and undoing the last lock, she released a long-withheld breath now in her little house.

It was shitty, with moth-eaten curtains and rusty pipes, but it was home.

For now, at least.

On her way to the bathroom, she abandoned her clothes. They served as a gingerbread trail to her whereabouts, one article after the other discarded down the hallway and into the room. Thankfully the shower's stream didn't sputter too much. It shot out steadily, the water itself warm enough.

After, she sat cross-legged on the floor of the bedroom. The previous tenants had left behind a decade-old bed and nightstand. She appreciated both. The mattress looked springy and worn, but even that was better than the stiff-backed cots offered at shelters. Half-dressed, she assessed her money situation.

From the depths of her purse, shoes, socks, bras and hidden pouches in her suitcase, Michonne withdrew the long-saved green bills. The money wound up in neat stacks on the ground and she'd finished counting her savings. Several hundred more than anticipated. Eyes closing, a relieved sigh tumbled out of her. These funds alone could last a couple months.

But she'd need income eventually. Always better sooner than later.

Her employment history didn't include much beyond basic menial jobs and gigs in nightclubs. In such a small town like Alamo, would she have options for employment?

There'd been a 'HELP WANTED' sign at the local bar. That'd be a sure-fire way to rake in more cash. Sweettalking money out of strangers wasn't a foreign concept, particularly when involving alcohol. One of her strengths was knowing when and how to turn on her charm. Mind made up, she stashed the money back in its proper locations, and then rose.

From through the flimsy curtain of the bedroom window, the house across from hers had already turned on its lights. The yellow-tinged windows glowed as a distraction. With twilight unavoidably on its way, the trio must've been sitting down for dinner soon. That served as a reminder that her groceries needed to be put away.

Tonight's dinner would be mac and cheese out the box. She'd also bought cans of chili discounted due to the dents in them. Mixing the two together would produce a surprisingly delicious concoction of chili mac and cheese. It'd been a cheap but easy meal she'd learned to make as a child. Many doubted its tastiness until they took a bite for themselves.

Now aware of the grumbling in her stomach, she stopped thinking about funds and jobs. For the next hour as she cooked up her dinner and sat down to enjoy the meal, she let paranoia fall by the wayside.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Night brought the chill. Lil' Bit lay on her belly on the living room's bearskin rug. Her brow lined with concentration as she filled out the rest of her dinosaur workbook. Carl sat in the broken-in recliner and read the town newspaper. Occasionally, he drifted off, giving a start when reawakening. He wiped his drool, read for another minute or two only to doze off again. Rick busied himself with quick chores about the house. Washing tonight's pots and pans. Tossing a load in the washing machine. Sweeping the floors this way and that.

Before long, he needed a break.

He checked on Lil' Bit one last time, finding her coloring a dinosaur orange, and then stepped onto the porch. The night's air was moist and tasted and smelled like rain. Sometime during dinner, the downpour picked up, tapping heavily against the roof and splattering on the windows. It'd calmed considerably since, lessening to a light drizzle again. The gentle pattering greeted his ears as the sole noise standing on that porch.

The flame flicked to life from his lighter, burning the tip of his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, eyes closed. The cool air whipped across his face and ruffled his hair. The edge slipped slightly, no longer on the brink of a freefall. He relished in that tiny slip, no matter how small. It kept him in control, gave him much-needed leeway from going over.

February was hardest. This year marked two years.

Three weeks to go…

He'd double down on work at the store. Find some fixer-upper projects to tackle. Smoke a fucking pack a day if he had to. Anything to get him through the next month, sane and whole.

There was Judith and Carl to worry about. While Lil' Bit was too young to remember vividly, she had hazy memories of him. Her first memory being the Christmas before their lives went to hell. She'd mumbled about playing in the snow, making angels. That was true. He'd burst onto the porch and called them back inside, and they'd retreated to the living room to sit by the fire.

Carl was another story. His father thought feelings were better shunned than spoken aloud. His old-school thinking made it impossible to talk to him about anything…heavy. In meaningful terms, anyway. If it wasn't baseball, current events or gripes about how much things had changed with the turn of the century, he had nothing to add. For as contentious as their relationship had become, Rick couldn't blame him. Carl didn't talk about it because he didn't know how.

Rick didn't know either. So, he smoked his cigarettes and he read self-help books by the likes of Denise Cloyd.

He blew a cloud of smoke and thought nothing of the chemicals polluting the frigid air. Through the small puff, two eyes blinked at him. He didn't see them blinking, more so feeling them. Out of the dark, amid the cloaking shadows, a gaze hung on him from across the way. Far on the other side of Pine Lake, someone stared at him in presumed secrecy.

Earlier he'd noticed a car in the drive and a single light on in one of the windows. It surprised him. That place was a dump in dire need of repair. Exactly why it sat untouched on the market for months. Whoever must've rented it was either stupid or a fool. Or both. Either way, they'd surely regret living there.

He flicked his butt to the ground and squashed it with the heel of his boot. He stared back, pointedly, letting his steely eyes pierce the dark. Many said his gaze intimidated. The blue in his eyes darkened and his jaw set and whoever stood on the receiving end usually folded in seconds. He glared across the lake for a good minute, but those eyes didn't go anywhere. Their presence lingered, blinking, hovering, hiding in the pitch-black.

Rick stuffed his lighter and cigarette pack into his denim pockets and peeked into the living room window. Lil' Bit lay curled up asleep, crayon in hand. Carl leaned deep into the recliner, mouth open, gob of drool out the side. He turned and ignored the drizzle, striding for the walkway. The arched bridge, wood wet and weak, connected his house to the other two homes on Pine Lake.

His stride also intimidated.

Once he got going, people usually got out of his way.

He crossed the bridge in a couple of paces, making it onto the other side.

But still the weight of those eyes endured.

Who did they belong to?

He had to find out.

His boots touched the patchy grass, the fringes to the dump's lawn, and he closed in on the porch steps. And then…

"Don't come any closer."

Rick froze. "Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Because…?"

He blinked, urging his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "You're my neighbor."

"So?"

"So…I need to know who I live next to."

"It doesn't matter," the voice repeated. A woman's—soft but also in warning. "Go home."

"I'm not going home 'til I know who my neighbor is."

He could be stubborn. The most hardheaded son of a bitch a person would meet in their life. The more the mystery person dug their heels in, the more he eagerly followed suit. On principle alone, he wouldn't turn tail and head home now. His new neighbor owed him a face and a name at minimum.

"You can stand there all night if you'd like. I don't give a shit. But, come any closer, and it's a problem."

Rick narrowed his eyes, the threat never clearer. The woman managed the impossible feat of toeing the line between being calm and threatening. If a conflict broke out, she'd be ready. If one didn't, she would be fine with that, too. He stood in mild surprise for a couple of beats, unsure of how to interpret their exchange.

An idea struck him. He dug into his back pocket and pulled out his lighter. The flame sparked to life as the porch light flicked on and banished the shadows swallowing them up. Gliding gently on a rocking chair sat the woman he'd seen earlier. The woman who had walked into the store and instantly captured his attention. She sat relaxed, with a leg kicked up on the porch banister. What lay in her lap caught him off guard most. She rocked back-and-forth in her chair and cleaned a forty-four magnum.

Curiosity drowned him, tilting his head askew.

Who the hell was this woman?

"I'm not coming any closer," he relented, mouth dry. "I just wanna name. That's all."

She rocked some more, wiping the rag across the sleek steel of her revolver. Either the dim light played tricks on him or her lips twitched to smile. In such stark darkness, it was hard to tell.

"What's your name?" she asked instead.

Fair enough. He had nothing to hide about his identity. He said, "Rick Grimes."

"Rick Grimes. Of Grimes Hardware."

"That's right."

"How long have you lived in Alamo, Georgia, Rick Grimes?"

"Two years."

"Two years," she repeated again softly, tossing the rag onto her shoulder. She held the revolver adoringly, as if it was her most prized possession. Her nimble fingers traced its ridges, eyes on him the entire time. "How do you like it?"

"Fine enough. Pretty sure I asked for your name."

"Do you always introduce yourself to your neighbors after dark, Rick Grimes?"

"No...do you always sit on your porch and spy on yours after dark?"

"I wasn't spying."

"I beg to differ."

"It doesn't matter," she dismissed.

Rick shuffled in his stance, hands on his waist. "If it doesn't matter, you'd gimme your name."

She smiled. "Are you always this bullheaded, Rick Grimes?"

"Yep. You?"

"Yes."

It could've been the winter chill, but a shiver racked him and fascination dawned. Deeper than in the store, the urge to know more persisted. He couldn't walk away now.

"Tell me your name and I'll go."

The woman took her time. The rocking chair moved much the same way she had when walking the aisles in the store. A fluidity to each fall forward and slip backward, shifting between the motions seamlessly. She eyed her magnum forty-four and weighed the merit of his request.

"Michonne."

"Michonne?"

"Mhm."

"That real?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"It's unusual."

"So?"

"So, is that your name or are you fucking with me?" he asked.

She opened her mouth to reply, but he answered for her.

"It doesn't matter," he mimicked. "But it does to me."

"That's my name, Rick Grimes. I can't help it if you don't believe me."

Rick grit his teeth. For the better part of his life, his father had been a cop. As town sheriff, Carl had taken him under his wing and taught him the ropes through the years. He'd even tagged along on emergency calls in town. If the call posed any danger, Carl forced him to hang out in the car, but sometimes, he'd been allowed to creep along the edges of the crime scene. His father's experiences became his own in that way. He'd learned to read people. To decipher their behavior and gauge their candor. His assessment told him this woman—this Michonne—was a liar.

"Well, nice to meet you, Michonne," he feigned. "You liking your home so far?"

"I thought you said you'd go if I told you my name."

"Just wondering. It's a real fixer upper."

"It's great."

"Where are you from?"

"Florida."

"What part?"

Finally, she stopped rocking. Sitting up, her voice hardened. "No more questions. Go home."

He couldn't argue straightaway, sensing he'd pushed too far. He had agreed he'd leave after a name and a face, after all. He'd gotten both. He looked at her, a long and drawn out stare that reached the dark pools of her eyes, and he saw a woman no longer humored by the tit-for-tat exchange. She was agitated. She was pissed. She had a revolver in her hands and judging by the glint in her eyes and the ease with which she handled it, she wasn't a novice on how to use it. He took a step back.

"Alright," he said with a lone nod. "I said I'd go…so I'm going. Nice to meet you, Michonne."

Her gaze didn't let up as he turned and walked away. The drizzle continued to sprinkle him, leaving his clothes and skin damp, and he crossed the creaky bridge onto the other side. Though he didn't check for certainty, he'd bet she watched his every step. She wouldn't stop until he was inside again.

Rick walked up the steps to his porch and only then did he turn. The light to hers was off now, masked in deep darkness.

But she was there, watching, waiting…

For what he did not know.

That wasn't for him to discover tonight. It'd have to wait, as his curious nature vowed to unearth the truth. He pulled open the screen door and the warmth from his home enveloped him. Lil' Bit still lay in a tiny ball on the bearskin rug, crayon in her fist. He scooped her up in a single arm and Carl woke with a grunt. He said nothing to him, bypassing him on his walk upstairs. His father must've glared after him, because he felt the pang of it retreating to the second floor.

He tucked Judy into bed, the glow of her nite lite giving her bedroom the security she craved, and he eased the door to a close.

In his own bed, he broke out his latest read: Deescalate – How to Practice Self-Calm, written by Bradley Jenner. He put his reading glasses on and let the words sink in, saving them for future use the next time a difficult situation confronted him. He needed them. All of them. In recent months he'd improved, but his temper still bested him more often than he'd like to admit.

The words fell on deaf ears. He didn't absorb any of it. His thoughts were elsewhere, drifting back to the exchange in front of his new neighbor's home. Michonne. The woman who'd captivated him from the second she set foot inside the store, and who doubly enthralled him as she rocked on the porch with a revolver casually in hand.

Who was she?

The question rolled over in his brain for the dozenth time that day. Carl's appraisal trickled in, his prediction that the woman wasn't here for fun. She hadn't turned up in Alamo for shits and giggles. She'd arrived with reason—out for something, as Carl had said. For as often as they butted heads, his father's take on these sorts of things were usually spot on. He couldn't argue the fair points he'd made.

So, what was it? What was his newest neighbor, Michonne, out for? Of all the places, why this shit-stain, no-name small town? And why was Alamo the place to get it?

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The rampant downpour meant the windshield wipers worked double time. They whooshed across the windshield to clear off the droplets, but the road ahead still challenged him. The distressing dark lacked the proper light to steer him, so he operated on guts more than anything—the unbreakable connection that tied them and led him a mile closer each time.

He glued his eyes to the road, paying attention to the signs off the highway. After days spent driving, it was hard to keep interest, but his tenacity won out. His desire kept him going, pushing further to gain more ground. He refused to accept the trail as anything but hot. He couldn't if he expected to make good on his promise.

The next highway exit arrived, nearly drown out by the bullets of rain, and he veered right. It was 11:24 P.M. and there was no better time to call it. He pulled off at the first motel he crossed, called the Sea Breeze Motel, boasting 50 buck rooms. The motel featured a heavy mix between trucker and prostitute, but he ignored both on his walk to the front office. He'd parked his town car within sight, so that no true harm could be done to his Lincoln Continental.

"Hi…welcome to the Sea Breeze of the Gulf Coast. How may I help you?" the clerk asked in the most dronish voice imaginable. Her gaunt, deadpan face matched. She didn't bother looking up at him, filing her nails with grave disinterest.

He slammed three hundred dollars onto the counter. "I'd like a room."

She eyed the Benjamins. "For how many nights?"

"One."

"That's fifty bucks. Only, fifty bucks."

"I'm paying extra."

The scrawny woman sporting premature wrinkles for her age quirked a brow at him.

"I need your help," he clarified.

"My help?" she repeated, though she gathered the cash in hand. "With what?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Yeah? Who?"

"I don't know," he answered and she rolled her eyes. He quickly continued. "Sometimes she switches up her identities. I have reason to believe she's been here. I need you to look up the following names in your guest registry—"

"And who are you?"

He grinned handsomely, his long coat drenched from the rain. "I'm Mike Gray. And I'm looking for my wife Michonne."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Author's Note: In chapter two we will see a curious Rick trying to work into the good graces of his wary, heavily suspicious new neighbor. How's he going to work his magic? :)

Feedback is always appreciated on my end. I don't know when I'll update again, but hopefully it'll be soon! Thanks guys!