AN This fic is obviously AU. It's set June 2005, directly after Aaron Echolls' arrest. Felix doesn't die (entirely because I hate that plot). The fic correlates both with Heathers and Heather: the Musical, but follows the musical more.
(so nothing gets confusing Veronica Sawyer is referred to as Sawyer while Veronica Mars is just Veronica)
That said, I hope you enjoy this! I hadn't planned on posting it all but decided to. Please let me know what you think!
Detective Veronica Sawyer wasn't having anybody's bullshit today. But it wasn't because her fiancé walked out on her the day before, and it wasn't because she'd been stuck in traffic for an extra half an hour that morning, and it wasn't because her fifteen year high school reunion was coming up. Okay, the last one had something to do with it. It had been on her mind for weeks. Or years even - she'd skipped the ten year one. And the five year one. Why did Westerberg insist on bringing them together every five years?
Besides that, the main reason was that she walked onto the scene of a suicide that morning and almost vomited. Not because it was gory, no. It was because the body of the blonde, pretty, teen girl with a red scrunchie in her hair was lying on a bed of broken glass. Her mouth was blue and there was a mug with only a few drops of a blue liquid inside a few feet away. She picked up the suicide note, which had been packed away into a plastic bag. The wording was exact. It was the same suicide note. She immediately called her lieutenant – it was much too similar. It was nearly exact, minus the location.
"Detective… are you nuts? There's no sign of an foul play," Lieutant Lopez said. Detective Sawyer could feel her voice booming from the other end. "Poor kid downed a bottle of multi purpose drain cleaner and fell into a glass table. I can't believe you'd even think-"
"Lieutenant. It's the exact copy of a suicide from my home town. And if it's just like what happened then, three more kids will be dead. It's no coincidence,"
"Veronica. I heard about Steve," Lopez said after a pause. "Maybe you should take a break."
"But don't you know, I have two weeks off starting tomorrow anyways. You know. My wedding." Sawyer shrunk herself into the small private nook she found to make the call. The wedding. It was supposed to be in three days.
"You're not in the right mind. I promise, this is either coincidence or some copycat suicide. Most likely the first. It's fine, take your time off. Come back better than ever," Lopez said, and then the line went dead.
"Shit," Sawyer whispered to herself. She composed herself, and walked back into the scene. They were packing up.
"Um, who was she?" she asked, after failing to choose the right words.
One of the officers spoke up. "Her name was Madison Sinclair. This is her grandmother's house. Her and her family were visiting. Everyone went out to breakfast, but I guess she had other plans. She was just finishing up her junior year at Neptune High up in Neptune. Parents said she was 'very popular'. So tragic. Oh the humanity."
"Neptune. I know Neptune," she stated. She knew the sheriff. He owed her a favor.
"Yeah, the country does. Lilly Kane murder. They recently arrested Aaron Echolls in that case. Neptune is where it all happened. Poor shithole of a town." The officer shrugged and left.
Neptune, California. Less than hour drive.
On her way home that afternoon, she started making calls on her flip phone to cancel different aspects of her wedding that was supposed to happen. She welcomed the condolences and triple checked she'd get her deposits back. She had footed the bill herself. She never admitted to anyone but Steve, but she had been saving for her wedding for a while. Just as she was about to cancel the cake, she received an incoming call from one of her high school friends – Heather McNamara.
"Heather?" she asked, a little skeptical. She hadn't spoken to Heather in a while. She'd sent her a wedding invitation. Shit. She'd have to make more phone calls to each guest to give them the news. "What's up?"
"Just wanted to make sure you're going to the reunion next month!" Heather chirped, a little too eagerly.
"Uh, I'm not sure," she pulled into her parking spot at home and shifted into park.
"Well, I have to know Veronica, I'm chair of the reunion committee! I need tabs on everyone who will be there," Sawyer could see tiny little Heather Mac perched at her little desk, with her small baby daughter sitting in front of her, toying with the papers in front of her.
"I know Heather. Tell you what, write down that I'll be there and it just might happen," Sawyer could almost hear the smile spread across Heather's face, and was about to hang up, when –
"Veronica, that's not the only reason why I called," Heather said nervously. "I got a weird phone call today. I didn't recognize the number. Um, the voice sounded fake? And all they said was 'Poor little Heather. Where'd those pills go?' and then they hung up before I could say anything."
Veronica's throat went dry and her stomach dropped. "I need you to send me the number immediately."
"I wrote it down. It was 619 – 555 – 4322."
"Did you try to call it back?"
"No. It just rang and rang."
"It was probably a pay phone then. The area code is the San Diego area… I can find this guy. Are you okay, though?" Veronica knew what it meant. The pills comment. Heather knew. They didn't have to say.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I haven't thought about….that… since that day," Heather said, and was going to say more when she was interrupted by a crying baby. "Oh, gosh, Kristen. She's so good at this crying thing. But it's worth it. I'll talk to you later, Veronica. Oh! I'll see you in a few days."
"Actually, you won't. Wedding's cancelled. I'll tell you more later. Promise. Go cuddle Kristen."
"Oh my gosh, Veronica. I'm so sorry. We'll chat soon. Love ya!" There was some static on the other end and Heather hung up.
Sawyer smiled to herself. Though it wasn't often, hearing from Heather always made her happy She grabbed her briefcase, got out of her car and locked it.
She lived in a small condo complex with Steve... but he left. She made a mental note to start looking for a smaller place – one she could afford on her own. Her and Steve had moved here nearly a year ago, and could afford it together. On her own? Not so much. She walked up the short walkway and made another mental note to water the dying flower pots in front of the condo. Oops.
When she went to unlock her door, she was surprised to find it unlocked. She silently put her briefcase down, pulled out her gun and quietly opened the door. She began checking each room, her gun ready, and almost pulled the trigger when she found someone in her bedroom. Steve.
"God dammit, Veronica," he said, jumping. "Put that thing away. It's just me."
"Just you," she said, scoffing. "What are you doing here? You made it very clear you wanted out yesterday."
"I'm coming back for the rest of my things," Steve said, rolling his eyes and gesturing to the open suitcase in front of him. "There's a check for $1000 on the table. In case you lost any money from… it all."
"Thanks, I'll spend it on booze. Could you call up your half of the guests and tell them not to come on Wednesday? It'd be a huge help." She put her gun back into her holster, and rested back on the dresser.
"No problem, Ronnie. And why don't you use that grand for something useful, like hiring someone to figure your shit out, or at least get you a nice prescription for Xanax."
"Oh, fuck you," Sawyer sputtered out. Not this conversation again. No.
"Because really, you're fucked up. I can't even touch you half the time. You've got some weird shit 7-11. You're just - you're. I can't deal anymore. I can't."
"If you loved me, you'd try and understand."
"Yeah, if you loved me you'd tell me why this shit fucks you up," he slammed the top of the suitcase.
"Well, then I guess we're both at fault here. I never want to see you again." She looked down at the ground when she said that.
"Yeah, fine. But when you finally have your mental breakdown, don't come yelling to me. Have fun getting loaded tonight."
"God, FUCK YOU." She yelled from the bedroom, and listened to his footsteps down the hall, and the slam of the door.
She waited until she heard his car leave, went to grab her briefcase and went back in. She picked up the check from the table and almost laughed. She folded it and placed it in the same box as she put her engagement ring. She changed out of her work cloths and into a pair of cotton shorts and her, ironically, Westerberg Class of '90 t-shirt. She went into the spare room, which held her mini bar and he pulled out a bottle of wine and a glass, filling it to the top.
Maybe it wasn't the best idea, using alcohol in place of a therapist. Nothing will ever make her come to terms with the fall of her senior year. After it all happened, she asked her parents to see a therapist and they brushed her off. Even after graduating college and joining the academy it didn't cross her mine. Not even during the psychological screening. They deemed her fine.
So she was fine. But there were things. Things that stayed with her for fifteen years.
She couldn't shake off the nights of slurpees and promises of love and protection and justice and that what they were doing was right because their targets were damaging to others and they themselves were damaged and only needed each other and no one else and nothing could tear them apart. That they were sent from god to do his work. That their love was god. That they were god. They were the cause of all bad things ended. And no one could ever love her like he did. And he'd kiss every inch of her, even where no one could see, and how he made her feel safe and protected and wanted and put together.
Until he didn't.
Our love is god. Kaboom.
She finished off the glass, filled it back up, and made her way back into her room and finished calling her list of guests. Accepting condolences between sips of wine. Hemming and hawing as they said how sorry they were, and how upset they were. When she dialed the last number, her parents familiar Sherwood, Ohio phone number, she was done again. She'd get more after talking to her parents. She'd need it.
"Sawyer residence," it was her mom. Shit. It was usually easier to talk to her dad.
"Hey mom! It's me," she already needed that third glass.
"Veronica!" she said, very happily. "Rod, pick up the other phone. It's Ronnie!"
"Hello? Veronica?" her dad piped in.
"Oh, we are so excited for the wedding. We're just finishing packing right now," Mrs. Sawyer said.
"Mom, dad. Steve left me. There's no wedding," she could feel the stunned silence on the other end. "Mom? Dad?"
"Oh, Veronica," was all her mother could say.
"I'll talk to you later, then," of course they were disappointed. She pressed the end button with a sigh and tossed her tiny silver phone onto her bed. Not knowing what else to do, she walked back to the spare room, poured what was left of the bottle into her glass and padded down to the living room. She grabbed a trash bag and made her way through the condo, tossing out anything of Steve's. Clothes, belongings, anything he had accidentally left behind. She tossed in pictures of them and any other mementos. She didn't need that sort of bullshit anymore.
She brought the bag out to her bin when she saw it. At the dreaded 7-11 across the street. A vaguely familiar motorcycle was about to pull out of the parking lot. She almost swore whoever was on it was looking at her. The bike turned and sped off down the street.
Sawyer ignored it, what else could she do? The person she had thought of was dead. He had been for over fifteen years. Once back inside, she curled up into the couch and clicked on the news. The picture of a pretty blonde girl was on the screen. Of course. The girls suicide from that day.
She grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, and listened to the newscasters discuss the death of Madison Sinclair. How tragic her death was, how awful her classmates will feel tomorrow, Monday, at school.
She set her wine down. "Neptune, California."
Veronica Sawyer knew the similarities were no coincidence.