Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed chapter one! I hope you enjoy, as I am really loving writing this story. One thing I couldn't mention in chapter one because I didn't want to "spoil" the end, throughout this story we will get flashbacks to Richonne's relationship before the divorce. So there will be some nonlinear bouncing between past and present. Thanks again, guys!

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

TWO – That was Then

12 years earlier…

The chapel doors sprang open and out spilled Rick and Michonne down its steps hand-in-hand. Laughter trilled from their throats, born in their bellies out of adrenaline, echoing into the evening's frosted air for any and all listening ears within radius. Behind them trailed their small gang of friends, cheering them on from the top of the stairs. The six whistled and catcalled and swooped forth to catch the slapdash bouquet of wildflowers Michonne tossed their way mid-sprint.

Above them the domed sky glowed gorgeous golds and pinks for its last sunset of the year. In minutes, nightfall would descend in a sweep of inky velvet, freckled heavily with stars. Eventually, even in the middle of the country landscape, there would also be fireworks. Blasts of glittering color shot into the sky to celebrate the new year.

For Rick and Michonne, it would also signify a celebration for their new life together.

At the curb outside the withered chapel, there was a decade-old Camaro waiting for them. Rick pulled open the passenger door, laid a full-mouth, dipping kiss on his bride to more hoots and hollers, then helped tuck the hem of her cascaded Georgette skirt inside before he shut the door. He snagged his seat behind the wheel with a run and jump over the driver's door. The engine came to life with an overzealous roar. They exchanged a flurry of parting waves and smiles with their pals, soon off down the road, tires kicking up dirt in their wake.

The Camaro breezed over the open-road, headed for the faraway sunset they'd never catch but tried to anyway. Their destination didn't matter so much, as the blustery air tickled their skin and messed their hair. Michonne's headpiece, modestly adorned with white ribbon and flowers, flew away from her in the wind. She twisted in her seat and outstretched her hand to catch it, a surprised laugh escaping her. The headpiece was a goner, adrift behind them until it scuttled somewhere to the ground.

When she straightened again, she spotted Rick's blue eyes on her with a lopsided grin.

The most wonderful variation of blue she'd seen in her 21 years, his eyes transformed moment-to-moment. Sometimes an intense deep hue like that of a storm at sea, other times his eyes were as light and clear as the sky. Losing herself in them was irrespective of the shade, however, as she looked to him amid the scenery whizzing by, and her heart swelled with elation that felt entirely limitless. She beamed, and as his hand rested on the gear, she placed hers atop his.

"Where to, Mrs. Grimes?" he asked, chuckling. "I like the sound of that."

"Surprise me," she said with an upbeat lilt in her voice. Not only was she drunk off the day but the man beside her.

Rick chuckled again and his foot came down on the gas harder. The Camaro raced down the empty highway, molding itself along the tarmac's every curve with his expert steering. The small-town was miles and miles behind them, and the highway signs notified them of the major cities to come.

In that moment, for both, the future never seemed so infinitely open. The day had begun as a continuation of their holiday break from the academy, promptly spiraling from there as things always did when they were together. They couldn't help themselves. Enamored, high off the intensity that was their relationship, they'd taken a leap they'd never dreamed they would on day one of training.

Yet, here they were. Side-by-side, man and wife, partners for life, embarking on a journey that would only be parted by death, and they were never happier…

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

Monday, April 1st, 8:01 A.M.

"Mommy! Mommy, wanna see something cool? I made a lava lamp!"

"In a sec, Andre! Mommy's getting dressed," Michonne called.

"Mama G is gonna give me a gold star!" the 7-year-old went on in a boast, his small voice carrying from down the hall. "She was right—the blue color stuck!"

Michonne smirked to herself as she slid a leg into her crisply pressed slacks. Her adept fingers pulled the zipper up and fastened the inner hook. She drifted into the bathroom in the coming second, dropping her worn but folded clothes into the hamper. Even through the wall and closed door, she picked up on Andre's feet hopping across the hallway.

"Peanut, head down for breakfast, okay? I'll be down in a minute," she said.

"OK, Mommy! But I'm gonna count," Andre giggled. "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…"

He trailed off there as she presumed he disappeared down the staircase. Her smirk remained as she stood before the well-lit bathroom mirror and her hand hovered over the neatly arranged collection of perfume bottles. Most work days she was practical, but today felt…different.

Michonne told herself it was the start of the month. Spring was finally showing itself in the weather, and it made sense to jumpstart the season right. She sprayed a few tufts of the intoxicating scent she liked to refer to as 'old reliable'. Its light vanilla, woodsy notes paired beautifully on her pulse points and always left a vague hint of her in her wake.

She used the same excuse for hair and makeup. She didn't scrimp, doing more than usual work days. Her braids were twisted into a bun, leaving her elegant neck and toned shoulders completely exposed. She tossed on some mascara, rose pink lip color and dusted some blush on her cheekbones. Her smirk widened.

Downstairs, she found Andre at the kitchen table with her mother. Mama Coco was a highly diabetic, 61-year-old woman shrinking to the point she was only a head or so taller than Andre. Her diminutive size and illness made her a wolf in sheep's clothing. The woman had moxie for every day of the year and then some. Widowed a few years ago, she'd moved into the small guest house in Rick and Michonne's house, and when the divorce happened, Rick got the dogs and Carl while Michonne got Andre and Coco.

"Who did you fancy yourself up for?" Mama Coco simpered over coffee. "Are you going to work today or a date?"

Michonne no longer needed the artificial blush coloring her cheeks as her deep complexion instead flushed. Andre turned his eyes onto her also, his young curiosity piqued at the sight of his mother dolled up.

"Mommy, you look pretty," he said. "Is that for daddy?"

She almost choked. Mama Coco's eyebrows rose and she sipped her coffee to avoid a laugh.

"No. It's spring. It's for me," said Michonne. She stopped in the kitchen and busied herself with the dishes. "Andre, are those Sugar O's? Remember what I said?"

"Yeah…" he mumbled in a pout. "Sugar O's are for Saturdays only."

"That's right. That's a warning. Next time it's no desert after dinner."

"Aw, hell, a lil' sugar never hurt nobody," said Mama Coco.

Michonne's scolding shifted from her son to her mother as she said, "mom, don't think I didn't see those two sugar packets you just snuck into your coffee. Also…swear jar."

"What?" the 61-year-old said. "Since when is…" she shot a glance to Andre's innocent, gawking face. "Since when does H.E. double hockey sticks count? Shoot, I say that all day every day."

"Then that jar should be full by now," snickered Michonne. She turned off the faucet and dried her hands as her eyes shot to the clock. "We better get going, Peanut. Grab your lava lamp and your suitcase."

"So the boys are really gonna be with Gerri for three days, huh?" Mama Coco said. There was a distinct distaste to her tone.

The longstanding rivalry between the two elderly women for the title 'favorite granny' was one Michonne didn't think would end any time soon.

She rolled her eyes and said, "yes, mom, she's their grandmother too."

"Well, we're gonna have the time of our lives when it's my turn," said Mama Coco. She rose to open her arms to Andre, to which he hurried in for a goodbye hug. "Forget all that science crap. We're gonna go on a wilderness adventure—doesn't that sound fun?"

"Wow, can't wait!" Andre exclaimed, wide-eyed.

"Mom, stop it," said Michonne in a groan as she steered Andre for the door. "Also…swear jar!"

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

Rick took a hot shower first thing in the morning. He stepped out, lightly toweled off then wrapped the thick terry material about his waist. Clearing off some fog from the mirror, he appraised the thick beard sported across his face and along his upper neck. He usually trimmed, but looking at his reflection, he decided today should be different.

He fumbled for the electric razor in the drawer under the sink. The buzz filled the steamy room as chunks of scruff gathered in the sink below.

In no time he was completely clean-shaven for the first time in 9 months.

Aftershave slapped on and sink cleared, he moved into the bedroom to dress. Soon as he donned his blue-and-white button down and denim, he wrenched the door open and walked down the hall to Carl's room.

The boy sat with his legs crossed on the floor and a game controller in his hands. His fingers moved dizzily over the buttons.

"Carl," Rick said.

The game on the TV screen drowned him out. Rick glanced over and saw rocket ships, lasers and outer space. There was an explosion as Carl landed a hit on an alien aircraft. He whooped the air.

"Carl!" Rick said, walking to the TV and pressing the 'power' button.

"Dad! Are you nuts? I finally reached level 11," the boy cried in horror.

"Time for breakfast. Head downstairs. Your mother and Dre are coming by."

The father and son hardly dug into their oatmeal by the time the doorbell chimed. Carl leapt out his seat and made it to the front door in record time. Rick came up the rear to find Carl was too excited to wait for him. He'd tugged open the door and tackled his mother and younger brother. The three-way hug lasted for seconds on end as Rick watched in the background.

"Missed you so much, mom!" Carl's scrawny arms tightened around Michonne.

"Missed you too, Pickle."

Then, as if on cue, it was Dre's turn to ambush Rick. The 50-pound soaking wet kid launched himself at his father. Rick easily caught him with a bark of laughter. He didn't let being spun in the air by his father deter him from his nosy questions, firing off about anything which came to mind.

The time came where Rick set Dre onto his feet and Michonne and Carl finished chatting. The two boys disappeared in a flash, zooming upstairs to bond over Carl's video games before either parent could protest. In their absence, a cautionary silence hung between them and their averted eyes.

Rick rubbed his nape. "Thanks for bringing him a day early. Mama G'll be by tomorrow morning to pick 'em up."

"It's no problem…"

"Do you, uh…do you want some coffee?"

"No thanks. I should probably get going," said Michonne, though she didn't move a muscle. Instead her eyes roved over the familiar foyer, with its leafy plant life, oak table topped with knickknacks and the family photos on the muted gray walls. Even the 'welcome mat' beneath her feet. Her brown orbs finally landed back to Rick, soon teamed with a smirk. "You shaved?"

Rick's neck splotched. He said, "yeah. This morning. Figured it's…you know, uh, it's spring."

He knew this woman as intensely as he knew the back of his hand, and so when the corner of her lips twitched, he knew she wanted to laugh. He felt his features twist in his attempt to decipher what was amusing, but quickly gave up as she seemed to swallow the laugh. The curve to her full lips disappeared to his chagrin.

"How are things?" she asked with a clear of her throat.

He was surprised when she moved, starting down the hall for the kitchen. He paused on the spot, grinning himself as he watched her right a portrait hanging only slightly askew. It was as he moved to follow that her wonderful scent hit his nostrils and reeled him into the past. His eyes narrowed, his legs functioning at last with each footfall of his boots.

"Things are good," he answered. "Carl is excited to spend Spring Break with Mama G and Dre."

"Dre hasn't stopped talking about it."

"How's Mama Coco handling it?"

Michonne snuck him a glance over her shoulder. She stopped at the kitchen island and said, "guess."

That was all he needed to know to illicit a chuckle out of him. The two 60-something-year-old women were hellbent on their rivalry. Though it mostly exasperated Michonne, it tickled him to no end.

"Mom's been telling Dre she's taking him and Carl on a hunt for Sasquatch," Michonne went on. She joined in on his laugh.

"Mama G's convinced Carl they're going on a road trip to NASA."

For a brief moment the two shook their heads, gazes met with eyes alight, and they shared in their incredulity over their mother's outlandish promises. It was almost as if the past few years were erased. The days after everything soured, back when they were still intent on making things work. It passed before Rick was ready to let go of it, gone when Michonne's soft features sharpened to what he recognized all too familiarly to be her 'game face'. Her tone changed as well, from what he thought of as her 'comfy home' voice to the firm, robust one she used on the job.

"Pete Anderson," she said abruptly. "His murder—it's part of our ongoing investigation. Whitlow and I are the leads."

Rick felt his jaw lock up. He was certain she picked up on it. His nostrils flared as he tried to stifle his own work temper kicking in.

"We might need Williams and you to assist with interviews and evidence collection, but it's our case," she finished.

"'Til it comes from my Captain, I'm the lead on Anderson," snapped Rick.

Her lips spread patronizingly. She said, "you can be stubborn if you want. I was giving you a heads up. Our Captains talked. It's been decided."

"And it's been two weeks—how's the investigation going?"

"Fuck you," she said, pompous smile wiped off her face. "We're coming off a 22-year-old cold case. Can you do any better?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I think I can. And I am."

They'd abandoned the opposing sides of the kitchen island to gravitate toward each other, both heated and blinded by the stubbornness which had taken root and steadfastly expanded. Never one to let him get the last word, Michonne opened her mouth for a retort he knew would sting. Frenzied pounding on the door interrupted her. The divorced couple forgot about their fight as their heads swiveled toward the hall.

Rick went first with Michonne not far on his trail. He almost wanted to grab his Python with how frantic the fists beat against the door. He peeked out the oblong window beside the front door then he turned the knob to yank it open.

"Mr. Grimes," said Angela Cane, the church's charity organizer. She was shaking and her horn-rimmed glasses were crooked. "It's the Peletier's! I…I was going door-to-door handing out charity pamphlets and…he's beating her again!"

This time Rick did grab his pistol. He was out the door in another two seconds. Michonne came too, after she called to Carl and Andre to stay put, and for Carl to be in charge.

The blonde scurried alongside them in choppy footsteps as she panicked, saying, "he slammed the door, but I saw what he was doing—I heard her cries."

Rick made it past the Peletier's mailbox before the commotion inside the home reached his ears. Something weighty and easily breakable like ceramic shattered and a man's bellow entered the air as a precursor to a woman's sob. He wasted no time with the door, kicking it open with the heel of his boot, and rushed inside.

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

While Michonne no longer lived in her home in Alexandria with Rick and Carl and across the street from the Peletier's, she still abhorred Ed. On more than one occasion she'd attempted to coax Carol to take Sophia and leave the drunken, abusive brute. Also, on more than one occasion did Ed try to intimate her as he did with most women. Unfortunately for him, Michonne was not only difficult to intimidate, she wasn't most women. She refused to let the piece of shit bully anyone as long as she was around, to include his battered, broken wife Carol.

Rushing into the Peletier home alongside Rick was a callback to a couple years ago, on an evening where she'd caught wind of Ed's abuses and gone to check on the shaky housewife, only to be confronted by Ed. What Ed did not know was that she was more than proficient in self-defense, trained thoroughly to deescalate most dangerous situations. He'd charged at her and ended up with his arm twisted behind his back and his head banged into the wall. That was before she drew her firearm and ordered him to his knees. Before Rick was home and almost went over for round two with the scumbag.

So, the second she crossed the threshold into the Peletier home, she was ready to do whatever necessary to save Carol and the traumatized 10-year-old Sophia. Ed dropped the book in his hands, which he seemed to be using to beat his wife over the back with, and spun around at the sight of a raging Rick busting into his home. He ran toward him like a red-tempered bull and Rick wasted no time bringing out his Python to keep him in check.

Michonne and Angela swooped in to grab a bloodied Carol as she cowered on the floor. Michonne directed the blonde to take the cowering wife outside. She needed to both grab Sophia and back up Rick in the tense domestic violence standoff. She found the bony10-year-old shrinking in a closet corner, hands clasped to her ears and tears streamed down her face. With the young girl ushered outside into Angela's waiting arms, Michonne dashed back into the living room to find Ed planted face down in the carpet. His arms were behind his back and Rick was on top of him, offering zero gentility as he smacked cuffs on his wrists hard enough to bruise.

"C'mon, you fucking scumbag," Rick growled. He yanked him to his feet with what would be considered excessive force, but nobody present pitied Ed to protest.

Except Ed Peletier himself, who exclaimed in a fit of lingered anger about the cuffs being too tight.

"Yeah? Well, that's what happens when you're a piece of shit, you piece of shit," Rick retorted.

Though the situation was bleak, Michonne couldn't help smirking as she listened to her ex-husband. She loved to see him in the moment, to see his unbridled devotion and heart on the job. To be perfectly honest, it's what had drawn her to him so many years ago, as they navigated the academy together and later the wickets of the Alexandria Police Department…

Carol's gut-wrenching sobs interrupted her nostalgia. She snapped back into work mode and went outside to check on the beaten victim.

"I'm o-okay. I'm okay," she stuttered in a cry, busted lip and all. "W-Where are you taking Ed? Where are you taking him? I'm okay!"

"Shhhh…Mrs. Peletier, please let the police do their job," said Angela. "Ed deserves to pay and he will."

"Where are you taking him?" Carol screamed to Rick, who walked Ed across the street to his car.

"Carol, Angela's right. Please allow Detective Grimes to do his job," said Michonne. "Can you walk? I'm going to drive you to the emergency room."

"Ed!" Carol cried desperately.

"Can you?" Michonne asked the horn-rimmed, bespectacled blonde. She was referencing Sophia. Luckily Angela understood, nodding and escorting the young girl out of earshot. "Carol, please you need medical attention. Let me take you by choice. It's easier that way."

"I'm fine…I'm okay…" the silver-haired woman slowly dropped to her knees on her front drive, indifferent as to which neighbors heard or saw.

It wouldn't be the first time Ed was hauled away and she'd cried openly and bloodily on the streets.

Michonne sighed, knelt and put her arm around the woman. She said softly, "we're going to go. C'mon, easy does it. I got you."

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

"Wowww."

"Oh, shut up."

Michonne was an hour and 36 minutes late meeting Mike. It was a first. She pulled up in her rav4 and picked Mike out even from the corner of her eye. He was reclined on the hood of one of the D.C.P.D patrol cars, wolfing down a croissant from the bakery across the street. She parked, slammed the door for effect, and strode toward him with the pure energy of a woman not to be trifled with.

That didn't stop him from a little teasing. When she told him to shut up, he had a dimpled smile on deck to give. Then he said offhandedly, "just worried about you, partner. What was the hold up?"

"Domestic dispute. I was in the area."

"Lemme guess. Alexandria? Rick? Dropping Dre off?" he said, a step behind her. "That must've been a cool callback to your guy's rookie days. Too bad those are over."

Though there was a tinge of truth, his comment was difficult to interpret. Spoken casually, even with a chuckle hinted to follow, she knew better than to be so naïve to believe that was all. There was a definite underscore of jealousy. Some strange male territorial thing she'd sensed before in other men, Rick included. She chose to ignore it in Mike for the time being, the investigation at hand more prominent.

The campaign office of Reginald Monroe was a stucco building caught between a small-time law firm and a branch of Alexandria City Bank. Mike hovered over her as she pulled the glass door open and waltzed inside unannounced. The receptionist at the desk yammered away on the phone with an earpiece, busying herself with stapling paperwork and sorting them into stacks. She looked up lukewarmly at Michonne and Mike until her hazel eyes caught a glimpse of the gold clipped to their belts. She hung up and sat up immediately.

"Officers," she said. She flashed a smile. "What can I do for you?"

"In light of what happened to Mr. Monroe, we're here to speak with a few of his associates," said Michonne. "We were also hoping to have a look around his office."

The pixie-cut receptionist's smile went to a frown in a hot second. She said, "don't you need a…what are those things called?"

"Warrant?" Mike helped.

"Yeah, one of those," she said with a snap of her fingers and smack of her gum.

Michonne glanced at her nametag and then softened. "Francine, is it? We're trying to catch whoever murdered Mr. Monroe in cold blood. We're not here to dig up dirt on him, or anyone who worked for him. Are there any employees here who may be able to answer a few questions? A campaign manager? Advisor?"

The glass door opened for the second time in minutes. Michonne recognized the two men walking into the office straightaway. They were Aiden and Spencer Monroe, and they were Reginald's only sons. Both men were pretty boys, but the younger of the two—Spencer—looked like he'd walked freshly out of a Hollister billboard. Meanwhile, Aiden promptly established himself as the mouthpiece between the brothers.

"Hello, I'm Aiden Monroe. I suppose it's obvious why you're here," he said smartly. "What can I do for you, officers?"

Aiden led them into what they assumed was Reginald's office. The building itself didn't look like much from the outside, but Reginald had spared little expense when he'd slapped together his big campaign office. The room was oval-shaped and along the curved walls were heavy-handed stocks of books on half a dozen shelves. The furnishings themselves were crème colored, curled and big. His desk was almost presidential in size with a giant window behind to go with it. Aiden offered drinks from the minibar, to which they both declined. He started pouring brown liquor anyway.

"We're very sorry for your loss," said Michonne. She'd opted to stand even after the sofa offer.

"Our hearts are heavy. I keep pinching myself, but I don't wake up."

"When was the last time you saw them?" Mike asked.

"Saturday afternoon," said Aiden. Into the ridged glass he poured three fingers of malt whiskey. The 40-year-old Dalmore came with a hefty price tag. "Detectives, we're a normal family. We eat dinner together almost every evening. We take vacations together. Family photos. Game nights. You know, like everybody else. I have no clue who would want to hurt my mother or my father."

"We have reason to believe the main target was your father," said Michonne.

Aiden took a belt of the whiskey then let out a rumbled sigh. "My father spent over two decades making a name for himself in the D.C. courts. He's put away so many bad guys over the years. Maybe one of them wanted revenge?"

"It's possible," said Mike. He rubbed his smooth chin, lacking tact. "But, uh, explain the briefcase."

"Briefcase?"

"C'mon, Aiden, the briefcase. There was 10K inside."

Aiden balked. The rest of the whiskey disappeared down his throat. He said, "my parents were good people, detective. I'm not going to stand around and let you imply anything else. Maybe we're done here?"

"We're not implying your parents weren't good people, Mr. Monroe," said Michonne with the save. She furtively snuck Mike an agitated glance. "We'd just like to know if you knew of anyone who might have had a motive to harm them."

"Um, there might be somebody."

Michonne, Mike and Aiden had forgotten about the fourth person in the room. Spencer stood in the doorway with both his hands dug into his lightweight cypress green shorts. He almost backed down when the six eyes landed on him, particularly his brother's pointed glare.

"Who?"

"Semester ended early so I came home a day sooner than usual. You know, spring break and stuff. I thought nobody was home, but then I heard shouting in the den. It was dad and another guy. That Negan Johnson," said Spencer, voice strained. "They've worked together a lot because of the campaign. That guy is always donating, but…he, uh, he told my dad he was going to pay for the shit he pulled. His exact words, detectives. I didn't know what it meant, but now…"

Aiden surprisingly refrained from chastising his brother, though his displeasure was paramount. The malt whiskey tapered his temper as he focused on fixing another round. Michonne and Mike left the brothers to their own devices shortly thereafter, fully expecting the two to implode the second they set foot outside.

"What do you think?" Mike asked her.

She was driver, he was passenger, and they were coasting along a quiet Alexandrian street. Their eventual destination was the precinct, but not before they mulled over their visit with the Monroe sons.

"They were night and day," said Michonne. "Which is normal for grieving, but Aiden obviously wanted us to think mommy and daddy were saints."

"Yeah, his whole 'normal' family thing? What the fuck?"

"Negan Johnson isn't someone I'd want donating to my campaign if I ran for office. He's big business in a small town—corrupt on top of that," said Michonne. "I'm guessing he donated for the Savior Society."

"What's that?"

"His charity he claims helps the disenfranchised. He's always hosting galas to raise funds, but it's all a pyramid scheme for making more money. Alexandria P.D. have been trying to crack down on him for a while now. Most of the wealthier people in town are members," said Michonne. "Engineers, lawyers, accountants—"

"—doctors?"

"Doctors," she said. Then she smirked at the brawny man beside her. "You know, Whitlow, sometimes you're smarter than you look."

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

"You smell different," Ty said. His nostrils flexed wide then narrow as he inhaled the scent tacked onto Rick's usual aftershave, soap combo. "You smell…pretty. What's that about?"

Rick chuckled, going red. He didn't offer anything more than that.

Ty knew, remarking, "the ex. I gotta say, now that I've met her…she's, uh, she's…"

"A handful," Rick finished for him.

"What kinda handful?" Tyrese's eyes lit up, eager for the details.

Rick shook his head as the two partners stood in the precinct's locker room and changed.

"Not that kinda handful," he said. "That ain't mine to fill my hands with. Not anymore. I mean, she came by the house to drop off my youngest."

"Oh." Tyrese's disappointment was palpable. He shrugged it off as he tugged on his t-shirt. "Guess I was hoping one of us was getting lucky with the ex—god knows ain't shit going down with me and Karen."

"Count me and Michonne as being in the same boat," said Rick. "Anyway, Peletier beat the shit outta Carol again, so that's what's been tying up my morning. Anything new with Anderson?"

"Nope," said Ty. "But the Captain wants to see us in her office."

Dawn Lerner waited for them the instant they tapped their knuckles to her door. She called for them to enter in her subdued, monotoned voice. When they did, she sat behind a large desk covered with the precinct's fanciest, most expensive office equipment. Rick had come to believe the state-of-the-art computer and scanner were distractions from the fact that Captain Lerner hardly worked.

"You wanted to see us?" he asked.

"Yes. Pete Anderson's death," she said matter-of-factly. "Tragic as it may be for the community, it's out of our hands."

"What do you mean?" Tyrese grumbled.

"I mean, Williams, this is primarily assigned to D.C.P.D. It's believed to be connected to a cold case they invested two decades ago. Detectives Masson and Whitlow are the leads on this. They will be in touch with you as local respondents to Anderson's murder scene. You are to provide them whatever information, assistance and backup they need. Is that clear?" she explained.

"With all due respect, Captain," said Rick. "This asshole has been on the loose for the past two weeks, and the D.C.P.D. haven't covered much ground. It'd prolly be more useful if we followed up on Anderson's—"

"—Grimes, did you hear me the first time?" she asked.

"Yes…ma'am…" he hesitated.

"Then can I ask are you confused?"

"No."

"That settles that then, correct?" she said, shuffling an arbitrary stack of papers. "If you have nothing else for me, you're dismissed."

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

Upon their return to the station, Michonne and Mike discovered their first real connection between the five Sins victims. It came after they researched Reginald Monroe's campaign, Negan Johnson's charity, and the citizens in the local area who were contributors to both. Scanning the dual monitors for names on either registry ended with an exchange of grins between them.

"Vatos. Grove. Peterson," said Mike. "The Monroe's."

"They're members, all of them," said Michonne.

"Sounds like Johnson's crib is our next visit."

"Or," she said with the brightness of an imaginary lightbulb above her head, "we can try something different."

"Explain."

"The next Savior charity dinner is tomorrow night. What if we snagged invites? It would give us a firsthand look of what's going on with this society," said Michonne.

"Cool…but how are we getting invites?"

"Leave that to me," said Michonne. "After we run it by Douglas."

"Lady. Gent."

Michonne and Mike looked up to find M.E. Eugene Porter hovering as awkwardly as always by the edges of their desks. Mike had little patience for the socially inept medical examiner. Michonne was slightly more forgiving, usually attempting civility with the mullet-clad man before she let her temper settle.

"Porter, whatchu got for us?" Mike asked, leaning back in his chair. The stress ball in his hand was tossed into the air then caught.

"As per usual, performing my assigned duties—trying to suss out the finds from these latest crime scene debacles," Eugene answered, face deadpan.

"And…?"

"And we might as well be on a man hunt chasing down Casper the Friendly Ghost," he said. He held out a manila folder for Michonne to take. "What I've found is that both were gruesomely done in by said Ghost on the 30th day of March, but I'm under the assumption you both already knew that much."

"Porter, can you get to the deets?" Mike sighed.

"The deets?" Eugene frowned. "Detective, you're lucky I have a flair for new age talk given my younger brother has an affinity for text abbreviations. That's right, I know L.O.L. and S.M.H. like the rest of you."

"Porter…"

"What you might find of interest," he said, pointing to the page Michonne was on. "The angle at which the bullet launched into Deanna Monroe's chest cavity suggests a self-inflected gunshot wound."

"Self-inflicted?" Michonne glanced to Mike then Eugene. "As in, she shot herself?"

"Unless Casper is the guru of all gurus at staging tell-tale signs of a suicide shot, Mrs. Monroe fired at a contact range that left gun residue and a burn mark. The distance the bullet traveled and the aforementioned angle at the time she used her trigger finger tells me she killed herself," he explained. His thin, colorless lips snuck a slight curl in. "Here's the fascinating part, po-po. Another term I learned thanks to Darius, my younger brother."

"Porter!"

"Continuing. Deanna Monroe shot herself before Reginald Monroe's fatal stab wound," said Eugene. "Take from that determination what you will, detectives, but it appears Reginald watched her blow herself to smithereens then stumble into the water basin before he succumbed to stab wounds."

The M.E. finished reporting his finds on the Monroe murder then moved on to Anderson's. By the time he wrapped up the porch dick doctor's strangulation, Michonne and Mike returned to the revelation Deanna Monroe had shot herself.

"Sounds like the Sins a-hole might've held Reg at knife point," said Mike. "Given some kinda ultimatum."

"Pairs with the Greed angle. Maybe he made them choose," said Michonne. "The other vics, Anderson included, have been killed alone—in the privacy of their homes. T.O.D. gives him enough time to make it to Alexandria too."

"Nobody reports seeing anyone out of place on Anderson's street. You think the killer lives nearby?"

"It's possible," said Michonne. "Sins coerced Deanna to shoot herself, stabbed Reginald, then went home to Alexandria but his spree wasn't over. Pete was home."

Mike tossed the stress ball into the air again, squeezing it upon catch. He said, "and naked. We sure we're after a dude?"

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

Captain Lerner assigned Rick and Tyrese to a foul play case involving the death of a bank teller. The two obeyed initially, starting the late morning off listening to the apathetic Captain's wishes. They followed through with investigating the death before they meandered off on their own, mostly at Rick's suggestion. He cajoled Tyrese into a stop by Jessie Anderson's house.

The wailing blonde was as distraught and weepy as ever. She burst into tears as soon as they turned up on her doorstep. They sat down on the cushion's edge of her sofa and watched her fall to pieces with crumpled tissues in her hands. She sniffled and blew her pinkened nose when they eventually tiptoed into asking questions.

According to Jessie, Pete had a rampant sex addiction. His obsession with sex had only deepened over the years of their marriage, as his proclivities deepened and darkened past her comfort level. She claimed his kinkier tastes paired with her pregnancies brought on the infidelity. By the time Sam was in third grade, he was a regular cheater and she'd had enough when a mistress showed to a parent-teacher conference. That brought on the divorce. His addiction only spiraled after.

"Know the names of any of his mistresses?" Rick asked.

"Half the local area," sobbed Jessie. "He liked them young, brunette and-and bouncy. Nothing like me."

She broke off in another loud wail, sounding distantly like a siren gone awry. Rick and Ty exchanged looks.

"How'd he meet 'em?" Ty asked curiously.

Jessie dabbed at her eyes, her tears suddenly halting. She said, "he had his ways. When we were married he'd meet hookers at motels. Have phone sex by calling those weird late night numbers. Lately, since we've divorced, I hear…I hear he's been less discreet. He's been scooping them up anywhere he can. One of the girls at the church charity. He was always with her."

"Her name?"

"I don't know," Jessie said. "But she's got long dark hair and she 'bounces', detectives. What more do you want?"

Rick and Tyrese knew there wasn't much else to be gleaned off Jessie's hysteria, and so they bounced themselves. They hopped in their squad car and drove to a liquor store parking lot for privacy. There, they ruminated over what details they'd gathered from the ex-wife. Ty seemed to think there was a definite envious edge to Jessie's words.

"You hear how she talked about those chicks and their 'bounce'?" he asked. "Sounded like she was pissed she wasn't what he wanted."

"Yeah, but if you're going where I think you are, envy's been covered. That's where Lizzie Grove fits in," said Rick. "Lust hasn't been. Guy had a sex addiction. It fits."

"Maybe Sins is doing a combo."

"Combo?" Rick grinned. "He's doing combos now?"

They decided to hit up the church in search of the youthful, bouncy brunette Jessie spoke of. Right at the door to the recreational side of the revered building they were greeted by Mary Hunter. Her face and voice were gracious, but Rick didn't miss the underlying suspicion at play. He detected it every time she believed his back was turned. Each footstep she followed them further into the open-spaced recreational room.

"We're currently collecting toys for tots," Mary said sweetly. "I know you're here on official business, detectives, but would you like to make a donation?"

"Maybe another day."

"Then may I ask what I can assist you with?"

"We're looking for a list of your volunteers," said Rick, turning to face her.

Mary's flat, pleasant face twitched. She said, "officers, I don't think I can provide that info. Our volunteers might wish to remain anonymous."

"We wouldn't ask if we didn't need it," Tyrese said.

"I understand that, but we're a family here," said Mary with a widening smile. "I'd feel quite strange giving out their private details."

"Mary, Detective Grimes is only trying to help," said Angela Cane, coming up from behind. The blonde straightened her horn-rimmed glasses and placed a hand to the older brunette's shoulder. "Thanks for responding to the Peletier's this morning."

"Don't mention it. It's what I'm around for," said Rick.

"We can get them a list of names. That's hardly private information," said Angela, nodding.

Mary bristled, lips tight. "I suppose that's alright. Just the names."

"Right," said Rick, looking between the two. "Names are all we need. We can go from there on our own."

"Follow me then," said Mary stiffly. She did her best to hide her glare to Angela to no avail as she turned to lead the two into the charity's main office. "I'll print you off a list of everyone who's volunteered for the last six weeks. That should help."

Rick and Tyrese looked to one another again, communicating silently before they followed in the normally cordial brunette's lead.

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

Michonne snagged the invite she sought. Thanks to long-time pal Jackie Montgomery, who was also a donator, she copped the invitation to the Savior Charity Gala on Tuesday. It was a plus one 1000 dollar a plate dinner, which meant Mike could come along. Once they had the approval of Captain Douglas, Mike wouldn't let her hear the end of it.

"You fancy, huh?" he chuckled. "First date taking me out on a grand a plate dinner? Damn, Masson!"

Michonne rolled her eyes. "Do you ever shut up, Whitlow? It's not a date. You can thank the department for the thousand-dollar meal."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say. Just wear something good, alright?" he said. His wink at her made her stomach drop. "I'll pick you up at seven."

The exchange was on her mind the entire drive home. Through rush-hour traffic, she thought about Mike's flirtation. It was difficult not to. He had a way of penetrating even the chilliest dispositions. Her partner's grin and wink were on her mind when she walked into her home and discovered Dre's bluish green lava lamp on the kitchen counter. She sighed.

Ten minutes later she was back on the road, this time headed to Alexandria. The lava lamp was her only passenger. She almost turned back three or four times, telling herself Dre would have to explain to his grandmother he'd forgotten his science project. Then his tiny brown face popped into her head, disappointed frown and all, and she couldn't let him go away for the break without the evidence of his hard work and cleverness.

Michonne paused as she parked against the curb to her old home. The lights were on and Rick's truck was in the drive. It was half past nine. The boys were likely getting ready for bed. She pulled the key out the ignition, inhaled a breath to gain bravery, and pushed open the driver side door. At the doorstep, she rang the bell.

Rick answered almost immediately. He seemed surprised to see her. His curiosity played out on his face, lined brow and 'o' shaped lips, and his blue eyes lowered to the lamp in her hands. He nodded and stepped aside to let her in.

"I had to bring it by," she explained. "I know he'd be upset if he couldn't show Mama G."

"Thanks. You want me to go wake him?"

"He's asleep?"

"They were so excited to be together again they wasted all their energy by dinner time," said Rick. "They both passed out by the time eight came."

"Oh. Then don't. I should go anyway. Tomorrow's an early one. Douglas wants us in by seven."

Rick shuffled in his stance, a hand on his waist as he gave a nod. He asked, "any luck on the Sins case?"

"Not really," she sighed. "It's the blind leading the blind right now."

"If y'all need any help—"

"—we don't," she interrupted. Then she loosened slightly, voice gentler. "Not right now. Thanks though."

"Take what you want from it, but Ty and I did some digging today," Rick said. "Talked to Jessie Anderson. Went by the church 'cuz she claimed one of his mistresses volunteered there. We found a couple names that match her description."

"Does your Captain know?" Michonne's eyebrows rose.

Rick's features screwed up dismissively as he said, "no, and she doesn't need to? But if y'all are gonna insist on taking the case—"

"—we didn't insist. It's ours, period," she snapped. "Is this going somewhere? Are you going to give me the names, or are you trying to hold them over my head?"

"You can have 'em," Rick said gruffly. "Guess I won't try to help again."

"Good," Michonne said. "Whitlow and I are doing fine. We've found a lead in the Savior charity. We're going to their charity dinner tomorrow night."

"You are?" Rick's free hand joined his other on his waist. His blue eyes shrunk as his gaze narrowed.

Michonne recognized the overt signs. She rolled her eyes and said, "yes, we are. Together."

"Well…" Rick's jaw clenched and his boot dug into the floorboard. "I'm sure y'all will make sure to enjoy yourselves."

"Why do you do this?" she asked exasperatedly. "You always do this!"

"I haven't done or said anything."

"Yeah, because I don't know you and your microaggressions," she said. "He's my partner, Rick. We're going to be on the job. But, either way, it's none of your business."

"Never said it was," he drawled.

"Glad you know, because you seem to think it is," she said heatedly. "Maybe you should get out more—stop worrying about what I'm doing. I don't care if you move on. I hear Jessie Anderson's single."

Michonne watched his hard bite on his jaw. She knew he was holding back from what he wanted to say. His temper was on the cusp, raring to go off and chomp back with words that left her collecting breath out of insult.

"I don't want Jessie Anderson," he said simply, with clear restraint. "But I do think we're done here, so I guess that means you can go."

"You're right, we are. It's useless," she said. There were a couple seconds which followed where they shifted gears between their contempt and their civility. She exhaled deeply. "Tell Mama G I'm grateful she's spending Spring Break with the boys. I'll call her on my day off."

"Will do."

"Have a…a good night," she said uncertainly. Her posture straightened and her grip on her purse strap tightened. "I'll see you in a few days."

"Right," Rick said slowly.

Her eyes followed his veined forearm as it extended and his large, strong hands wrapped around the doorknob, and she hated she was distracted even for the briefest second. He glanced at her as he stood aside, his face blank. He told her, "text me when you get home."

On the drive back into D.C., Michonne wanted to bang her head against the steering wheel. For whatever reason, over the last two years, she'd quickly adopted a defensive approach whenever the slightest disagreement sprung up with Rick. She'd somehow normalized the behavior to the point it was a gut reaction whenever she dealt with him. Long-term, she knew it spelled disaster, particularly if they intended on the peaceful co-parenting of their sons. Yet, as soon as she faced him, she couldn't help herself.

She vowed as she delved deeper into the D.C. streets to do better next time. To finally, maybe, bring an end to the stilted interactions they'd endured for the last couple years, and instead foster a genuine truce.

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

Rick wasn't big on beer, but after Michonne left, he popped the tab on a fresh can in the kitchen. Half of the can was gone before he stopped. He planted his palms flat against the marbled countertop and let out a deep-bellied exhale. When he retraced the steps that was their latest interaction it wasn't hard to pinpoint where they'd veered off-road.

Ultimately, they were both responsible. He knew her defensiveness was born out of his jealousy. He'd willed his green-eyed tendencies to wane, but he'd had no such luck. Even after 9 months apart, he still found himself uncomfortable with the idea of Michonne out for the night with another man. The thought of her going out for a fancy dinner with Mike Whitlow, supposedly under the guise of a homicide investigation, left his chest so tight his heart struggled to break free for a full beat.

He didn't trust Whitlow as far as he could throw him to not use the night to his advantage. As some sort of excuse to flirt excessively, worm his way into her good graces. The jackass had had his eye on her from day one...

He pictured the two dressed to the nines amongst other hoity toity snobs, guzzling champagne, sharing laughs and dances, and coming close as they pretended to be a couple. The mere thought of Whitlow's arm snaked around Michonne's waist made his eyes clench shut. His fingers dug into his lids as they also pinched his nose's bridge.

For the thousandth time he reminded himself it was none of his business. In the past he had a right to be upset by these sorts of things.

That was then.

No matter how much he regretted the disintegration of their union he no longer had a real claim as to what went on in her life. The notion he'd repeated to himself before. He'd used endlessly to convince himself to move on, but it was easier said than done.

Rick drained the last of his beer then went upstairs to check on the boys. Both Carl and Andre were sound asleep in their bunks. The rocket ship shaped nightlight was on to appease Dre. He smiled as he observed his two sons dozing, nestled between their blankets and pillows. He couldn't help thinking of the days Michonne was by his side. The two of them loved to sneak in on the boys and watch them sleep just before they drifted off to bed themselves.

He sighed and gently pulled the door to a close. His bow-legged stride in full-effect, he retired to the master bedroom with the Savior Charity gala on his mind.

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

Peanut gone, Mama Coco in bed, Michonne slowly closed the door to her bathroom. It was perhaps her favorite time of the night. Her nightly showers and baths were the time she afforded herself to unwind freely. She slipped out of her clothes and turned up the glassy knobs until the water was a couple notches under scalding.

Tonight, she'd indulge in a long, piping hot shower to help loosen tight muscles and strains. In no time the bathroom became shrouded in a white cloud. She stepped into the shower back-splashed with blue mosaic tiling and doused her bath sponge with a corpus amount of body wash. Suds were rampant as she positioned herself under the running water, eyes closed and mind overloaded.

She told herself to let it go. Forget the job, the stressors, the Sins asshole lurking somewhere just out of sight. To forget the other difficulties weighing on her, as her stop to drop off Andre's lava lamp replayed itself for the tenth time in an hour. She shook it off with steadying breaths that lulled her thoughts into calmer territory in no time.

Michonne bit down on her bottom lip, suddenly overcome. Her mind drifted to a fantasy she'd let sink in from time to time. A harmless distraction, Mike's brawny body sprang to the forefront. His 6'2", 215 lbs sculpted body appeared as vividly as ever under her closed lids, his biceps curled as they peaked out from under his short-sleeve.

Water falling heavily from above, she was wet in more ways than one.

Her hand blindly searched for the shower head, releasing it from its hook. What was a persistent stream cascading over her became a tantalizing, torturous gush of water aimed strategically between her thighs. The intense pressure felt so good on initial contact she let out an automatic moan before she even returned to her fantasy.

When she did, the imagery went a step further. She imagined she wasn't alone. The glass doors opened and through the foggy haze, Mike entered. His lips spread and her eyes traversed down his godlike physique, dipping lower with a bated breath until he stepped forth and pinned her against the ceramic tile.

Gaze no more as her lids fluttered to a close, heavy hands cupped her breasts. Large and roughly padded with a firm hold that left her leaning her curvy body into his grip. A grip that was beyond familiar, one she'd recognize any time or day of the year. She fought the notion, determined to stick to her original fantasy, but sure enough his knowing kneads were too vivid to give up.

The water was a hot and unrelenting presence against her pussy as her imagination envisioned Rick's hands. His strong and attentive hands she'd always loved and admired, roaming all over her body. She could never get enough of his worshipping touch.

Hands travelling so did the shower head. The massage of the water on her flesh was Rick. The hard streams his fingers working her over, coupled with his lips kissing her throat, suckling her breasts, taking her nipples between his teeth for a tug…

"Ohhh…Rick…" she gasped.

The shower head returned between her legs. Its beat drowned out her moan. The splashing sound became more. She clung to Rick as he pressed her into the wall, water bouncing off their slick skin with every deep thrust of his.

All while his thumb rubbed her clit. The stream substituted against the aching nub, in her mind's eye Rick the source teasing her there, driving her wild. She listened to his grunts, guttural and low in her ear as he pumped into her and her fingers felt the muscles in his back tighten.

Her mouth was open, back arched against the shower tiles as the hot pressure brought her to a paralyzing climax. Magic sparks swirled around her. For longer than she liked to admit, the lines between reality and fantasy blurred, and she convinced herself she really was under Rick's toned body, at his mercy while he fucked her senseless.

The orgasmic tremors subsided and reality subtly set in. Her body stopped quaking, hips rolling, hand clutching her own breast. Drip by drip she realized then that she was alone. She was backed against the tiles with the shower head dipped low against her pussy. Her imagination had run away with her again.

Rick was nowhere to be found. Disappointment scuttled in, but she quickly pushed it back in exchange for pride. She switched off the shower and ran a hand over her face to fully digest how quickly she'd relapsed. No matter how she started her fantasy off, it always ended the same way.

Michonne chided herself, stepping out the shower to dry off. She vowed for the hundredth time in the last 9 months for these nighttime fantasies to be a secret. Something no one else could ever know. Rick most of all.

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

Tuesday night came faster than Michonne anticipated.

Andre was still with Carl and Mama G for Spring Break. Mama Coco was out playing bingo. She was grateful for both. The last thing she wanted was for either to see her getup for the gala. The clingy piece of fabric she'd decided to wear for the dinner hugged her body like a second skin. Black on black, it was tight and sexy. The dress was a masterpiece to behold. The body-con fit and midi-length paired jaw-droppingly with the plunging neckline teasing the perfect bit of cleavage.

Hair and makeup done, dress slunk on, Michonne stopped for a gaze into the oval-shaped mirror latched onto the wall. Her deep brown complexion was embroiled in a hot flush that left her tempted to fan herself. She was conflicted. On one hand it was hard not to feel like a sexy vixen in such a getup. On the other, having gone months without the raw passion and desire of a man, she felt ridiculous and out of her element. Her slacks and sweaters called to her from her closet.

The doorbell's ring put an end to her doubt. Mike was downstairs and it was time to get the show on the road. She slipped on her six-inch heels, grabbed her clutch and was out the door. The only thought on her mind as she walked up to answer the doorbell was a reminder that tonight was work. Nothing else.

Mike was a major flirt, but his antics wouldn't go any further. While he was what most would describe a beefcake, and she'd attempted to use him for fantasy inspiration, she wasn't interested in him in real life in that way.

On the fourth ring, she answered the door and said, "I was going to call you. You're a few minutes late—"

In place of Mike on her doorstep, stood Rick. Dizziness and heart tremors were only two of the shocked side effects she experienced as she stepped back and her eyes went wide.

"Yeah…about that. Mike's sick," Rick said vaguely. He invited himself inside. "He's not coming. But he, uh, he was nice enough to ask me to fill in. You ready?"

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

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! All feedback is welcomed. I hope to stay with Saturday updates, so stay tuned for chapter three next weekend. Chapter three will feature Richonne all fancy and what not as they infiltrate this charity gala together. :)