He parked his truck in front of the only diner in Bethel and climbed out of the car. Having been awake all night, his body strongly demanded coffee and something to eat. He'd used to drinking coffee after he'd gotten out of prison, because the halfway house he was assigned to was a hellhole of the worst kind, full of drug users, alcoholists, desperate and dying convicts that fought, threw up and later cried for their mothers.
Coffee had become handy after that. His own nightmares were a constant companion, and he had learned to deal with them whether it was about his family or the horrors of the war, or more recently, the night of the accident.
Right now, though, he had a job to do, despite the disgusting nature of it, he needed to stay awake and alert, and he would have to start his search after getting some breakfast.
He took in the surroundings of the diner; the parking lot, hair and nail salon, the diner, a bank and a small grocery store, and further down the road, the motel he had a room, something of a city hall with a sheriff's station, and a gas station. Nothing special, just your average small town in the middle of the woods, in the rainy and foggy state of Washington.
It had become his second nature to map the place well enough to be able to plot his course the hell out of dodge if need be. And Bethel had one problem when it came to calculating an escape route. It was impossible to get lost in that town, since after three left turns one would end up back at the starting point. The only road out of town was both easy and predictable, creating a whole slew of other problems, which he tried not to think about.
"Hmhmp," he huffed, not out of disdain but maybe a little sad that he was not in Georgia anymore; hadn't been in a long time, and immediately chastising himself for walking down the memory lane. What could he possibly be wanting from Georgia?
He locked the car door and then turned around and stuffed the keys into his pocket. He glanced around, noticing that the two cars near him weren't locked, and it reminded him of that dingy, old town where he had been raised. Chewing his cheek he interrupted himself from going down the memory lane and made his way to the diner's door.
King's Diner and Bar read on the door, and on the windows, as well as up on the light fixture on the roof.
It seemed decent enough, though. Maybe he could pump some information from the waitresses if they were in a mood for chit-chatting his ears off.
A lifetime ago he was able to get information just by listening to people. Unfortunately now, getting that same information required him to cozy up and pal around with people. It was hell.
In reality, he wasn't much of a talker. He hadn't been a chatterbox when he was a detective, having left most of the talking to his partner, but now, he was practically a mute.
He opened the door, and heard that bell chime above it, drawing his attention to it for a split second, before he turned to look at the crowd in the diner.
No one paid attention to him entering despite the bell announcing his arrival. Nobody turned to stare at him friendly or otherwise. It was a good thing. It had been a long time since he had been in a small town, such as this one, and he caught himself surprised how he had already forgotten all the quirks of theirs. Coming from a small town himself abhorred the nosy busybodies, and the absolute lack of privacy. He had suffered from it all his life.
The diner itself was just an average diner. Few people sat in booths, talking and eating, some sat on bar stools by the counter. He gave a quick once over at the people, spotting a mechanic, few truckers and some elderly citizens.
He'd seen a dime a dozen of these places - all the diners he had visited between East Coast and West Coast. They might have been decorated differently, there might have been different foods and beverages on the menu, and some might have been rowdier than others, but all the diners seemed to essentially be the same. You'd seen one, you'd seen them all.
Next, he let his gaze sweep over the rest of the diner, and took note of the kitchen, the counter, the restrooms and all the booths. Counting quickly the workers - a cook and two waitresses, not much out of the ordinary. At six-thirty in the morning, it was the norm.
He was looking for two specific people, and as far as he knew, none of the customers nor the workers were those two. Of course, he wasn't expecting people to actually walk around wearing name tags all day long to make his job easier.
The man who had hired him to do this job for him was late in sending him the much needed pictures and he wasn't in a much of a mood for waiting. He had their names, and he figured he could go to the city hall to dig through the records and find an address to the names.
Coming to a small town like this was always risky. Everyone and their mother knew each other and if he asked too many questions, or started to shoot anyone who vaguely resembled the faint description given to him made him a target of suspicions and investigation of the local law enforcement.
Now, obviously he could poke around a bit, but his only dilemma with that was that he would have to burn at least one of his fake identities he'd created with great deal of money and time, if he was to poke and ask around.
His desire to finish this job, get it out of the way, eventually won the competition, and he decided that destroying one of the false names was an acceptable casualty. He wanted to get it done, get paid and see what was waiting for him around the corner. Jobs like this were on his shitlist of jobs he hated anyway.
Currently, the shitlist had two names. Hershel Howe and his daughter Rose Howe, who as he was told were witnesses in a criminal case against a man with connections to organized crime.
Fuck if he knew it for sure. Maybe she was a girl he'd had his eyes on and her father had dragged the poor thing away from the douchebag.
At the moment, the man paying for this job was more than eager to get rid of them both. All in all there was high chances that the man who had hired him was the man in question in the same case, and he wanted them gone from the face of the earth.
He had taken few of these jobs before, contract killings.
There had been six people before these two, and that made him less proud of his skills and his training. He wasn't proud of himself for accepting jobs like these in the first place.
But accepting these jobs and the payment that came with it paid the bills, his and his brother's, and the payment wasn't just dimes. Accepting these gigs made sure his brother wasn't the one taking them and getting in trouble. It was ironic that what he was doing would land himself back inside if he was caught when he was trying to keep his brother out of prison at the same time.
Gun-for-hire wasn't such a stellar career choice that was for sure.
He'd tried to take everything into account when he had began this, practically fresh out of prison, and nothing to lose. He'd collected enough dirt for collateral if he ever was arrested for the crimes he was hired to do. One of the handful of friends he had would deliver it to the authorities if something should happen to him. But, even so, he knew what he was doing was wrong.
Before, when he was still in the Marine Corps, he had killed people as ordered by his superiors. His moral compass was appease with that, because it told him he wasn't responsible for those actions. He had been a Marine Sniper, and as such he was compelled to follow orders. He'd done it for his country, for the service and as ordered. It wasn't in him to murder people in cold blood. Not without a reason.
This job?
Despite the fact that they seemed to be witnesses in a criminal case, and killing them would just let the man in question to walk free, the dubious reasons given to him left him with a gnawing gut feeling that nothing was what it seemed to be.
Swallowing, he felt the tightness in his throat, and winced at his thoughts, as he slipped into a booth, and picked up the menu.
Idly, barely paying any attention to the selection of food items, he kept his thoughts in motion. He knew exactly what it was that made him disinclined to follow through with the assignment.
The man, a father, in question had the same name as her father had had. His name had been a popular name in the 1920's, but now, it wasn't much of a choice for a child around the country. Because of that, it always struck him hard when he heard that name. It brought her face bathed in sunlight into his mind, and he knew he couldn't block her from his thoughts just like that. He had heard his name, along with hers, over the last almost five years surprisingly frequently, which always landed a mental kick in the head for him.
Beth Greene's elderly father Hershel Greene had been more of a father figure to Daryl than his own father had ever even tried. Her father had been present at his trial, crushed by the loss of his youngest daughter, and nervous about testifying against the man he had thought loved her.
"Daryl Dixon is a good man. Maybe a little misguided in some areas of his upbringing."
Hershel's testimony hadn't been all about bashing him, though.
"He loves… ahem… loved my daughter, I am sure of that."
Yes, he certainly had.
"I know of his… temper, and his father. But I have never had any reason to think that he himself would be a user of any illegal substances, or that he was hurting my daughter in any way."
He would have never hurt her. He would have rather died.
Hearing him speak on his behalf, despite being the prosecutor's witness was one of the reasons he still felt devastated that the former veterinarian was forced to go through the trial and finally see Daryl get sentenced to prison.
Prison. He could have predicted that when that blonde haired woman entered his life. Maybe not exactly what was going to happen, but that he would end up hurting her in unspeakable ways. He wouldn't be able to escape his genes.
Maybe he hadn't pulled the trigger on her but he still felt guilty as hell.
He placed the laminated menu back on the table, and reached for his wallet. He cursed internally that he hadn't brought more cash with him. He didn't want to leave a trace of him, by making a withdrawal or using an AMT. He frowned and went through the coins and the bills in it, he managed to ignore the waitress that came to the table ready to ask what he would like to have.
Daryl said nothing, and didn't wait for her to ask for his order or even greet him. Instead he picked up the mug, signaling he wanted coffee. He could feel she was taken slightly aback, but said nothing, possibly thinking he wasn't a morning person. He let her have her disillusions. He barely gave her one look, when she finally asked what he would like to eat, with her melodious, soft voice.
"French toast, bacon, eggs," he ordered gruffly.
Only when she turned around and left his side, he glanced after her. His eyes focused on the bouncing blonde ponytail as she walked back to the counter and handed the order into the kitchen. Daryl couldn't hear what was said, if anything, over the sizzling of cooking food and some general mumbling of other people, and then laughter of the two waitresses over something the other one shared.
His stomach tightened, and lurched, at the sight of the blonde hair. He knew it was yet another mirage, another trick of his sorrowful mind. It was bad enough that he had lost her, and that he had been blamed for her death. By everyone.
But his mind conjuring up these memories was pure torture. Instead of paying attention to the other patrons in the diner, he turned and gazed out of the window.
~::~
The small bell over the diner-bar door chimed and she turned idly to watch the man enter the diner's morning non-traffic. At 6:20 am, there weren't that many people hanging about, only the very few every-morning regulars.
She glanced at him; a tall, dark, handsome that one - as lame as it sounded like.
When she looked at him with curiosity, longer and more focused, she saw he had a tired face, scraggly stubble that was so far past a five o'clock shadow that it might have been already a beard. His hair, dark brown, descended onto his shoulders, and there was an ear peeking through some wisps. He wore dark jeans, brown hunter's boots, and black leather jacket with a black leather vest on top. She hadn't seen him before, even though there was some familiarity in him, so, she just categorized him as a passer through.
He definitely had a poorly slept night written on his face and when he sat down into a booth, she picked up the coffee pot, and tucked the pad and pencil into the pocket of the apron and slowly walked to him. He was in need of a big cup of coffee, maybe even a good breakfast.
He didn't even look at her when he wiggled the mug in his hand before placing it back on the table, and practically ignored her as she poured the hot liquid. He was concentrating on his wallet. When she asked what he wanted - other than the coffee - he ordered French Toast, bacon and eggs.
She sighed internally. He counted dimes and she shook her head knowing that she wouldn't get a good tip out of him. Coffee she'd serve him even if money was an issue here. Few extra refills wouldn't throw the diner off the edge, and no one bothered to count brewed pots of coffee anyways.
Food, on the other hand, was another issue. She most definitely couldn't feed every single stray dog the cat dragged in, even though something about this man compelled her to do so.
She bit her lip, nodding her head, even though the man was ignoring her, and scribbled the order on her notepad. She ripped the page off, tucked the notepad back into the pocket of her apron, and picked up the coffee pot from the table. She turned and headed back to the counter. Halfway there, she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He was staring out of the window and watching at the empty parking lot of the diner and the adjacent gas station.
Handing the order over the kitchen counter to Stan, their cook and the diner owner, she then retreated behind the bar. There were no other customers in need of her at that particular moment. She picked up the morning paper, Bremerton Times, and began leafing through it. Leaning her elbows down on the counter, she let her eyes skim over the words of the article about the lumber mill of the town. They had decided to close it. She bit her lip, and sighed again. It was a low blow to the small town. As she flipped the page, she glanced over the diner, looking to see if any of the customers wanted something. Her eyes landed on the Tall-Dark-And-Handsome and she caught herself hoping he had not come here to look for a job. Not that the man didn't fit the bill of a lumberjack, but he wouldn't have much luck with the work now.
Her mind went back to count the minutes when she could turn the table over for someone who actually had money, surprised that she had categorized the man as someone in need of work. A nagging feeling in the back of her mind argued that she wasn't like that, that she had not been like that before.
Well, how would you know? she chided herself, biting her lip and frowning.
The guy seemed like he didn't have money. Some of the truckers, they seemed to have deep pockets, and they were always looking for company. They gave enough a tip for few kind words, cute smile and some extra moments spent talking to them. She shuddered at her own thoughts. Of course, there were always douchebags who wanted more, but she knew her way around the truckers. This guy, he seemed to be looking for something, and if it was a job, this was definitely the last place he should try.
She lowered her gaze, ashamed that the hometown of hers was in such a state. Her eyes landed on the golden ring she wore on her index finger always; her mother's dolphin ring. Her mother had been a waitress, or so she had been told. Remembering her mother so abruptly made her immediately sad, that she could not even remember her, and then, berating herself for thinking about such things like it was her fault.
She wasn't happy in this town, and she couldn't figure out for the life of her why she still remained there when all she seemed to do was slowly descend into depression.
A subdued sigh escaped from her lips, and she shifted her attention back to her newspaper. She had reached the second paragraph of the article when she heard a ding of the bell at the counter of the kitchen.
"Order up!" Stan called and slid the plate on the serving counter. She turned around, folded the newspaper and tossed it under the counter, next to the sugar pouches and BBQ seasoning, and the row of snow-white napkins.
"Thanks, Stan," she smiled at the middle-aged man, owner and cook of the diner.
Stanley King was a funny guy and a great cook. He had tired gray eyes and salt-and-peppered, sandy brown hair, and he was a bit chubby around the middle. He was like an uncle to Rose, and she couldn't be more appreciative that he and his wife had been helping her ever since her father had died.
She picked the order, walking around the counter and to the table.
He was still staring out of the window and ignored her when she placed his order on the placemat in front of him. She twisted her lips, arched her eyebrow and then huffed a little. Shaking her head, she turned to leave, when he suddenly reached over and grabbed her arm. It was a tight grasp and she let out a yelp of surprise at the contact.
She turned to face the man; and in an instant, she saw his eyes grow wide with surprise. Shock spreading onto his face, before it diluted into surprise, disbelief and finally something of a reluctance. She saw him wince, and then pull his arm back, letting go of hers, and recoil like he had been burned.
The man mumbled a word, something she couldn't quite figure out, though it sounded like a name in a form of a question. His lips moved, a little, and she saw him shook his head, frowning.
His reaction jolted through her mind.
Her first reaction was to bring her fingers to touch her the scar on her forehead. It felt like a bump underneath her skin, with few fractured scar tissue lines spreading from the initial place of impact, like a macabre star.
The scar on her cheek was fading, and she could hide it with her makeup.
Both scars on the other hand made her incredibly self aware of how she looked, and the way he yanked his hand away… she could hardly imagine it being from anything else than the way she looked.
But the way he looked at her, it was like he knew her. And the way he shook his head, frowned and shifted awkwardly, it all somehow felt familiar to her. But that couldn't be real. He was just a passer through.
And she? She had lived in this town for all her life, if she didn't count the year she had spent in Arizona in rehabilitation, and then another year in Seattle, where she had met Zack.
Maybe she just had that kind of a face - a familiar one; something that reminded him of someone he had known.
But then again, she had forgotten her past due to her accident. She took a deep breath, and was about to ask him, if he knew her. But, the man shook his head again. His arm dropped onto the table, and he mumbled a hasty apology for grabbing her arm like that. Despite every fiber of her being telling her to call Stan for help, she didn't, because the touch felt familiar. She stared at the man she had never seen before - to her knowledge - and touched her arm from where he had grabbed her, and swore it had felt like it had happened before, somewhere beyond that smoky curtain that still divided the past and present in her mind.
"I-It's fine," she mumbled, and waved her hand.
"Another cup?" he said, his voice betraying no emotions, no confirmation that they knew each other, as he lifted his coffee cup towards her, "And could I have some cold water, please?"
It was remarkable, like a switch had shifted and made him forget the past few seconds. But, his voice was considerably soft now, not like when he had ordered his breakfast trio.
She took few nervous steps, looking at the man sitting in the booth, "Certainly."
He wasn't a complete jackass, she thought when she looked at him and nodded yet again.
His eyes were icy blue, and despite the initial roughness in them, she saw they were also very nice, kind eyes. And it made her smile at him. Then, her eyes wandered down and she saw the bruises on his hand. She winced, snuffing the little whimper that was about to escape from her throat.
A fighter, that one, she thought again, looking at him under her brow.
She nodded, because she couldn't think of anything else to do, and pressed her lips into a tight line in order to stop herself from asking where he had his hand bruised. They looked pink and fresh and she would have wanted to show him to the nearest hospital, but she figured it would have been rather stupid thing to say to a complete stranger.
Instead, she walked back to the counter, reached for the coffee pot and a glass. She moved to the small glass-door fridge and picked up a water pitcher and poured the glass full of ice cold water. She brought the coffee pot and the glass of iced water back to the table and smiled to him.
He thanked her, his voice now low and slightly raspy.
Yes, he had very nice and friendly eyes, his voice low and inviting. She bit her lip and ignored the tingle in her spine. She forced herself to walk away. She stepped back and just nodded as a reply to his 'thank you'.
Fighters weren't lovers. Fighters weren't even good company in the end. She had to remind herself with that.
But, he looked after her; she felt those friendly eyes on her back. Friendly eyes. Friendlier eyes.
She got back behind the counter and served two extra cups of coffee to two other customers.
He sat there and ate slowly, twirling the fork in his food, poking a piece of bacon around.
She stood behind the counter, flicked through the morning paper and every now and then handing off the bills and whatever the customers wanted. She felt terribly shocked when she realized she was looking at him every now and then, and she scolded herself for it. Yes, the guy looked good, but nobody needed to tell it to her - it was stupidity to even think about what she was thinking currently and she had to scold herself about it.
She saw him glance at the big clock on the diner's wall, and reach for his cell phone next. He twiddled with it for a moment, as if trying to and make a decision that wasn't easy. Maybe he had a family and he had to tell them that he couldn't get a job at the mill because it was closed.
Rose shook her head; she needed to quit imagining other people's lives. Nevertheless, instead of concentrating on her job, she continued to steal glances of this man, and watching him check the cell phone every two minutes and expecting to find a new message. She too was almost disappointed when he pocketed the damn thing.
A moment later, she and him both heard the phone chime in his pocket and he sighed out of relief and reached for the phone again. His face didn't show any emotions when he read the message, but she noticed his anxiousness spike; his foot bounced and his fingers thrummed against the table.
The man didn't react any more than that. He finished his breakfast, like no message had interrupted him.
She heard Herb, one of the regulars and the manager of the gas station, stand up and walk over to the counter. She sighed in resignation and walked to meet him, telling him how much his total was and asking if he needed anything else. She smiled at him, and exchanged some pleasantries, even played coy with him when he told her that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen and if he was a younger man he'd sweep her off her feet and marry her. Old platitudes for sure, but Herb was well over seventy and still sharp as a tack.
When she was done with Herb, she caught herself yet again, checking at her Tall-Dark-And-Handsome. He had stood up, was reaching of his wallet, and paid for the food and the coffee. He was a definite specimen of a fighter, with his narrow hips, slender waist, and yet enough muscles to hold his own.
He walked past her, not paying her any attention, even though she smiled at him, a timid smile of her own, and wanted to ask him if he wanted anything else. She didn't even know why she felt so disappointed when he had not noticed her on his way out. As soon, as the door closed after him, she breathed out and realized that she had held her breath a good full minute. Quickly looking around her, she thanked her guardian angel, or whatever deity that might have been, that no one had seen that, and observed through the window, as the man walked to his car. Only when he was already sitting inside of his truck did she hurry to clean up the table.
And there, right next to the payment for the breakfast, was a $20 bill. She gasped, looked out of the window after him; watched him back away from the parking lot, turn his car around and drive off completely clueless that she was watching for him to leave. She held the $20 bill in her hands and stared at it. She shivered, when she figured that her thought about him counting dimes wasn't accurate; that either he had not counted them after all, or he had given her most of his next meal ticket.
She hoped she was wrong about the man, though.
~::~
He saw her reflection in the window, where the sunlight and the shadows melted into a perfect reflecting surface. She shook her head, and turned to leave, but he couldn't let her go. He had allowed her to leave once, and it had nearly killed him. It would have, if he hadn't turned himself into stone.
He swiveled his head to watch her leave, every fiber of his being lurching into action. He reached over, grabbed her arm as gently as he possibly could but he knew in the back of his mind that he was holding on too hard. She let out a sound of a protest, but he couldn't let go of her. His fingers felt the softness and warmth of her skin, her wrist far too slender in his hold, almost too frail and ready to break like the bones of a small bird.
As she turned around, he saw better her baby blue uniform, white apron, and white shoes. A different color scheme and this could have been back in the Grady Memorial, where he saw her the last time.
His eyes shifted down, seeing her name tag, he saw it read "Rose" and he knew beyond every evidence laid out in front of him, at his own trial, that his 'rose', his Beth, was dead.
But the woman in front of him, the waitress of this small-town diner, was too much of a lookalike to not to be her.
It didn't make any sense. It was beyond everything that he had been told time and time again, and yet… and yet here he was, sent to kill two people because they were witnesses in a case against the man that had hired him to do his dirty work.
It quickly dawned on him. He realized that the last five years had been an intricate lie, and he was just a damn pawn in the game and circus that these people kept rolling.
Daryl's eyes traveled up her pale arm, from where he was holding onto her. His gaze met the short sleeve with a white cuff and the slender neck, a golden chain with a small cross hanging from it, the blonde curls that descended down onto her shoulder now that her ponytail was slightly askew, and finally, her pink lips, parted in a startled gasp, her blue eyes wide from nothing else but shock.
His eyes must have mirrored hers.
They stared at each other for a while; seconds that felt like minutes.
Her emotions were colored on her face, surprise and fear, her cheeks flushed and her eyes reflecting disbelief. He winced back, because even if she was the same girl, even if this was his 'rose', she didn't seem to remember him.
He let go of her arm, yanked his own hand back quickly, as if her skin had burned his fingers. It sure felt like it had. His fingers ached and he tried to flex them few times.
"B-Beth?" he whispered, barely audible and he knew she wouldn't be able to catch that. He watched her tilt her head, trying to understand what he had mumbled, but he couldn't say it again. Either this was the worst joke on him orchestrated by the universe or this was really Beth, who had survived even though he was accused of her death, and she clearly suffered from amnesia. It seemed understandable, almost acceptable right now, even though he was still too shocked and his thoughts ran through his mind too fast to grasp a hold of any of them.
She winced too, pulling her arm to her chest and cradling it like an injury. Then, he saw the familiar questioning look spread on her face, and he knew she was about to ask him something. He shook his head and turned away.
"'m sorry about - -," he mumbled, stopped and gestured vaguely towards her arm, hoping that he had not in fact hurt her.
She looked like she was ready to bolt and he wasn't too far behind her.
"I-It's fine," she mumbled and waved her hand. She smiled weakly as she spoke and he wanted to tell her he would never hurt her, but of course he couldn't say a word. Instead of a big reveal and a teary confession, he cleared his throat, and asked for another cup of coffee and some cold water.
And, yet again, she turned to leave, and this time, Daryl let her.
~::~
He walked out of the diner in a confused, fearful haze.
His legs felt shaky, like Jell-O, and his hands trembled, and his stomach tightened, making him feel queasy like always when it came to her, and he made a beeline for his truck.
As he sat behind the wheel, he yanked the door shut forcefully, and slammed his fists against the steering wheel. His knuckles reddened immediately. He felt his heart beating in his chest, thrumming in a panicked tempo, and he could feel a lump in his throat as he struggled to calm himself down.
Everything hurt, like it was physical pain, but in reality it was nothing but mental pain, torture of the worst kind.
The waitress in the diner, Rose as the name tag had read, just could not be her. She couldn't be her, because the woman he had loved, and still did, was dead, and he had seen her being shot to the head.
Daryl rubbed his palm on his face, and brushed his hair off his face. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling of the car, feeling the faint panic and anxiety building up inside of him. His breathing grew faster and his stomach dropped, flipped and got tangled inside of him.
Logic and the ugliness of reality clashed with the feeble hope and dreams of his mind.
He knew, of course, that people could survive a gunshot wound to the head. There had been hundreds of cases like that. He couldn't argue with the reality and statistics. There was no question about it; it wasn't a fitful dream, or attempt of torture from his self loathing mind.
The woman inside he had grabbed by her arm was definitely Beth Greene.
She was the same woman he loved, the same one who had been shot right in front of his eyes, and who had been declared dead after several hours of surgeries and eventual resuscitation attempts.
He felt numb.
He looked down at his hand, the skin felt cold and hot at the same time, it felt like he had been burned.
She was real and he had touched her.
His stomach lurched again, and made him reach for the keys in his pocket. They jingled as he yanked them out and inserted the key into the ignition. He couldn't do this here, he needed to get away from the parking lot, and into a slightly more secluded area. His heart felt cold as he listened his truck to come to life and the rumble of the engine; because there was no way this job was purely coincidental.
He sped off the parking lot, leaving the sound of screeching tires and the darkened tracks on the asphalt.
He drove down the road for good ten minutes, trying his best to sort his thoughts into something resembling coherence, but it too, seemed to be impossible, another one of those impossibilities of his day.
Since it was still early, and the town was small, there were no cars around. He thanked that miserable luck of his and swerved to the shoulder of the road.
As the car came to a halt, he squeezed his hands into tight fists around the steering wheel, watching his knuckles turn white in an instant. He felt the skin of his palms wringing against the vinyl of the wheel and reveled in the pain for a moment, still gritting his teeth together.
"Jesusfuck!" he shouted out loud, squeezing the wheel one last time, and then ripping his grip off like a bandaid. His palms were red, sore and tender.
No. None of this was a coincidence.
He couldn't help but wonder how deep all this shit went.
He had been a damn good soldier. He had been a fine police officer and a detective. He had been good at his job!
All the hours of preparing, all the times he'd been on the field chasing down a lead with or without his partner, and all the times they had crashed into a brick wall. They had worked over that one last case for four years, tracking down every single piece of evidence there was to find. And now, he was hired by a man with connections to organized crime and court case coming up, and he was sent to this particular small town to kill the woman he loved and her father.
Instantly feeling guilty about that night he had suffered the most and accused of his partner of throwing him to the sharks when they had come to arrest him, after Beth had died. No, after she had been shot, and allegedly died on the operating table.
This was about the dirty cops they had finally tracked down, and arrested at Grady Memorial. This was about the man that was behind those dirty cops, the big fish, the one they had never caught even though they had come close once or twice. On both occasions, their witnesses had ended up dead.
And most importantly, this was about what had occurred after the arrests, after Daryl had shot the female officer for shooting Beth.
At that very moment, sitting in his car, he had trouble breathing and organizing his thoughts into something he could grasp, or comprehend.
He would have to figure this out. He would have to pull open all the wounds that had been closed for so long and he would have to at least try and make amends with his old partner and - - even worse, with the people he'd had in his life before.