The woman who greeted them at the door was distraught. Santana could tell. Hell, anyone could tell.
But even in her grief, Quinn Fabray was smartly attractive. She was of medium height, with a lean form under her smart business suit. The sleek pencil skirt she was sporting showed off slim hips and slender legs. Her face though sad and tired, was stunning, framed by honey-blonde hair that skimmed slender shoulders. But it was her eyes that captured Santana's attention.
Quinn had the sort of eyes you couldn't quite identify the colour of. It looked sort of green but then it also looked sort of brown. Santana figured the closest word she could use to describe the shade of Quinn's eyes was hazel but it didn't seem to do the colour justice; the word was much too simple for the depth and intensity of it. What she could easily identify was the sorrow clouding those lovely eyes, and how they were now being used to size her and Puck up.
"Good morning Ms. Fabray, I'm Santana Lopez and this is my partner, Noah Puckerman. We're the detectives in charge of Kitty's case," she held out her badge to prove her identity.
Red-rimmed eyes flickered from her badge to their faces. Seemingly satisfied at the authenticity of the identification, Quinn nodded, "I've been expecting you. My aunt called but I didn't realise you would be here so quickly."
"I'm sorry for your loss, Ms. Fabray," Santana said simply but sincerely.
Despite the number of times she had had to use the phrase, practice never made it easier to say. In her rookie days, she had suffered sleepless nights trying to come up with gentler ways to relay death. But death was a cruel and harsh reality. It offered no room for comfort and sympathy.
Eventually, she had given up on the idea. It was best to keep it simple: I'm sorry for your loss. Who would have thought that straight-talking, sharp-tongued Santana would one day be lost for words? But if she had learned anything from her years in the force, it was this: death claimed everything.
"Is there perhaps somewhere we can sit down, somewhere where you'll be more comfortable? We won't take much of your time but it would help us if you could answer some questions we have."
Dazed. She was still so dazed. But even as Santana thought it, she saw the clouds in those hazel eyes clear, "Of course, of course. I'm sorry, I just…I wasn't expecting this so early. Sorry, give me a minute."
They gave Quinn the minute she needed and watched as she pinched the bridge of her nose with shaky fingers. When she opened her eyes, it looked like her efforts to calm herself down had worked.
In a much steadier voice, Quinn gestured for them to enter her office, "Sorry about that. We can sit in my office. Would you like a drink, some coffee perhaps? I know I could use one."
"Well, ah, sure. Thanks," Puck smiled politely.
"Please feel free to take a seat first. I'll be right back."
While Quinn was off brewing their coffee, Santana took the time to glance around the office. It was a big room, spacious, orderly and decorated with both style and money. She glanced at the famous paintings on the walls, took in the chestnut table, the mahogany doorframe and Oriental rug. It was obvious Quinn was someone who had good taste and appreciated art. This was a good office to work in. Stylish but not ostentatious.
There were some personal touches too, Santana mused as she crouched down to inspect the few photos on the desk. She felt a twinge of pity when she identified Kitty Wilde in one of the pictures. She was smiling so brightly there, without a care in the world. And now? She wouldn't have the chance to care even if she wanted to.
Turning away, she moved on to the other objects on the table – a small, potted plant (which reminded her she had to water her own when she got back to the office), a framed poem by Edgar Allan Poe (she knew only because he was credited at the end), a holder containing an assortment of stationery and a misshapen clay cup that had to be the work of a child, or a very untalented adult.
Intrigued, she picked up the cup and scowled at the ugly face glowering back at her, "You're an ugly piece of work, aren't you?"
Turning the cup such that the face was now looking at Puck, she grinned at her partner, "Hey Puck, check this out. I found something uglier than you. Never thought that was possible."
He snorted and was about to retort when Quinn returned with three steaming mugs of coffee.
"I see you've found Ernie."
Embarrassed that she had been caught playing with the cup, Santana quickly lowered it back to the table.
"Sorry," she scratched her nape awkwardly, "I have a bad habit of touching things that don't belong to me."
Quinn chuckled as she placed the mugs down, then took her own cup around the desk to sit, "I can empathize. Ernie has a certain charismatic quality to him."
"Did you make it yourself?"
Quinn's brows lifted in amusement as she took a sip of coffee, "Oh goodness, no," she laughed, her eyes twinkling, "I like to think I'm able to produce work of a more passable quality than a six-year-old kid. Ernie is a gift from my cousin's daughter, my niece of sorts." She clarified.
"Ernie, as in Ernie and Bert from Sesame Street?"
"Your niece takes pottery lessons?"
The two detectives asked at the same time, Santana in disbelief and Puck in awe.
"Yes to pottery lessons," she smiled at Puck and picked up the cup, "And as for whether this is Ernie from Sesame Street? I have no idea," she scrunched up her nose at the lopsided face staring back at her, "I never dared ask Grace just in case I hurt her feelings."
"Tender young hearts," Santana agreed as she settled herself down next to Puck.
Picking up her mug, she mumbled her thanks and downed a generous gulp of coffee. She definitely could use the caffeine. Sleep had not come easily the previous night.
"This is good," she hummed as the rich caffeine kicked in.
"My secretary would be pleased to hear that. She's the one who taught me how to make a mean cup of coffee. So detectives," Quinn leaned forward in her chair and pressed her fingers together, "How may I help you?"
"You work on Sundays, Ms. Fabray?" Puck asked as he pulled out a notepad and a recorder.
"Call me Quinn please. Not usually, I don't. The company's been pretty busy recently," she closed her eyes briefly and took a moment to compose herself, "I didn't want to come in after... what happened last night but my house is like a funeral now, and I needed to get out. Work is my best distraction."
She paused and looked down at her cup, tracing an unpolished finger over the rim, "We're close, Kitty and I. She is.. was like my sister," she lowered her head and let out a bitter laugh, "It's going to take me a while to get my tense right."
"You'll get there," Santana offered sympathetically, then looked at Puck.
It was time to begin.
"When was your last contact with Kitty?"
"About a week ago. She called to complain about being forced to attend summer school."
"Do you know anyone who would have cause to harm her?"
"What? No! She's just a college student. What kind of enemies could she possibly make?" Quinn took a shuddering breath, rubbed at her temple, "My aunt said they found a suicide note but I don't believe it. And neither do you if you are questioning me. What's going on?"
The two detectives exchanged a subtle glance. It appeared that Quinn Fabray was a sharp one.
"I'm afraid we can't release specific information to you at this point. But yes, we believe there's foul play involved."
"Shit," Quinn shoved to her feet, took a turn around the room, "I knew it. Kitty wouldn't kill herself. She would never do something like that."
"You said Kitty and you were close. Close enough to tell you things? Would you know for instance, who she dated, who she had a problem with?"
Quinn looked down with a frown, "Like a jealous boyfriend? No," she shook her head then corrected herself, "I mean yes. Kitty looks up to me very much. She usually tells me things but I've been so busy for the past few months," she smoothed her skirt down, a move done to calm the nerves rather than to iron out any non-existent creases, "I'm sorry. I need to stand. Standing makes me feel better."
"No problem. Do what you need to be comfortable."
"Kitty has a temper. She's – " her hands circled in the air as she tried to find the right phrase to use, "Well to put it bluntly and if we abide by the stereotype, Kitty would be your typical college bitch. She has a sharp tongue and isn't afraid to speak out. That has gotten her into plenty of trouble before. But if you get to know her, to really know her, she can be a sweetheart. She's just misguided."
She sucked in a deep breath and continued, "We talked often enough, mostly on the phone. But the past few times we spoke, I had been forced to cut her off to attend a meeting or to a client."
And she regretted it. She would be blaming herself for a long time to come.
"Do you recall anything different about her then, the last time you spoke?"
Quinn frowned as she thought back to their previous conversation, "Not that I can think of."
"Her parents mentioned she been exceptionally happy for the past month."
Her expression cleared and a small smile appeared on her face, "Oh that. Yes, yes she was. We had a family gathering just a short while back," she chuckled softly, "I was teasing her about a boyfriend. She had been so embarrassed."
The smile faded and it was easy to guess where Quinn's thoughts were heading. There would be no more teasing, no more new moments created. Not with Kitty Wilde.
Santana leaned forward, clasping her hands together to refrain from reaching out. She wanted to soothe the lines on Quinn's forehead, to erase the sadness in her eyes. Quinn looked so much like a lost puppy and she found it surprisingly unbearable.
She cleared her throat and took a sip from her mug. If she was thinking that way, she must be more tired that she thought she was, "Did she tell you anything about this boy?"
"No. She was so tightlipped about it. She said she would tell me if things got serious, but I couldn't get a name out of her. So I just made the usual comment about being careful and protecting herself, just to embarrass her you know?" she looked away and blinked back tears, "But you should try asking Bree."
"Bree?" Puck asked, jotting down the name on his notepad.
"Yes. Bree is Kitty's best friend. They go to the same school and they're both in cheerleading together. They're practically inseparable; you know how girls can be," she inclined her head to Santana, who nodded back.
She did understand. After all, she had two of the very best.
"If there's anything about Kitty that you need to know, I'm sure Bree would know it. Kitty tells her everything. I'm certain of it."
"We'll do that. Thank you for your time Ms. Fabray," Santana rose, extending her hand to Quinn's.
"Anything I can do to help."
When their palms made contact, she jerked slightly, startled by the slight jolt that ran up her arm. What was that? She stared down at her tingling fingers. Had Santana felt it too? She wondered, scrutinizing the detective's face. If she had, she couldn't tell. But if she had not, would she still be watching her so closely with those intense, brown eyes?
"Thanks for your time, Ms. Fabray," Puck spoke up from the side and the moment was gone.
Carefully extracting her hand from Santana's grip, she rearranged her features into a smile and slipped her hand into Puck's proffered one.
"Quinn," she corrected again, "You'll find who did this, won't you? And why?"
Her eyes went hard, icy and for a moment, Santana felt pity for anyone who had been unfortunate enough to earn that frost, "But even then, Kitty wouldn't be coming back to us."
And that was the problem with justice. For the people who had lost, what they wanted most would never be returned. But it would have to do.
"We'll do our best," Santana nodded, her hand already pressing down on the door handle.
Before she could turn it, the door burst open and smacked directly into her face.
"Quinn! I heard about… oh my God. I'm so sorry!"
Stars exploded in Santana's head and she bent over, clutching the middle of her face, "Fucking hell!"
"Holy mother of.. Fuck. Goddamn it," she cursed with aplomb, willing the pain to abate.
"Oh my God. I'm so sorry!" the high-pitched voice squealed again. Hands started fluttering over her back, her neck, her face, "I didn't mean it! I…"
"It's okay. It's fine. It was an accident," she heard Puck's concerned voice floating somewhere above her then Quinn's calm one.
"I think we should move her to the couch."
She let herself be guided to some end of the room, where she was pushed down onto what she assumed was the couch.
"Rachel, can you get some ice please?"
"She's bleeding. I didn't mean…"
"Yes I can see that. Ice, Rachel," Quinn said firmly.
The sound of fading footsteps told her that Rachel had complied.
"Shit Lopez. That was Galadriel!" Puck whispered in awe once the door had snapped shut.
"What?" she asked, pain reverberating from the tip of her nose to the entire right side of her face.
"Galadriel! From 'Sons of Solomon'!"
"Are you being serious right now? I'm bleeding here and you go gaga over a fictitious character. Way to know your priorities, Puckerman," she snarked but of course she knew exactly who Galadriel was. She herself caught every episode of that drama, even thought she hated sci-fi.
Cool fingers pried her hands away from her throbbing face and stroked her hair back. When she opened her eyes, little white dots danced before her such that she could barely make out Quinn's face.
"Here," Quinn said gently, pressing a ball of tissue against the base of her nose to stem the blood flow, "Pinch the bridge."
She hissed and made to pull away, but Quinn was quicker. With a firm hand behind the back of her head, the blonde held her in place, "Don't move. You don't want more blood dripping onto your shirt."
Sure enough, when she looked down, she saw drops of blood staining her white top.
She groaned, "I like this shirt."
Quinn laughed softly and took Santana's chin with her free hand, brushing her cheek with her thumb as she scanned her face, "It's definitely going to bruise but I don't think you broke anything."
"Thank fuck for that," she looked down at Quinn with watery eyes and that was when she realised how close their faces were. Close enough for her to see every freckle, to smell her perfume, to feel her breath on her cheek, to kiss her.
Before she could put her thought into action, the door opened once more and Rachel reappeared, a bag of ice in her hands.
"Here," she hurried over and handed it to Quinn.
"Keep your head down. You're still bleeding," Quinn instructed then gently pressed the cold pack to her face.
Refreshing, delicious cold numbed the ache and she sighed at the relief it provided, "Fuck Berry, you could have broken my nose."
"I'm so sorry Santana. I didn't expect anyone to be standing behind the door."
A very apologetic-looking Rachel hovered anxiously over her, wringing her hands in worry, "Maybe we should get you to a doctor."
"No," she snapped out, "No doctor. You know I hate clinics. I'm fine," she pulled the soaked tissue from her nose to prove her point then swore when blood dribbled into her mouth.
"Stop squirming," Quinn chided with a frown, thrusting a new ball of fresh napkins into her hands, "You two know each other?"
"Unfortunately yes," Santana muttered under her breath but the sides of her lips were turned up into a smile.
"We were in a girl group together!" Rachel declared proudly.
"Girl band," Santana corrected through gritted teeth. It didn't really make a difference but a band sure as hell sounded more kickass than a pussy group. She would punch the next person who dared call her Scary Spice, "And the only reason why I joined was because Britt begged me to."
"Brittany is a mutual friend of Santana's and mine," Rachel explained for the benefit of Quinn and Puck, "We took a few classes together in NYADA and when we decided to form a band called the Apocalipsticks. Brittany roped Santana in."
"While I take full credit for the name, I have nothing to do with NYADA. Just for the record."
"You say it as if it's a bad thing," Rachel scowled down at her in disapproval, hands on her hips.
"Isn't it? Everyone there bursts out in song and dance every few minutes. Every time I set foot in NYADA, I feel like I'm in a Disney movie. It's like I'm in a horror flick," she lifted the napkins from her nose and sniffed, "I think the bleeding has stopped."
Adjusting the ice pack in her grip, Quinn bent over to examine her face. She winced when she saw the purple bruise blooming from the tip of Santana's nose, right up to her cheekbone to the corner of her eyes.
"That looks painful," Puck supplied helpfully, whistling through his teeth.
"That's because it is genius."
She sighed, taking the ice from Quinn, "Shit. I'm meeting people tonight. Does anyone have a mirror?"
"I do," Rachel rummaged through her bag and drew out a small plastic mirror in the shape of a star.
Santana took one look at it and turned her nose up in disdain, "I can't use this."
"Why not?"
"It's pink," she huffed childishly.
"Well it's all I've got. Do you want to know how you look or not?"
Glancing suspiciously at the mirror again, she heaved out a dramatic sigh and took it. What she saw had her grimacing, "Oh boy. I look like I had a fight with the door and lost."
"Well, technically that's what happened," Puck supplied helpfully again, grinning down at her, "But don't worry babe. You're still hot."
He patted her on the shoulder companionably, then turned to Rachel and stuck his hand out, "Hello. I'm Puck, Santana's suave and handsome partner, and your greatest fan. May I just say I love your work in 'Song of Solomon'. Your take on Galadriel is simply the bomb man."
"Thank you!"
When Rachel beamed and took his hand, he felt his heart rate soar and swore he went to heaven. Of course, Santana had to drag him right down.
"You might want to be careful with this one, Berry. He has your posters all over his locker. Stalker material if you ask me," she smiled sweetly at Puck when he glared at her.
"Now Santana, you know how I value every fa –"
"Nope I don't and I don't want to hear it. What are you doing here anyway?"
"I work here!" Rachel sniffed indignantly, "I heard about –" she seemed to falter, started to backtrack but her shifty glance at Quinn gave her away.
In a heartbeat, the lighthearted atmosphere that had dominated the room for the past few minutes came to a breaking halt. Depression settled in again and reminded them that death had occurred and would not be stopped.
"I… I'm here for Quinn," she tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear somewhat shyly and shuffled her feet.
"Well, we've got to get going anyway," Santana rose and smiled politely at Quinn, "Thanks once again for your time Ms. Fabray and for the ice," she held up what was now a sopping bag of water."
"Oh. Let me see you out," Quinn started, made to move but was stopped by a squeeze to her shoulder.
"Nah, stay. We've taken enough of your time and given you enough trouble as it is. We'll see ourselves out."
On her way out, Santana gave Rachel a similar squeeze and a meaningful look that could only mean one thing. Take care of her.
And wasn't that curious? Rachel quirked a brow, looking to and fro between Santana's departing frame and Quinn's unwavering line of view.
It was only after the door had clicked shut behind Santana that her boss finally turned to face her.
"You have an interesting friend," was all she said before gulping down the rest of her coffee at one go. In what she thought must have been a subtle pass, she asked, "You don't suppose they're together, do you?"
Very curious indeed, she grinned with glee.
"Who?" she asked, all innocence.
"The two detectives?"
Rachel guffawed at the thought of Santana being with Puck, or any guy for the matter, "Nah." She drawled the syllable out.
"You sound certain."
"Trust me, I am."
"Oh," she almost managed to sound disappointed, "They would have made a cute couple."
Right. And if Quinn really thought that, she was not the next Barbara Streisand. Perhaps, it was time for Rachel the matchmaker to make an appearance.
Though Santana's face was still throbbing like a bitch, they decided to swing by Bree's house. It was a Sunday, barely 10am and so the roads were clear.
People were just beginning to wake up. Many would continue to laze around an hour more before making their way to the air-conditioned shopping malls or the sweltering beach.
She wondered which Quinn would choose. The businesswoman had looked comfortable enough in a suit. But Santana was sure she would look as comfortable and as attractive, if nor more so, in something more casual.
She had felt the jolt when their fingers had met, had recognized it as a spark. And had decided to dismiss it as nothing more than a spark. She was a practical, 27- year-old woman, not the naïve romantic she had been just a few years ago. Three years could change a lot in a woman. She would not open her heart only to have it shattered again, as it had been trampled on and mauled apart then.
"So, you were in a girl group?" Puck snuck her a cheeky look from the passenger seat, his hands folded behind his head.
"What's it to you?" she slipped him the eye, then smacked his feet off her dashboard.
"Hey!"
"I just had my car cleaned doofus."
"I can't believe you've known Galadriel all along and never told me!"
"Her name is Rachel," she rolled her eyes, tapping her fingers on the wheel as she waited for the light to turn green.
Seeing that there were no cars on either side of the junction, she inched out and sped off even as the light stayed red.
"Whoa there, speedy," Puck hurtled forward with wide eyes, turning around comically in his seat, "Do you want to get a ticket?"
"The roads were empty. I'm not wasting time behind a light," Santana argued as she made a sudden turn to the left.
"I hate it when you drive."
"Then get your own car," she shot back as she changed lanes without signalling.
"You know I love me my two-wheelers. So," he waggled his brows at her, "How long have you known Rachel for?"
"Weren't you listening in there?" she scowled then winced when pain radiated down her face, "We met in college. And she's off-limits," she added when she saw her partner's dreamy expression.
"You're no fun!" He crossed his hands over his chest with a huff, "Any more superstar friends that you've been hiding?" he joked.
"As a matter of fact, I do," she grinned when she saw Puck's jaw dropped.
"Who?"
"Mercedes Jones," she smirked smugly.
"Shaking' My Hair Mercedes Jones?" he goggled at her. When she nodded, he slapped her on the shoulder, "I've been your partner for two years! Why has this not come up before?"
"You've never asked," she shrugged, then checked the rear view mirror as she reversed into an empty parking space.
"How did you know her?"
"We went to high school together."
"Another girl band?"
She laughed as she climbed out of the car, "Actually, it was a girl group this time."
"Damn. So how come you're here instead of being one of them?"
"You know? I ask myself that every time we have to do a case together," she answered smartly before rapping him hard on the side of the head, "Head in the game Noah," she said then rang the bell before he had time to react.
"Detective Lopez and Detective Puckerman from the NYPD," Santana held out her badge when the door opened.
The eyes that met theirs were fearful and knowing, and in that instant, they knew.
"Where's Bree?" Santana demanded as she pushed against the door the man was trying to close, "Where's your daughter?"
"She's not in!" he shouted as he struggled with the door. Behind him, a woman, presumably his wife was crying, her hands over her mouth as she wept.
Puck pushed past the man to enter the house, cop eyes sweeping about the house, storing bits of information as he took in the messy room. Clothes, both clean and unwashed were strewn all over the sofa. Newspapers lay spread out across the table. Food packets took up half the dining table, uncleared.
"It was an accident!" The woman cried out, stepping in front of Puck when he moved towards a closed door leading to what had to be Bree' room, "She didn't mean to do it!"
He took her shoulders, steered her away as gently as he could. When the woman struggled in his arms, he exchanged a hapless glance with Santana.
"Let my wife go!" her husband ran forward, fists raised to attack, "Stop agitating her!'
Santana made to stop him but they all froze when they heard something shatter behind the closed door. The wife simply fell to the floor, exhausted, her hands flying up to clutch at her heart, while Santana and the husband dashed over to the room.
Santana reached first, her gun already drawn as she swung open the door. At the sight before him, the man let out a wretched yell while Santana's eyes widened.
She stuffed the gun back into the holster, crossed over the small room in three strides and picked up the fallen girl from the floor. Blood was spurting out in sprays from her slashed wrists.
Apparently frightened at the commotion outside and the prospect of being convicted, Bree had chosen the easy way out. She had smashed the mirror with a paperweight, picked up one of the shards and slit it vertically over both her veins.
"Call 911!" Santana shouted to Puck as she tried to stem the rush of blood with a strip of cloth she had ripped from her own shirt.
Working quickly, she applied pressure to the wound, gently pushing up the girl's wrist to elevate it. She was vaguely aware of the father retching, the mother fainting and Puck's rapid chatter into the phone. But she blocked it all out, focusing on what was crucial. Sweat beaded at her forehead, mixed with the blood that had spurted up at her.
"Get me some ice," she snapped, "And some clean bandage."
There was no time for courtesy. No time for manners. It was a huge gash. If she didn't stop the blood before the ambulance came, the girl would die.
"Tie the bandage around her arm," Santana instructed when Puck came back in with a roll of bandage, a pair of scissors and a tray of ice.
He did as he was told, anxiety etched on his face, while she continued applying pressure to the wounds.
Bree was staring up at them with huge, frightened eyes. She wasn't ready to die.
"Don't worry, you'll be fine," Puck said kindly to her, "The ambulance will be here soon. Don't be scared. Now, breathe with me. In. Out. There you go, there's nothing to be afraid of."
With Puck soothing her and Santana doing the best that she could, Bree was still conscious when the ambulance arrived.
They looked on as the whole family was packed into the vehicle and rushed off to the hospital, accompanied by a police cruiser. The uniforms would handle all the paperwork and notify the hospital of Bree's unique status. As for Puck and Santana, they wouldn't be needed till their suspect was in stable condition and ready for questioning.
"She's the one," Puck said quietly as he watched the ambulance peel out of the car park, "Why would she do something like that? She's the best friend."
There was a slight pause, then, "Your hands are shaking."
Puck let out a shaky laugh. He lifted his hands to see that they were indeed trembling, "I'm used to dealing with corpses, not bodies in the process of becoming corpses."
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he muttered then bent over, his hands over his knees. He suddenly felt sick.
"Hey, hey," Santana immediately lowered to him, "You did good. Come on, let's sit."
She guided him over to nearby bench and eased them down.
"Do you need some water? I can get some water?" she asked gently, rubbing her palm up and down his back.
"No, no. I just need a minute," he croaked, still bent over, "Fuck. Why would she do something like that? They were best friends."
Santana thought back to all the times she saw Brittany and Ashley enjoying each other's company, then to the one time she saw them fighting. Sometimes, just a moment of anger was enough to push someone over the edge.
She shook her head sadly, "People. We're not meant to understand them."
Her eyes steeled over, hardened when she remembered the image of Kitty's broken body lying on the pavement, the tears that had been shed for her, the hazel eyes that had shone with sorrow and loss.
Then, she lifted her head up and closed her mouth in a long, thin line, "But she'll regret it. She'll regret it for life. And if she doesn't, we'll make sure she feels that way by the time we're done with her."
With that, she pulled Puck close and they gained comfort in that rare, intimate moment they shared.
She would have to get her car washed again, Santana sulked as she climbed up the stairs to her apartment. To think she had just gotten it thoroughly cleaned the week before. She supposed her mechanic would be pleased to see her so soon. Or not. Her car would not clean easily.
The interior now stank of blood. She had managed to wipe off some of the stains Puck and her had left on the black leather seats but she would still want her car to be scrubbed and disinfected.
She sighed as she kicked off her boots and stuck the key into the keyhole. It had been a long week and she needed a break, one she wouldn't be getting soon.
Her men had called her to let know that Bree's condition had stabilised. She had lost a lot of blood but other than that, she was fine and would be ready for interrogation the following day. After which, more house to house visits would be needed to confirm Bree's story, reports had to be filled. And even after all that, Kitty would not be returned to life.
She felt her heart grow heavy as she remembered the grieving faces of the deceased's family, and surprised herself by focusing on the face of one Quinn Fabray. She had looked so miserable, so lost. But in her vulnerability, Santana had also recognised strength and a cool head, both of which she could appreciate.
She shook her head, berating herself for her thoughts. She had more important things to concentrate on now, she thought as she turned the key and swung the door open to reveal Brittany in Mercedes' arms, her eyes red and teary as the black woman offered the dancer what must have been her hundredth tissue. The table was strewn with the white mess. It looked like she would have to get the house scrubbed and disinfected too.
Her two friends turned as one at her arrival and she watched in bafflement when they started screaming and falling over one another in their efforts to get to her.
"Oh sweet Jesus! Santana! Are you alright?"
"Call the ambulance, Mercedes!"
"What happened?"
"Call 911!"
"Why aren't you in the hospital?"
"I'm calling 911," Brittany whispered and started to punch the numbers on her phone.
"What? Wait, no," Santana frowned as she tried to process their concerns, recalled the blood on her clothes and skin and burst out laughing.
At her reaction, her two friends glanced at each other in dismay.
"Mercedes," Brittany clutched Mercedes in fear, "I think she's really hurt!"
"You think? She's finally taken a hit to the head too hard. I knew it was just a matter of time! I'm calling 911," she pulled out her phone but Santana grabbed her arm to stop her.
"It isn't supposed to be funny. But I really needed a laugh," she said in between laughs, a hand pressed to her stomach.
"This isn't my blood. I didn't have a change of clothes," she explained simply and watched as their faces cleared.
"I'll kiss you both for being so concerned but I think I need to take a really long shower first. Freshen up before I join you in a bit," she continued to snicker to herself as she headed to the toilet to rid herself of the mess.
Just in case anyone is confused (to which I apologise for not doing a good enough job), here's some background information:
1. Santana, Brittany and Mercedes were in high school together. Together, they were in an all-girl glee club called The Troubletones. As adults now, Brittany is a Broadway dancer but has just started her own studio, Mercedes is a pop singer, and Santana a cop.
2. Brittany was Rachel's NYADA classmate. Santana was NOT from NYADA. The only reason why the both of them know each other is because Brittany roped Santana into their girl BAND called the Apocalipsticks.
3. Quinn and Rachel were in high school together. Quinn is the CEO of her father's artiste agency and since Rachel is represented by the Fabray company, that makes Quinn Rachel's boss.
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Thanks for reading!