A/N: Flashbacks are in italics. Spoilers for The Other Woman and No Good Deed.
Chapter 3
10 Years Ago
Brenda stepped on to the elevator at the DC Police Department, smoothing her lightweight blazer over her stomach and standing up so straight it almost hurt. She was amazed that people around her saw an intact woman. She felt translucent, clear like jelly, as if everyone should be able to see the seams from where she glued the bits and pieces of herself back together, the cracks and jags visible to the naked eye. It had been three weeks since Will had unexpectedly broken up with her, his only reason for leaving was that he wanted to work on his marriage. Brenda stuck herself back together with the strength in every fiber of her being and showed up to work every day; her heartbreak was allowed to surface only in the privacy of her apartment, late at night, when nobody was around. She was determined that Will would see no outside sign of her suffering, because she refused to give him the pleasure. But she felt fragile, so fragile, and she feared one strong gust of wind would cause her to crumble.
One of the officers in the back of the elevator noticed Brenda and said, "hey, if it isn't Miss CIA!" His friend laughed when Brenda pretended she didn't hear him. She was used to men flirting with her and acting like asses when she was around. She was attractive, and in a profession where she was often the only woman around, she learned to ignore stupid men very early on in her career. They called her a bitch behind her back, and sometimes to her face, but she didn't care. She was used to it by now.
When the cop realized he wasn't going to get a response from Brenda, he turned to his buddy. "Hey Smithy, I was just on the third floor and got a little dirt. Did you hear about Commander Pope? This is a good one."
Brenda felt hot and dizzy all of a sudden. The numbers on the elevator buttons become blurry, and she rested her hand against the wall to steady herself. Did they know? Did Will tell everyone he had an affair with Brenda now that it was over? Would he really do that to her? Her stomach lurched.
The second officer scoffed. "Dyer, you are worse than a woman with your gossip. Okay, go ahead and lay it on me."
"Hey, hearing the scoop around here is the only way the job stays interesting. Especially when it's about egotistical assholes like Pope."
"You gonna spit it out or not?"
"Yea, so this is what I heard. Pope walked out on his wife last week. Completely out of the blue. She's real broken up about it, I guess."
"That's too bad," Smithy said. "I met her a couple times. Ann is a real nice lady."
Brenda's head began to pound and she broke out in a sweat.
"But that's not all," Dyer said. "You know Estelle Anderson, from the Accounting department?"
"Um, yea, I think so. Red hair, real friendly?"
"That's her. Well, rumor has it Pope left his wife for Estelle. Moved directly from his house into Estelle's apartment. I guess he's gonna marry her as soon as his divorce is finalized."
"You're kidding me," Smithy said. "What a freakin' jerk! Even if he was single, he's got no business fooling around with women who work here. He's too high up in the DCPD to be dipping his pen in the company ink, if you know what I mean."
"I hear ya," Dyer nodded. "Like I said, I always thought he was an asshole."
The elevator stopped, and two people got on. Seeing freedom, Brenda pushed past them without apologizing and got out, even though it wasn't her floor. She ran down the hall, garnering stares from the people she passed, until she found the bathroom. She kneeled on the floor and vomited for the third time that morning. When she was done, she sat on the floor of the stall and tried to remember how to breathe.
Will had broken up with her because he wanted to save his marriage. But he left his wife…for another woman. Brenda didn't believe even Pope could have replaced her so fast, so that meant…
She leaned over the toilet and dry heaved. There was nothing left in her stomach to throw up.
That meant he was cheating on her. With some woman named Estelle. He had a wife and two girlfriends.
And he had chosen this Estelle over her. Despite all his promises, his assurance of her love, and how they would be together some day…he chose this other woman over her.
It wasn't that he didn't want to leave his wife. It wasn't that he didn't want to get seriously involved with someone as soon as he did.
It was that he didn't want to leave his wife…for her. He didn't want to make a commitment…to her. Someone had come along and easily eclipsed the two years of a life they had together. It was a shadow life, but the only one she had to hold on to. And now even that was taken away from her. Will never loved her. He was just biding his time.
After another round of dry heaves, Brenda picked herself off the floor and went to the sink. As she was washing her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror. I'm good looking, she thought, even though the persistent nausea over the past couple of weeks made her pale. I'm smart. I'm self-confident. Why did I ever let myself become the other woman? She stared at her reflection, as if she expected it to give her the answer. But it was as white and mute as she was, and she could have sworn she saw a small crack, like the shell of an egg, appear across her face.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Brenda stepped off the elevator onto the 6th floor and headed toward the large conference room at the end of the hall for the bi-weekly Chief's meeting. She was as prepared as she would ever be to see Will, and she just wanted to get it over with. She wore her favorite suit, a grey tweed that hugged her in all the right places, and spent extra time doing her makeup. She even straightened her hair with the flat iron, which took forever but was worth it. She knew she looked polished, professional, and in control, exactly how she wanted Will to see her. Nothing gives someone power like letting them know they can hurt you, she thought. And I will give him no power.
Brenda helped herself to the coffee and muffins that always awaited her in the conference room. As usual, conversation halted when she walked in. She gave her best Southern smile to her ten male colleagues, and some nodded back. A few seconds later their individual conversations resumed, and Brenda saw two empty seats at the end of the table and took one of them. She didn't have anything to say to these other Deputy Chiefs, and the feeling was mutual. Brenda only attended these meetings because the Chief himself wanted her to, so Will had no choice but to start including her. Will wasn't there yet, so she took advantage and prepared herself for his arrival. She folded her hands over a notebook she had pulled out of her bag, and pasted on the blandly interested facial expression she often used for interviews. She took the remnants of the rage and humiliation from the night before and stuffed them in a box, and put it in a deep, quiet place within herself she knew she could trust. Feelings were safe there, far away from her heart and her emotions.
Will walked in five minutes late, apologizing as he came through the door. Much to her dismay, the first thing he did was to seek her out with his eyes. She looked back, unblinking, making him quickly look away again. She was immensely pleased to see she had done quite a bit of damage to his face. Both his upper and lower lip had a deep, bloody cut, and he had a angry deep purple bruise the size of a silver dollar next to his lips. His eyes were red, and he looked to Brenda like he had one hell of a hangover.
"Chief Pope, hell, what happened to your face? Some suspect do that to you?" one of the men called out.
Will was clearly prepared for this question. "No, no suspect. It was just my son. We were wrestling and things got a little out of control. I guess I should just hope he gets a boxing scholarship to college." Will shook his head and tried to laugh, but it came out flat.
"That's some serious right cross the kid has," said someone else. "How old is your son anyways?"
Brenda knew his son was 7, and she was quite offended at the notion that a 7 year old could have punched Will has hard as she had. Will was also prepared for that question too, because he changed the subject and slipped in to "hard ass" mode.
"Okay everybody, enough with the chit-chat, we have work to do here. Take a copy of the agenda and let's get going."
The rest of the meeting was a blur, full of budget updates and crime statistics. Brenda felt Will's eyes on her, but she only looked at him when he was speaking, with a generic look of moderate interest on her face. Will's eyes flicked back to her, clearly monitoring her mood throughout the meeting. She was making him nervous. What did he think, that I'm going to throw another punch in front of everyone? Or stand up and accuse him of sexual harassment in front of these misogynistic jerks? Let him sweat, she thought to herself.
The meeting was finally adjourned by Will, and Brenda bent over to put her blank note pad and pen back in to her purse. When she sat up, Will was standing right in front of her. There were still several people in the room, clumps here and there engaged in conversation, and Will asked loudly, "Chief Johnson, can I see you in my office for a minute? I want to talk to you about the Cold Case you are investigating." Brenda knew it was bull, and wanted to tell him so, but couldn't because several sets of eyes were on her now. Will knew to ask in front of others, so she wouldn't dare say no. Brenda felt her ire rise. She has specifically told him, with a gun in his face, to never talk to her about what happened, and here he was, dragging her into his office. She had no doubt what the meeting was about.
She nodded stiffly and followed him down the hall to his office. He let her enter first and she stood in front of his desk, arms crossed. He shut the door.
"Brenda, please sit," he said softly.
"No. I am comfortable standin', and this is gonna be a real short meetin.'" She removed her mask of passivity and replaced it with what Will called her "angry face." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, forcing memories of his unwanted mouth on hers back into their hidden place.
Will went behind his desk collapsed in his chair, rubbing his head. "I really wish you would sit down, Brenda. I need to talk to you."
"Yea, and I really wish I wasn't wastin' time right now in your office, but we can't always get what we want. What is it, Will?" she asked bluntly.
He looked at her, then looked away. "I'm sorry, Brenda."
"Can you be a little more specific, Will? How can I possibly know what you are apologizin' for when there are so many stupid things you have done?" Her eyes were cold and narrowed in anger. Brenda hoped desperately that she was evoking memories of what it felt like to be on the wrong end of her gun. She would like him to feel that way forever.
"Last night, Brenda. I was drunk, completely out of control, and I am so sorry. My behavior was reprehensible, and I deserve your wrath. I know you said never to bring it up…"
Brenda interrupted. "Yea, I did, and I thought I made it clear."
"I know, but I couldn't just pretend it didn't happen. Especially since we have to work together. I don't want you to worry about that type of thing happening again, because it won't."
"Worried?" Brenda asked incredulously. She set her purse on the chair and put both hands on his desk, leaning into him. "Worried, like thinkin' my jackass boss is gonna physically assault me again late at night? Or worried that my jackass boss is gonna hit on me despite clear boundaries havin' been drawn two years ago? What exactly shouldn't I be worried about, Will?" She leaned in even further, using her height to her advantage. Will pushed his chair back a little, clearly intimidated by her.
"Both, Brenda. I'm not going to behave like that again, you have my assurances. And you deserved to punch me, you really did."
"Actually, I deserved to rip your testicles off," she said, staring him down. "But your face was easier to reach."
"Brenda, I know you're mad, and I…"
She laughed, a dry harsh laugh that made him jump. "Do you know how many times I have heard that come out of your lyin' mouth, Will? 'Brenda, I know you're mad….' Fill in the blank. Like I told you last night, I am way beyond believin' you, Will. Do you know what I'm worried about? That the next time I'll do more than pull a gun on you." She felt venom pump through her veins, anger beyond anger, and it took all her self-control from picking up the lamp on the desk and hitting him over the head with it. For years she had heard suspects talk about a murderous rage, and she understood what they felt. She had been in that place of blind rage a few times in her life, when hurting someone seemed like an uncontrollable reflex. Listening to Pope's pathetic apology, Brenda was in that zone now.
"There won't be a next time, Brenda."
Brenda ignored him. Forcing herself to lower her voice and think about something else then his dead body slumped over the desk, she said, "do you have any idea what you have done, Will? Your little drunken confession and gropin' last night ruined three years of hard work on both of our parts. Three years of learnin' how to be colleagues, how to work together so our disaster of a relationship didn't affect our jobs. My job. But after last night, all I feel is hatred for you, Will. Pure disgust and hatred. You have this way of walkin' in and screwin' up my life, and I'm sick of it. I have finally gotten to the point where PHD is respected, and people have accepted me just a little bit here, and my squad has gotten used to the way I do things. And now I gotta figure out all over again how to deal with you bein' my boss when I hate your guts? I had forgiven you, Will, for dumpin' me and marryin' someone else, because I found Fritz and learned what a good relationship is. And I saw what a broken, pathetic man you were to have thrown me away like garbage, and I realized it wasn't my fault. And I could put our past behind us and be friends. And now, that is all gone. We will never be friends. And I will never respect you again. And it is all your goddamn fault. It's always your fault." She fought back angry tears.
Will rested his head on his hand. He sighed. "I don't know what to say, Brenda. You're right, I damaged our friendship and our work relationship, and I hate myself for that. But I don't want you to leave here, I don't want you to leave PHD because of me. And I'm not going anywhere, so we have to learn how to work together." He paused. "Are you going to file a formal complaint?"
Brenda sat up and picked up her black bag. Suddenly her sleepless night caught up to her and fatigue hit her like a wave. "I don't know yet," she lied, knowing she wasn't, but wanting him to stew.
"Are you going to tell Fritz?"
She bristled at his words. "What is this, high school, you worried my big strong boyfriend is gonna beat you up after class?" Brenda glared at him. "It's none of your damn business what I tell Fritz. And as I showed you very clearly last night, I don't need any protectin'." She turned toward the door. "This conversation is over, Will. For good. You understand, or do I need to pull out my gun?"
"Fine, Brenda. I just wanted to apologize."
"Yea, and assure me it will never happen again, I got it," she sneered, opening the door.
"Better have someone look at your face, Chief Pope. Your son throws one hell of a punch."
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Two years ago
She had been worried for weeks. Even though Will assured her that no one would find out about that their affair had been brought up in his custody hearing, Brenda was still nervous. All the manipulating, sleazy, fat cat attorneys in LA could promise her that the contents of her deposition would never be revealed, and she still wouldn't feel safe. It was her greatest fear ever since she came to the LAPD, especially since she was so resented for being an outsider. If word got around that she used to be Pope's mistress, what little respect she had would be lost forever. People would just think Pope brought her in to run PHD because he was sleeping with her, not because she was a skilled criminal investigator. Well, at least I don't have to worry about Fritz finding out, Brenda thought, because he already knows.
Her current case upset her, and she was determined to solve it. A 16-year old boy had been gunned down outside of his house. His family priest had involved him in some Civics class project aimed to teach students about social injustice by working with prisoners thought by some to be innocent. Brenda thought it was the dumbest thing she had ever heard, and told the earnest priest as much. He didn't understand, and he refused to see that his actions indirectly got a young boy killed. Comparing him to Jesus Christ, she thought to herself. It's more like the priest is the one with a Savior complex.
Brenda sat listening to Detective Ross drone on as he reviewed the initial investigation of the Quick Mart murders, eager to get to contents of Gerald Curtis's cell at Fulsome in case it held valuable information. She was thinking that Robbery-Homicide did a pretty poor job of investigating these murders when she heard a woman's voice outside the hall, talking to the ever-lurking Taylor. Brenda turned to look, and Estelle Pope walked in the murder room.
Brenda hadn't seen Estelle for years; and she thought she looked hard and worn out, older than her age. I guess that's what happens when you marry Will Pope, Brenda mused. "Where is she," Estelle demanded, scanning the room with her eyes. There weren't many "shes" at the LAPD, and Brenda realized Estelle was looking for her. Dread enveloped her like a damp blanket, but she was able to steady her voice and ask Estelle to come to her office.
Brenda took one look at Estelle's angry eyes and knew exactly why Estelle was there. When she refused to leave the murder room, everything grew quiet, and it was as if Brenda had come out of her body and was hovering over the scene, watching Estelle and herself, surrounded by her people, as her worst nightmare played out. As an observer, Brenda could clearly see the rage emitting from Estelle's body in red waves, and the shame surrounding hers. She could hear every word out of Estelle's mouth… affair… mother of my children…sleeping with Will… but she couldn't process them, she just watched her own face grow redder and her jaw grow slack. It wasn't until Estelle turned and stormed out of the room that Brenda was pulled back into her body, and the silence cracked open and the weight of every eye in the room rested heavily on her. Think, Brenda, she told herself. Say something. She croaked out an apology to her squad, and then fixed her eyes on several boxes Detective Sanchez had brought in on a dolly. They were the much-anticipated cell contents from Fulsome, and Brenda was able to redirect her team away from the drama that had just unfolded. She felt like she had been splayed open, her soul excised and her dark secret pulled out of her for all to see. Will's quick appearance and words of assurance ran hollow to her ears. Her squad can't un-know; they heard what they heard and that can't be changed.
Driving home that evening, Brenda debated whether or not to tell Fritz about what happened. On the one hand, he would comfort her and share her anger and shame, making her burden lighter. On the other hand, Fritz hates Will, and she hadn't told him that details about their affair came up in her deposition. Will Pope is a sore topic in their house, so she filtered out information that would only make Fritz angrier. Telling Fritz that Estelle Pope revealed their affair in front of her colleagues because Will was dumb enough to leave love letters lying around would infuriate him, and no doubt make him think Will still has feelings for her. Brenda sighed, deciding she had no choice. As badly as she wanted to share her humiliating day with Fritz, she knew she couldn't. There was no point in stoking up a fire from the hot coals of Fritz's jealousy.
Fritz was waiting for her when she walked in the house. She sensed immediately that he was upset, but she made casual conversation about her missing purse, hoping she was wrong. She wasn't. Fritz knew. Somehow, word had traveled about Estelle's performance. And Fritz was furious, at her. She felt her own anger flair up when he accused her of this being her fault, that if she only told Pope she wasn't interested than Estelle never would have burst in to her murder room. She wanted to tell him that Estelle was crazy, that maybe she was jealous for no reason; she wanted to let him know she had dinner with Pope not that long ago and told him that they could only have a professional relationship, nothing more. But Brenda never got the chance. Fritz put his hands on her shoulders and lightly shook her, and then told her he loved her. For the first time. Brenda didn't answer, and Fritz stormed out of the house.
Brenda's silence was borne not out of fear; she knew Fritz loved her. Rather, it was borne out of anger. Fritz used those special words to brand her as his, to mark his territory. Nobody should be told they are loved in a voice tainted with fury and suspicion. He took what should have been a beautiful moment in their relationship and twisted it into a weapon, a shield to be used in the endless battle between him and Will. And there was no way Brenda was going to abuse those words too just to quell his insecurities. She would tell him she loved him in a moment of intimacy, when the world disappeared and nothing exists except the two of them, but not during a fight. Never during a fight. Brenda had been on the receiving end of possessive love, and she wasn't going to have that type of relationship with Fritz.
She spent the evening ruminating about her relationship with Will. She went through her secret box that contained pictures of the two of them, small gifts, and letters he sent her when he traveled. Kneeling on the floor of her bedroom, it suddenly occurred to her how wrong this all was. She kept bits and pieces of her relationship with Will in a dusty box, hidden from her live-in partner. She was angry that Will left her letters lying around, and here she was, no better than him. Brenda got up and grabbed a garbage bag, dumping the box and its contents in it. She thought she heard Fritz, but it was only Kitty, on the prowl.
Her anger toward Fritz didn't waiver, but she was increasingly worried about how late it was. She had no idea where he went, and she hoped it wasn't to a local bar. He was hurt, and she worried that he might turn to alcohol to calm him, breaking four years of sobriety. Brenda desperately hoped this wasn't the case; if he started drinking because of her, because of their relationship, she would feel awful. She lay down on the top of the bed, waiting for him to come home. She planned to stay up until he walked through the door, but sleep overtook her.
The next morning, she woke with a start, confused to be on top of the covers of an empty bed. She groaned when the day before rushed at her, and she remembered. She quickly got up and went out to the living room, relieved to see Fritz asleep on the couch. She padded softly up to him and sniffed, and she didn't detect any alcohol. She sighed with relief.
After getting dressed, Brenda pulled out a steno notebook and a pen. She had decided the night before, at the gates of sleep, to be the peacemaker. She would apologize for whatever Fritz thought she did wrong, and promise to tell Will to back off. And as mad as she was for Fritz using love as a weapon, she left him a note saying, "I love you too." She hoped that would soothe his ego and assure him that she was committed to him, that she had no interest in Will Pope. She left the notepad in a place he couldn't miss, and headed out to her car, carrying the garbage bag full of Pope-memories. Yesterday had been a landmark day: her reputation tarnished and her boyfriend infuriated, all in the span of four hours, thanks to Will Pope. She backed out of the driveway and tried to force the jumble of emotions within her to quiet down and go in to hibernation. There was no room for feelings in PHD, at least not for her.
