Sorry guys. Election week has me really messed up… I have been dissociating and I literally forgot what day it was. So I'm sorry I'm a day late again. Please don't be too mad at me… You know I love you guys!

Just so you have fair warning though, this chapter gets pretty intense near the end. At least it's intense for me because of how close I am to it. So just so you're warned.

xXxXx

Chapter Three– Beggars and Princes

xXxXx

The shrill ringing of her phone saved Ingrid from another Canton plagued nightmare early the next morning. After taking a deep breath and running her hand over her damp face, she reached for her phone at her bedside and held it to her ear.

"Third."

"Wakey wakey, mama," Fillmore's smooth voice greeted her and before she could stop herself, she smiled. Something made a loud thunk on his end of the phone. "Vallejo's calling everyone in."

She closed her eyes and reached for her lamp, glancing at the clock before turning the light on. "What the hell for?" She rubbed her eyes. "It's not even five o'clock yet."

"The school paper caught wind of our case."

Ingrid swore.

"Yeah, I know," he muttered. "He's calling everyone in now for a briefing so no one is caught off guard when they walk in."

"This is going to be a nightmare," she complained and ran her hand through her hair, eyeballing the myriad of files poking out of her backpack next to her desk. She'd been drowning herself in them until two am when she couldn't take anymore and she stuffed them all inside. They'd been calling to her even in her sleep.

"There's more," Fillmore added. "He just told me that Appleton woke up to a phone call of his own. Something about beggars and comets. I didn't catch it all."

Sighing, she threw off her blankets, clad in a black bralette and shorts, and headed for her closet. "What a day." Fillmore chuckled and she kicked her backpack out of spite. "Meet you there?"

"Yup. Late." Yawning, she tossed her cell back on her bed and grabbed a pair of torn up skinny jeans and a loose black t-shirt from their hangers. She slipped the shirt over her head and pondered if she should bring up the possible connection between this case and Wade Canton.

It's just your imagination, Third. She stepped out of her shorts and into her black jeans while eyeballing her shelf lined with Shakespearean literature with spite. Joseph Ramone is a punk. He's probably got his finger in everyone's pie to some degree. Despite herself, she smirked at her own Henry VIII reference (her favorite reference, at that). Canton is hindering your ability to perform on the job. You need to forget about him. Focus.

Ingrid started to button up her jeans when she spotted the navy blue spine of her copy of Julius Caesar and she froze. Her photographic memory snapped back to the conversation she just had with her partner.

"Something about beggars and comets."

"Crackers." She walked over to the book and ran her finger down the spine before picking it up and flipping it open to act II, scene II:

"When beggars die, there are no comets seen
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

She shut the book in her hands and stared at the wall as if it had all the answers. "He's switched plays?" she asked it as her thoughts turned over and over in her mind and displayed themselves on the wall before her. Traitor's judgment. Traitor. Mischief. Beggars and princes.

Her heart leapt in her chest. That's it.

She snapped the book shut, grabbed Henry VIII from the shelf, and shoved them in her black satchel before bolting out the door.

xXxXx

"Mornin' hot stuff," Tehama greeted as Fillmore walked into the nearly empty HQ. A few of the younger patrollers crowded the coffee pot and were trying to figure out how to get it started before the others started arriving. He flashed Tehama a toothy smile and walked up beside her.

"How is it that it's barely six in the morning and you still got all your beauty sleep?" he quipped with a wink.

She coyly eyed him up and down. "I could ask you the same thing."

Fillmore chuckled. "Where's the boss?"

"He's waiting for us in his office. Appleton, Ingrid, and Bishop are already in there."

Fillmore wrinkled his eyebrows. "Frank Bishop is here?"

"Vallejo called him in," Tehama explained as they made their way over to the closed off cubicle. "Apparently, whatever the creep told Appleton got him thinking that this guy is starting to pose a threat. He wanted Bishop's help with the profile." Fillmore opened the office door for her and followed her in, shutting the door quietly behind him. The sight before him unnerved him.

Ingrid's hair hadn't been brushed and she didn't do her makeup, which made the bags under her eyes much darker. She had jumped and his and Karen's arrival. She held one book in her hands while Bishop, clad in cargo jeans and an X High sweatshirt, held another. Appleton, leaning against the wall opposite the two profilers, had his arms crossed and was staring at the two with stern eyes. Vallejo, with disheveled hair and an untucked button up dress shirt, stood behind his desk and nodded at their arrival.

"What did we miss?" Tehama asked, not missing a beat.

Appleton took out his phone out of his inner suit jacket pocket and pressed a button. A warbled voice rang out.

"When beggars die, there are no comets seen. The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt."

Click.

Fillmore suppressed a shudder. "Dawg."

"Principal Appleton got that voicemail two hours ago," Vallejo explained and walked around the desk to the large corkboard on the wall. "An hour later, he got another call from the journalism teacher saying one of his editors just received a tip about the calls the teachers have been getting."

"Let me guess," Tehama interrupted. "Anonymous?"

"Bingo," Bishop quipped and turned back to his book. Fillmore stole another glance at Ingrid. The book in her hand trembled lightly as she murmured something else to Bishop. He didn't have to wonder if she'd remembered breakfast before she ran out the door; she lived farther away from the school than he did and she somehow made it there before him. He made a note to make sure she ate something when the time came.

"It couldn't have been Barrow," Vallejo continued and pointed to his picture, which was sitting under a picture of Joey Ramone. The blank picture above him only had the letter B printed above it. "I put Anza and Tehama on his protective detail."

She nodded, her black and blue curls bouncing in sync with the movement. "He had no contact with anyone who could have given him another burn phone between yesterday and when the call was made this morning. Joe's still hanging outside his house just in case anything changes."

"We figure," Bishop started, shut the book in his hands, and handed it back to Ingrid. "Either B already found someone else to make the calls for him or he's sacking up and making the calls himself."

"Regardless of which of those possibilities is correct, that means he's moving fast," Principal Appleton spoke up, straightening his striped necktie. "The threatening nature of the voicemail I received and the heads up from Mr. Heather prompted me to wake you all," he explained.

Fillmore leaned against the doorframe. "We really think he's a threat?"

"We know he's a threat." All eyes turned in Bishop's direction. He pointed to the letter B on the board. "Ingrid made an excellent connection. Whoever he is, he doesn't understand Shakespeare's format, but he understands enough to pick out bits and pieces from pertinent works to send his message."

"At first, we thought he was taking the role of Buckingham to try to declare his innocence," Ingrid continued and held up the books in her hands, trying to ignore the feeling of Fillmore's eyes drilling into her skull ever since he walked in the door. "But the verses he sent Principal Appleton weren't from Henry VIII. They're from Julius Caesar. This got me thinking how the two plays are related, but they're not related at all. The characters aren't even from the same century."

Vallejo threw his hands out. "Well if they're not connected then how do we know he's a threat?"

"Themes," Bishop stated and pointed to the books as he said their titles. "Julius Caesar is all about bad omens. Henry VIII is about the rise and fall of power."

"Put them together-" Ingrid held the books together in her hands. "-and he's foreshadowing. He wants revenge."

Momentary panic shot through Fillmore's chest in a hot wave. He pushed off of the doorframe and stood up straight. "He's going after someone in power." Ingrid nodded but shrugged.

"But we have no suspects, so it could be anyone," she countered dryly and set her books down on the bookcase behind her. "It could be the school board, the student council, the principals-"

"Hell," Fillmore interrupted, "it could even be us." Ingrid froze and stared at the red carpet as the others continued to speculate. It could be us, she thought. Or… could it be me?

No. Wade Canton is just messing with your head, she tried to convince herself. Don't kid yourself. It's not all about you. She put her fingers to her temples to fight the ever-present migraine. Between fighting flashbacks and needing to go back into her memory for pertinent information, her memories were getting blurred together which made it harder to separate fact from nightmare. Stop it. Go away.

Fillmore watched carefully as Ingrid shut her eyes and her fingers met her temples. To everyone else, she was just searching her memory like she normally did. But to Fillmore, he knew something about this was different. His gut churned as he watched her slowly back into the bookshelf behind her, face toward the ground and shoulders hunched forward, like she was trying to shrink in on herself. He inwardly kicked himself. You should have followed up with her last night, dumbass.

Ingrid had been acting even more strange after they tried talking to Ramone. She was hyper-focused and she avoided all conversation not case-related until the end of the day, at which point she bolted the first chance she got, folders and files in hand. Whatever it was that had her freaked out in the first place was only getting worse. Worry grew in the pit of his stomach as he wondered what he should do. He definitely didn't want to cause a scene; Ingrid never responded well to public confrontation.

He glanced between her and the others in the room and his eyes settled on Ingrid's books on the shelf behind her trembling form. He braced himself and approached her quietly, reached for a book behind her – the copy of Julius Caesar – and brushed her shoulder in an attempt to bring her back down to earth.

She flinched at his touch, which made him ache. The fact that even his touch made her uneasy not only scared the hell out of him, but it physically pained him; he was supposed to be the one to protect and comfort her. Deep down, Fillmore was almost sure he wasn't the cause of her strange behavior, but it didn't stop the feeling of guilt surging through him. He watched her hands fall from her temples and he brought the book between them, opening it up to a random page before asking softly, "You okay?"

Her green eyes flicked between his chest and the open book in his dark hands. She blinked multiple times and he tapped her arm with his elbow, encouraging her to respond.

"Ready to give the profile, Third?" Vallejo asked.

Her head snapped in his direction and Fillmore inwardly swore. He always has to interrupt, doesn't he? Ingrid paused, registering what he said, before nodding in Bishop's direction.

"Whenever he's ready."

Vallejo nodded. "Let's get out there." Everyone headed for the door and filed out as Ingrid reached behind them and grabbed her other book. Fillmore watched as Bishop, the last of them, left the room before he turned back to Ingrid.

"You haven't answered my question."

God, he can't let anything go. She set her jaw and snatched her other book from her partner's hands. "I'm fine." She grabbed her satchel at her feet and shoved the books inside. She didn't want to fight with him again, but she also didn't want to let him in. Not yet. Not now.

"Really?" he challenged, crossing his muscular arms. "It doesn't seem like it."

Ingrid straightened and looked him dead in the eyes with a glare she only used in the interrogation room. "I am for now." She turned on her heel and headed for the exit but he grabbed her upper arm.

"Ingrid-"

"What?" she snapped. He stood momentarily shocked by her hostility, looking into her green eyes with worry. This wasn't the Ingrid he knew.

"Ingrid… you're scaring me," he told her, lightly squeezing her arm and silently begging for her to slow down and talk to him. But the last thing he wanted to do was to push her too far. Her glare softened as he spoke. "I need to know if you're up for this."

She looked away from him to the zipper on his leather jacket, wondering what she should say before shrugging her arm out of his grasp. His eyes begged for her to stay, to not push him away, and her heart clenched in her chest at the sight. Another tender moment passed between them before she met his eyes again and said, much softer,

"For now."

Before he could counter, she was out the door and he was alone left wondering what the hell was wrong with his partner.

xXxXx

Ingrid couldn't shake off Fillmore's confrontation. She knew the flashbacks were getting worse with the less sleep she got and she knew people were noticing. It was obviously affecting her work… but she couldn't take herself off of the case. She had to make sure, if it was Canton, that he would stay away from her team.

But you still need to do something, Third, she told herself. She, Bishop, and Vallejo stood side-by-side in front of about forty safety patrol officers to give the profile before the school day started. Ingrid's eyes darted to the analog clock on the fall they faced: 6:27.

"We need to keep our minds open on this one," Vallejo bellowed. "I want every case file within the last year looked through for any connections. Look for any perps who have recently completed their sentences, moved back into the area, or could have any connection to Adrian Barrow, Joseph Ramone, or who has any bad history with any of the teachers who have been targeted."

"As of now," Bishop took over, "we have no recognizable pattern of teachers targeted that could point us in the direction of a suspect." He nodded in Tehama's direction. "Tehama should be getting a sketch of the perp from a witness this morning so please refer to that if you come across any possible suspects once the sketch is complete and posted." He turned to Ingrid and nodded. She turned to the crowd.

"His ultimate target is someone who symbolizes power. We're unsure of the specific target as of now," she scanned the faces in the room, purposefully avoiding eye contact with her partner in the far right corner, "but what we do know is that he's escalating quickly. Whatever his plans are, he's going to be making his move and soon."

Vallejo continued with his orders as Ingrid started seeing double. Suddenly every pair of eyes belonged to Wade Canton.

You can't honestly believe you're okay, can you? He mocked her.

Her heart thudded in her chest as Bishop's voice faded into a murmur beside her. Her stomach dropped to the floor and took the breath from her lungs along with it. She braced herself against the wall behind her, fighting back the memories through the pounding in her skull.

"Just let it happen."

"Just relax."

"Come on Dee."

"All right people-" Vallejo clapped his hands together. "-work fast. Let's catch this guy."

Ingrid watched the officers scatter to their desks and she stole another glance at the clock: 6:38. She inwardly swore as her heart rate picked up again. Her fingers buzzed and her head started getting cloudy once more as she noticed Fillmore making his way to the front of the room where she was standing and sheer panic started to set in.

She looked like she was going to be sick by the time Vallejo and Bishop had finished giving the profile. Fillmore watched her throughout the entire presentation; he watched her back into the wall, stare at the clock, and barely hold herself together. His head screamed with concern as Vallejo dismissed the officers and retreated with Bishop to his office, but when he made his way towards Ingrid, she fled in the other direction.

"Fillmore," Karen approached him and nodded towards Ingrid as she walked briskly out the door of the HQ. "What's going on with her?"

Fillmore pushed past her. "I'm about to find out."

He walked out the door into an already busy hallway. Thursday mornings were the busiest between the student council meeting at seven and glee club rehearsals. Fillmore swore – it only made it that much easier for Ingrid to slip away – but he spotted her turning the corner on the left end of the hallway and he walked after her. Turning the corner a little too fast, he collided with a group of fellow juniors.

"Hey watch it!" one of them barked. He mumbled an apology as he pushed through the protesting group and continued on.

But she was gone.

Ingrid stumbled out of the third floor elevator into the empty hallway with a hand on her chest, trying and failing to draw air into her lungs. The elevator doors shut behind her and she fell back against them, lowered herself to the floor and looked up at the ceiling. The sign hanging from the ceiling read "Psychology Wing". No one is up here this early, she thought. You've got time. Pull yourself together.

A single tear fell from her eye as the ceiling tiles blurred together and Wade pressed himself against her again. Just relax. She pulled her knees to her chest tightly and forcefully gasped for air; her nose filled with the scent of his aftershave and the faint smell of cigarettes. Her hands grew stiff and her joints ached. She needed to breathe. Breathe, Third. Breathe.

"Stop it," she gasped. He pushed his hands up her shirt. "S-Stop it." He grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Officer Third?"

Ingrid forced her eyes open. The hands on her shoulders didn't belong to Wade. They belonged to a blonde woman, green eyes much like her own, fair skin, rectangular glasses. Dr. Holman. Head of the psych department.

"Are you with me Officer Third?"

Ingrid blinked, releasing a few more tears, and tried to nod. Dr. Holman nodded her approval. "Good," she praised and tightened her grip on Ingrid's shoulders. "Let's get you into my office. You'll be safe in there." Ingrid blinked a few more times. A door shut behind her and the middle-aged woman led her to a couch.

No. Wade led her to the couch.

He pushed her down into the couch and got on top of her. He was in between her legs and forcing his tongue in her mouth.

"Just relax, Dee."

His massive, callused hands were under her shirt and pulling her closer to him. She tried pushing him off. She felt his erection against her leg as he unzipped her jeans.

"Officer Third, I'm going to place this on your chest."

He forced her down by the neck with one hand and harshly grabbed her breast with another.

"Come on, baby," he whispered huskily in her ear.

Something icy pressed against her chest and Ingrid's hands flew up to it. She gasped for air and fell back to earth.

"Good, that's it," Dr. Holman praised, letting Ingrid replace her own hands on the ice pack. Tears fell freely down her cheeks and she rocked back and forth, holding onto the ice pack like it was her gravity keeping her feet on the ground. She could still feel his lips on hers, his cigarette-tainted breath hot on her face.

"Breathe, Officer."

Ingrid gasped in response, her arms growing weak, but she focused on her heart rate. I'm okay. He's not here. She reached up with a now cold hand and touched her cheek, wiping away a tear and staring at it as it fell down her trembling fingers. I don't need to cry. I am not weak. Do not allow him to make you weak. She put her hand back on the ice pack against her chest and stared at Dr. Holman who was staring worriedly back at her.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" she whispered, begging for an answer because she couldn't come up with one on her own.

"Is it safe for me to assume," Holman started, removing her glasses to hang them on the collar of her peach button up shirt, "that you're having flashbacks?" Ingrid nodded, taking the ice pack down from her chest and setting it in her lap, squeezing it tightly in her hands. "Tell me about them."

Panic flared in her chest as the memories threatened to consume her again. She shook her head and fought to keep breathing. "No, no I can't."

Holman placed her hands over Ingrid's. "You don't have to immerse yourself in the memory. You don't need to be specific. You can keep it simple. Just talk me through it."

But it's not simple. It's complicated. It's heavy. Ingrid fought to piece together something coherent that would make sense but her words weren't forming. There was a lump in her throat that kept anything from spilling out, like a plug in a sink.

Let it go, mama. Fillmore told her.

"I-I was undercover." Stop it. Don't. She swallowed the plug in her throat. "I was supposed to get c-close to him," she stuttered. Holman nodded, pressing Ingrid's hands tighter against the ice pack, silently encouraging her to continue. Ingrid stared at their hands and focused on the cold.

"He tried to rape me."

Dr. Holman bit her lip but nodded in acknowledgement. "And you have eidetic memory." Ingrid nodded, letting the tears fall.

"And the flashbacks follow me everywhere." Her voice broke as the words left her mouth, the burden of holding them lifting from her throat. "I can't do this anymore, Dr. Holman, I need to know how to stop them. How do I get them to stop?" Holman watched the girl breaking in front of her with sympathetic eyes, knowing that the words she was about to say would not be received well. She placed her hand back over Ingrid's.

"Stop fighting them."

Ingrid did a double take. Did she hear that right? "What?"

"You have photographic memory," Holman pointed out the obvious. "The memories are not going anywhere." Ingrid shifted under her gaze, debating whether or not she should make a run for it. Holman sensed this; she moved her chair slightly closer to Ingrid and kept her eyes on hers. "The more you fight the flashbacks, the harder they're going to fight back. Do you understand?"

Ingrid's head swam with the notion that she had to suffer through the memories. She doesn't understand, she thought as her mind took her to the night before when she was plagued with the nightmares. She woke up stifling a scream, covered in bruises from thrashing against the wall and her bedside table, and a racing heart she couldn't slow down. Her vision started to blur again, turning Holman into a vague collage of diluted shapes and colors. Ingrid remembered blacking out in the hallway with her only recollection being Barrow's suggestive gaze as he stared at her form before being pulled off of him.

"What are you doing girl?"

"What's gotten into you?"

I can't just let them take over, she argued. She was already seeing Wade in everyone she passed: everyone had his evergreen eyes, his lopsided smile, and wore his aftershave. He whispered in her ear: I own you. Nausea spread through her stomach like a tidal wave and she shuddered.

"Stay with me, Officer." Ingrid opened her eyes and looked Dr. Holman in the eye once more. Her heart was pounding so hard and for so long, her chest started to ache from the strain and her head was lighter than normal. You can't keep this up, Ingrid.

"So w-what am I supposed to do?" she gasped. Stars gathered in the corners of her eyes.

"Breathe." Dr. Holman ordered softly. Ingrid took a strained breath through her nose in response and Holman nodded in approval. "You have to let the flashbacks run their course. And each time, they will get easier and easier to stay present through." Ingrid's arms and legs were tingling from lack of oxygen and she felt her fingers stiffen once more, but Holman continued. "You have to acknowledge them but you don't have to lose yourself in them."

"H-How?" Ingrid was seeing two of everything now.

"Keep yourself grounded," Holman explained. "Grab something with texture and focus on it. Be aware of the ground beneath your feet." She squeezed the ice pack in Ingrid's hands. "Feel something cold. Tell yourself that you're safe. Anything that can keep you in the moment while the flashbacks play out."

She felt herself start to sway and shook her head, "I can't…"

"It's okay, don't fight it. Just lie down."

Ingrid blinked at the ceiling before shutting her eyes.

xXxXx

I have always been curious how people with photographic memory deal with trauma. It was kind of hard for me to write this all down and put it in words that can really iterate how intense panic attacks due to trauma are like. I've had panic attacks before, but these are two fairly separate situations and they're very different. I really hope I captured it correctly… I've met a lot of people this year who have helped me wrap my mind around this idea and that's where the inspiration for this chapter came from. This chapter is for them.

Thanks for reading, guys. Please review and let me know how I did! I'd love to hear from you. Sending lots of love your way!