A/N: Hello, my lovelies! Here are go again. Many thanks to im0rca for her magnificent beta skills and to madcorvus for the most amazing graphics I've ever seen to go along with this tale. But mostly, thanks to everyone who has given us a review on this tale of ours. I need the encouragement!

Now, let's meet Carol, shall we? ;) The plot thickens!

The carpet was old fashioned, thick, intricately patterned and faded with the passage of too many afternoons caught in the haze of the Georgia sun; a beast of a rug that no matter how much you scrubbed and beat at it, it never seemed to really get clean.

Carol had always hated the damn thing.

She sat perched on the edge of one of the living room's overstuffed armchairs, clad in nothing more than her threadbare nightgown and robe, her auburn hair a free falling mess of curls around her shoulders as she avoided the unblinking stares of the policemen sitting on her sofa. The silence stretched out like taffy around them as they gave her a minute to process the news.

Ed was dead. Carol fiddled with a loose thread on the edge of the hated rug, curling it around her big toe as the words spun around and around in her head.

Ed was dead.

She realized the coppers were waiting on her to say something.

"When did this happen?" Carol finally asked.

"Earlier tonight," one answered. Carol raised her eyes from the rug and studied the two men. One older, dressed in the sharp lines of a captain's uniform, had a kind face and was scrutinizing her with what seemed to be almost genuine compassion. The younger one was garbed in a rumpled suit and worn trench coat that was still damp from the rain. He worried a battered fedora in his hands as he stared at her through dark eyes. He was harder to read and it unnerved Carol. She was naturally observant, good at reading people; had to be, to judge Ed's moods and prepare herself for the swing of his fist. Until now.

"What happened, Officer...?" She trailed off, not remembering either of their names at the moment.

"Detective," the younger one replied gently. "Detective Shane Walsh and this is Lieutenant Dale Horvath."

"Thank you," Carol said. "What happened to him?" That was good, something any normal woman would ask in her situation. Her mind twitched briefly to her other visitor before she refocused her efforts on the men in front of her.

"Ma'am, we can't go into a whole lot of detail just yet," Lieutenant Horvath said. "There are still a lot of things we are trying to work out-"

Oh.

"He was murdered," she said softly.

The men exchanged a glance with each other, surprised. Damn. That explains a lot.

"Yes," Walsh replied shortly, earning a glare from his supervising officer. Walsh ignored it, fixing his unblinking gaze at her and Carol remembered he'd introduced himself as detective. She clenched the soft cotton of her robe with tense fingers and tried to breathe, wondering just how talented a detective he was.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Peletier," Lt. Horvath said, not unkindly. "May I use your phone?"

Carol shook her head and rubbed her hand across her face, her mind spinning in a hundred different directions.

"Of course," she said. "There is one upst - in the parlor." Careful, girl. Don't let them upstairs! "It's a coin operation one, I'm afraid." She tried to appear nonchalant while working to calm the frantic stuttering of her heart at her near mistake.

"That's all right," the lieutenant answered. "I'll just be a moment. Shane." Carol didn't miss the quick gesture the officer gave to the detective as he stepped into the hall, leaving her alone with Walsh. For a moment, there was no sound between them but the ticking of the clock that sat on the mantle over the fireplace.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he finally said. Carol just nodded, back to curling her toes around the fraying edges of the rug. "Mind if I pour myself a drink?" She looked up; Walsh was eyeing the wet bar on the far side of the room. She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. She listened to the clink of glassware on the wooden bar, the gush of liquid being poured before a tumbler of amber liquid was thrust into her vision. She looked up, confused.

"I can't... I'm not supposed to..." she stuttered. "Ed..."

Ed was dead. She wouldn't get hit for taking a drink of his precious liquor, not now. Carol bit her lip to hide the smile that threatened to spread across her face and took the glass with a shaking hand. The whiskey burned, unfamiliar, and she choked as it slid down her throat. She felt Walsh's hand on her shoulder, the warmth from his palm seeping through the thin fabric she wore as he steadied her while she coughed. It took her a moment to catch her breath.

"Thank you," she said.

"First drink?" Walsh asked as he sauntered back over to the sofa.

"First in a long time," Carol replied softly. She hadn't had a drink since her wedding night. A proper wife didn't drink, as far as Ed was concerned. The back of his hand had made that abundantly clear to her.

"Sip it, don't gulp." He was almost smiling at her. "Let it rest on your tongue a minute before you swallow." He nodded at her encouragingly and Carol took another cautious sip, following his instructions. The taste of whiskey on her tongue made her skin tingle and it went down easier this time, filling her with warmth that pooled low in her belly. "Better?"

"Much, thank you," Carol said. She spun the drink in her hand, watching the alcohol swish around in the glass.

"I hate to ask this right now, but did your husband have any reason to be down at the warehouse district tonight?" He was watching her again.

"Not that I'm aware of," she answered honestly.

That seemed to be all he wanted to ask for the moment and he settled back into the couch, taking a long slurp from his own glass as he fixed his gaze on her. She felt her toes curl of their own accord, burying themselves in the threads of the rug under her feet. She felt the hint of dust grit against her skin. I really hate this thing.

"Why do you keep staring at me?" she blurted out suddenly. Walsh cocked an eyebrow at her and lowered his drink.

"I suppose I'm waiting for you to start crying," he said archly.

"Oh." Because any other woman confronted with news of her husband's murder would be hysterical by now. Dammit, Carol. She was saved from having to come up with a respectable answer by the return of Lt. Horvath, coming to a stop just inside the archway that led to the hall with a regretful look on his face.

"We need you to come down to the station," he said.

"May I ask why?" Breathe, old girl. Just breathe.

"We have some questions," Horvath answered. "And we're going to need you to confirm his identity."

"Don't you have his ID already?" Carol asked.

"Just papers," Walsh said.

"I need to see his face," Carol realized aloud. Cooperate. Play your role. "What time do you want me?"

"Actually, you need to come with us now, Mrs. Peletier," Lt. Horvath said firmly.

Oh, God. Her heart sank and without a word she drained her glass, ignoring the smirk of surprise and approval on Walsh's face as she stood and clutched her robe to her.

"Well, then. If you gentlemen will give me a moment to dress?"

Walsh stood as he and Horvath both murmured their agreement. Carol left them in her living room as calmly as she could, making it to the top of the stairs before anxiety caught up with her. She leaned against the wall, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She'd known the minute her first visitor had arrived, banging on the front door and pulling her from sleep, that something was terribly, horribly wrong. She'd barely had a chance to comprehend the instructions he'd delivered in a cold voice, without explanation, before new knocks at her door had announced the arrival of the police. They'd told her what the other visitor hadn't. Ed was dead. Murdered.

Laughter bubbled out of her without thought and Carol clamped her hands over her mouth, hoping the men in her house tonight hadn't heard that. She was free. Joy burst in a silent explosion inside of her, making her body tremble from the force of it. Ed would never touch her again. She supposed it was a sin to celebrate the murder of her husband; if it was, this was sin she would embrace with open arms. Later. Thoughts of her third guest filtered through her haze of happiness, sobering her quicker than a bucket of water dumped on a drunk. Her celebration would have to wait. Time was ticking.

Carol made her way down the long hallway past door after door of empty rooms. The boardinghouse hadn't had lodgers in a while, rumors of Ed's temper doing more to hamper the business even than his mismanagement of their limited funds. She moved on light feet to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, slipping inside and turning to carefully close the door, keeping her back to the hulking figure that stood in the shadows by her bed.

"Well?" Merle Dixon's voice was an icy drawl that sent skitters of frission down her spine. She knew instinctively that, for all the horrors she'd experienced at Ed's hand, this Merle Dixon could deliver far worse. This man was dangerous, the kind of dangerous she'd only read about in novels.

"My husband is dead," Carol answered softly, still facing the door.

"So I hear." He sounded almost amused.

"The police want me to go to the station with them." She kept her voice low as she turned to face him, watching the smoke from his cigarette curl around him like a veil.

"Then you should get a move on, doll." He gestured her towards her closet. She hesitated when Dixon made no effort to move or turn around.

"You're going to watch me change?"

With a dramatic sigh, Dixon turned to gaze out the window, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Carol shifted on her feet, intensely anxious about having this unnverving man, whom she'd known less than an hour , in the room with her while she changed. She could see the faint outline of his gun pressed against the inside of his coat as he smoked and thought for a brief moment she might faint.

"Hurry up," Dixon growled. "They won't wait down there forever."

Her feet finally obeyed and now Carol moved fast, pulling undergarments from the heavy oak dresser and tossing her stockings onto the bed before she moved to the closet. She pulled the door open, casting a quick look at Dixon to make sure he wasn't looking before shedding her robe and nightgown. She threw her things on as quickly as she could, grabbing a dress at random before snatching her one pair of good day heels from the floor. She turned and jumped; Dixon had moved to stand by the end of her bed and was staring at her with a sly look on his face. He watched me. Her skin crawled at the thought.

"Tick, tock."

She loathed him already, but he was right; she had to move fast. Carol swallowed her nerves and sat on the edge of the bed to roll on her stockings with shaking hands. She finished one leg and was clipping her stocking to the suspender of her garter when thick fingers skimmed across the warm skin of her upper thigh. Carol didn't think as she moved faster than she could blink, slapping Dixon's hand away and leaping to her feet.

Oh no nononono. Carol's breath caught in her throat as she eyed the giant of a man standing less than a foot from her, her body frozen in anticipation of the blow that was sure to come now. Dixon's eyes dropped to her stockinged feet and trailed slowly up her body before meeting her anxious gaze with a smirk. Was that approval?

"Good girl," he murmured. "You're stronger than I thought, darlin'."

"You're not going to hit me?" Carol asked before she could stop herself. She flushed with shame at the show of weakness, but refused to let her eyes drop from his. Any hint of humor fell from Dixon's expression as he looked back at her.

"No." He stepped back, giving her room to breath again. "Hurry up, doll. I figure you've got less than a minute now before the flatfoots come lookin' for ya." Oh god, there are policemen downstairs. Before the next thought could even fully form in her head, Dixon spoke again.

"We both know I'll do a lot worse if you mention me to those dicks downstairs."

Right. She stuffed her feet in her shoes and moved to her dressing table, quickly rolling and pinning her hair back as Dixon continued talking.

"You remember what I said?"

"Don't say anything to anyone. You were never here, this never happened. Play my role and I won't get hurt," Carol replied as she dusted her face with a light sprinkle of powder. "I still don't understand though-"

"That comes later." Dixon interrupted her with a wave of his hand, stubbing out his cigarette in Ed's ashtray on the bedside table. "Go with the coppers now. Come home and someone will be in touch with more instructions."

Carol swept up her coat and purse, turning to face Merle Dixon one more time. She had to ask; she had to know before she went downstairs to face her husband's cold corpse.

"What did Ed get me into?"

Merle Dixon gave a chuckle, his pearly white teeth gleaming in a shark's grin she was sure would haunt her nightmares in the days to come.

"Doll, you have no idea."