~Chapter Three~

I've never been the kind…to ever let my feelings show.
I thought that bein' strong … meant never losin' your self-control.


But I'm just drunk enough….to let go of my pain
To hell with my pride… let it fall like rain…from my eyes,
tonight I wanna cry.

-----------excerpt from Tonight I wanna Cry
–Keith Urban

Malcolm slid the key card into the door knob of the hotel suite. He'd already had four scotches in the hotel bar and had the rest of another bottle in his hand. He wasn't flying for a week and his meeting with the prosecutor to go over his testimony wasn't until tomorrow afternoon.

Fiona would be up later; she was having dinner with Damian who'd promised to be on his best behavior. Malcolm told her at some point during the flight to cancel her hotel room; he had a suite and an extra bed. No sense in spending her flight attendant salary, and he could certainly use the company. A change of pace from his solitary existence. Going to work and coming home...

That was why he took so many international flights it kept him busy. No time miss a life he didn't have anymore. This time however, it was Kyle and Julia Pratt who were the cause of his binge---well, okay so not entirely Kyle and Julia. Jessica and Chloe were in the mix somewhere, and that one fact was the underlying root of his guilt with Kyle Pratt. Once again bits and pieces of the various conversations played through his head. His reactions on board that evening while not entirely controlled by personal experience were definitely influenced. He'd seen similar irrational behavior before.

"Ms. Pratt, have you had anything to drink on this flight? Anything at all?"

She looked utterly stunned that he'd even asked her such a thing and responded vehemently, "No."

He was certain she was under the influence of something, she seemed paranoid and delusional "Are you under any medication?"

"I have sleeping pills with me just like every other passenger on board." she hesitated for several seconds then continued, clearing struggling internally before she made her confession, "And I'm carrying Klonopin, for anxiety. " She met his gaze with no shame, "I took two this morning."

He became patronizing, his suspicions vindicated, his disapproval clearly warranted, or so he thought, " I see—how long have you been on them?" Looking back now it was almost as if he'd accused her of being a drunken addict, which is what he was thinking.

"I'm not on them." Of course she denied it, didn't they all?
"How long?"
"I filled the prescription a week ago."she glanced at all them accusingly, "when my husband died."

The wind had gone out of his accusation, knowing loss himself and it literally knocked the stuffings out of one's soul. but it still didn't change the fact that he still thought she was strung out. He thought--go ahead and search the plane. Placate her.

Then it became a matter of thinking her not drunk, but in distraught denial of the truth. What else was he supposed to think after the message from Berlin and the next conversation? And the hardest words he'd ever had to say to anyone. He knew of death and denial as well. He tried, damned if he didn't try to get her to come with him, but she was hysterical, and she would not listen to him.

"Where is she?" She asked desperately.
"She's dead godammit!" he'd shouted at her in his frustration, nearly choking on the words, it just about as devastating saying them to someone else as hearing them directed at yourself.

"You found her," she asked, utter devastation on her face.
"No I didn't find her." And he felt for her, understanding her agony, and yet still thinking her lost in a delusion. Then he'd led her away.

Malcolm poured yet another glass of scotch as he remembered not a conversation this time but the view across the crowded hanger...

….His deplaned passengers sat awaiting other accommodations and such, while all of them had to deal with the reality that only person on the airplane who had not been delusional was Kyle Pratt; now lost in a touching conversation with the daughter no one had believed existed. The two-faced crowd who had only been to happy to applaud Carson for catching her, now had the audacity to whisper about her, and what a brave woman she was. None of them stepped forward to offer an apology.

Maybe if he'd shown some of her strength and determination, if he'd only fought harder against the threat in his own home maybe SHE would still be alive….

It was nearing midnight when Fiona arrived back at the suite, Damian had escorted her up, and she invited him in, only to find Malcolm passed out cold on the sofa with the TV on, the remote control in one hand, and an empty scotch glass in the other. Fiona took the glass setting it on the coffee table, and then the remote, turning off the television. She glanced at Damian, "I'd do it myself, but he's too far gone to go under his own steam. Will you help me get him to bed?"

"Glad to." Damian replied as they somehow pulled Malcolm to his feet between them and some how got him into the bedroom. Fiona removed the tie that hung haphazardly around his neck and stripped off his shirt, leaving his tee-shirt, all of this accomplished while Damian held him upright, and then Damian tackled his shoes and they managed the trousers together. As Fiona gently tucked the covers up around his shoulders. he mumbled one word. "Chloe."

"Oh Malcolm." Compassion filled her voice as moisture welled up in Fiona's eyes. She reached down to stroke her fingers through his hair, murmuring softly to him, "I thought it was getting better." She kissed his forehead like a mother would a sick child and joined Damian at the door, as she swiped her tears away.

"Who's Chloe?" Damain asked in curious whisper. Fiona pushed Damian out of the bedroom, turning off the light, and closing the door behind them.

"Chloe was his daughter; she died eighteen months ago…"

*********