Disclaimer: I don't own them, and after I made you wait so long for an update, I'm not sure I deserve to. Well, maybe I do. :)

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ANNIVERSARY

CHAPTER 8- BRONZE

Not justice. Vengeance.

Summer watched Sandy close his eyes, wincing at the harsh words. She couldn't stop herself, "Vengeance is all we have."

The older man's eyes snapped open again, and she felt herself pinned down by his glare, "No, it is not, Summer. It is not."

"I'm sorry, Sandy. I shouldn't have- It's not my—"

"It's all I have. It's why I'm here."

Sandy didn't look at his son, gave no sign that he heard the boy at all. Turning away, the man shuffled out of the room slowly, shoulders bent, like a broken stringed puppet, like a man carrying a great weight.

Summer waited, watching Seth. The boy was home, in the family kitchen, and there was no change. Then, she saw his hand drifted over the basket of bagels on the counter. His face didn't change, but she smiled a little. It was something.

Sandy came back in the room carrying a thick folder. Before Summer could ask what it was, he answered, "This iswhat we know. Crime scene information, interviews, pictures."

For the first time since they met again, Sandy looked directly at his son, dark eyes met over the marble countertop, "You have to do this. It's why you're here."

Then he turned, walking further into the dark house.

Summer picked up the folder, carefully, so nothing inside would be lost, and followed Seth out, one of his hands still gripping the pistol, the other brushing over the walls, pictures and notes and memories.

Seth took possession of the folder as they got back into the car. Summer pulled out staring at the black gun resting on the manila folder.

"Where are we going? I mean, next, where?"

"I lived here. My life is over. Now, we have to go where I died."

"Chino it is."

Dark eyes watched the car from a nearby window.

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This time, Summer left the radio off, and she didn't try to make conversation.

Seth flipped through the folder, fingers running over the pages, too fast for Summer to read.

The trip usually took two hours, but it felt to Summer as though no time passed, as though they hadn't traveled at all, but magically appeared in front of the run down house.

It had been a year, a year since the senseless deaths of two boys and every time she visited, Summer expected to see a change, something horrible, one sign that lives had been taken here. She wanted to see blood rise up from the brown grass, a dark cloud shrouding only this roof, misty gray figures drifting through the rooms, but at the same time, she didn't want to. It wouldn't be fair.

When Theresa first moved back in, Summer couldn't believe it. She drove out on another moonless night to scream at the girl, and ended up weeping in her arms over the boys they both loved. Since then, Summer spent more time here than at her own home. Theresa understood the loss the way no one else could.

The kitchen light was on and Summer gestured Seth into the shadows of the porch. "She can't see you. I'll get her into the kitchen. You-- Wait, nothing happened in there, right?" Seth nodded. "Then we'll go into the kitchen. You can wander around. I'd tell you to be quiet, but--. Now, hide."

With a twisted smile, he complied, sinking in the shadows around the railing.

The only thing Summer still disliked about the girl was her composure. Even that morning, weeping over graves, Theresa kept it together. She had to, and Summer understood why sheneeded to bequiet in her sorrow when Summer was falling apart, screaming and weeping. Theresa picked up the pieces, she didn't try to console, or commiserate, she just let Summer finish.

Theresa was still wearing the black dress when she opened the door.

"I was expecting you. Coffee?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Seth watched the two dark heads move together, into the warm light of the kitchen, then followed on silent feet.

(Check it out folks, for the first time we get to see the inside of Seth's head.)

The memory was still broken. Fragments, too dull to be recalled, too sharp to be desired. Jumping from scene to scene. On the bus, jollying Ryan into conversation. On the lawn, bleeding into grass. Blonde wood of cabinets became Ryan's hair, framing an empty face. Blue, staring dolls eyes. And Ryan was crying. But he didn't make a sound.

Only been to the house once before, but it seemed so familiar. Pictures on the wall hadn't changed, furniture was the same. And why not? Most of the real mess had been made outside, and Nature absorbed it. Grief and blood and death, and the lawn had probably grown more luxurious. That was the way the cycle worked. There was no bad, no tragedy, which was completely without some benefit or merit, whatever it may be.

The cardboard boxes were missing. No longer sitting in the living room, they were probably in the pool house now. Traveling up the hall, running his fingers across walls and shelves and pictures of memories he didn't share. Did they see what happened? The smiling unfamiliar faces? Did they know what? And who?

The small door at the end of the hall was closed. Ghosting hands over it, Seth almost heard laughter, almost heard Ryan's soft dark voice singing a lullaby, almost heard Theresa telling a baby about his father. Every door had that potential, the future and the past tied together behind the wood. For the first time that night, he found himself doing something he didn't want to do as his fingers reached for the dull brass knob. Would the room be the same? The air full of unfulfilled potential? Or would it be different, storage, a spare bedroom, and every last trace of a baby with dark hair and blue eyes moved away? And which would be worse?

Fingers grasp, thrown into memory. Ryan slumped in the doorway, staring at the empty crib. Seth watched his back, trying to pretend he didn't hear the small sniffs, the harsh breathing. He was so wrapped up in not hearing that the crash of a door startled him. He froze. He froze, but Ryan didn't.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Three men.

"You Atwood? We've got some business with you."

Three men. Large. Seth still couldn't remember their faces, but he would never forget them.

"Look, let him go. Whatever you want, he's not involved."

"Maybe he is."

One man grabbed Seth, holding him. He couldn't fight. Never fought. Ryan was the fighter, and that's what he did.

Stronger than he looked and accustomed to larger opponents and Seth never considered why, Ryan threw himself at the man holding Seth, only to be dragged back, down the hall, into the living room.

The beating was slow, methodical. For once, Seth couldn't find his voice. Couldn't find the words, talk their way out, threaten them with his father, his grandfather. Ask them why.

Ryan fought back at first, getting a few solid hits in, but it didn't matter. The two men would just switch places, one holding, one hitting.

After a while, Ryan didn't fight anymore.

The arms around Seth loosened, and he slipped to the floor like an empty bag, and still silent. The man who ad been holding him walked over to Ryan, checked his pulse. He muttered something small and quiet, and laughed.

At the time Seth thought he didn't hear. Now he remembered, Bout damn time. Gets what he deserves.

The memories flicker back faster, like scenes from a movie, an old projection at once brighter and clearer and more confused, but now he remembers. He remembers seeing the men pull Ryan's body, dead he thought, but actually unconscious, into the yard. Dumping him there on the grass.

Seth remembers feeling forgotten, still crumpled on the floor in the living room. Outside Ryan was lying on the grass. One of the men lit a cigarette and casually rammed his boot into the boy's side, watching him jerk. The other man pulled a small flask out of his pocket, absently offering it to the smoker before tipping it back himself. The streetlight caught on the metal, flashing in Seth's eyes.

The third man. He had forgotten the third man. Snapping out of his reverie, Seth glanced quickly around the room. He wasn't there. Seth could escape, find help. Getting to his feet as quietly as he could, he started moving towards the back of the house. There had to be a back door. Every house has a back door.

A dark shape rose out of the shadows of the hallway, moving towards him.

"Thought I forgot you, kid? Naw. I got a job to do and I intend to finish it. Everybody knows, you want this shit done right, you go to A.J."

Seth remembered backing out of the house, chased by two bullets into the front yard. He bled, and saw Ryan.

And then he died.

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Note: I'm so sorry you had to wait this long for an update. I'd blame it on work or stress, or even my own laziness, but the truth is, I was stuck. I had originally planned to have both Sandy and Kirsten in the previous chapter, but it ended so well with Sandy that I stopped where I was. Since I have the whole thing planned out, I was left with one more scene than I knew what to do with. So, after much soul searching, and battering of my faithful beta DerSaboteur (Who is as eager for a new chapter as you are), I decided to go on with the outline, and you'll just have to wait a while longer for Kirsten.

If it helps at all, the scene will be a doozy.

Plus okay, I am lazy.

As always, your reviews are life to me. Good or bad, which means, even if you don't dig, please dish.