Author's Note: Another lengthy break between chapters... I suck!
9. Lost
For a second, he thought he was hearing things. Then it came again, the distinct hum of his phone vibrating on the nightstand, begging for him to take notice. His heart started hammering against his ribs while the skeptic living inside his brain begged him not to get his hopes up. But the back of his mind kept whispering that no one else would call at such an early hour, and that maybe it was who he wanted it to be, and maybe he wouldn't have to hand in such a pitiful report to Cid on Monday morning... Maybe he would finally get some substance behind his case. His breath hitched in his throat as he picked up the phone. The words 'PRIVATE NUMBER' flashed across the screen. He answered.
"Hello?" His greeting came out eager, and he was certain that the person on the other end could hear the desperate undertones it held.
"Good morning, Commander Leonhart. This is Detective Bellangier with Deling PD," came the voice on the other end. "I am calling to let you know that we have a woman here claiming to have information about the Ellsway case."
"Is she credible?" The skeptic again.
"One of our homicide detectives questioned her briefly," the man told him. "She knows things about the case that weren't released to the public. She wants to speak with SeeD as soon as possible. She is in homicide right now, waiting for you and Miss Trepe."
"I will be there as soon as I can."
"Thank you, Commander. We will see you shortly."
He felt a strange mixture of dread and anticipation build up in his blood, the gears in his mind turning at an impossible rate. Who was she? What did she know that the public didn't? Why did she decide to come forward?
He finished dressing at a hurried pace, pulling on a pair of faded jeans and a black pullover. When he first started working on the case, he had tried to make an effort to wear his SeeD uniform, or business wear, but over time, his ambition for appropriate attire—and almost everything else, for that matter—had started to wear thin. Even Quistis had given up her lectures about dressing the part, resigning herself to eye rolls and the occasional loud sigh at his expense.
Plans for the morning effectively tossed out the window, Squall forced himself to consider what to do with Ellie, who was still sound asleep in her room. There was daycare, but he was not sure if he'd make it back in time to pick her up before closing. He reached for his phone again with a hesitant hand, debating how to wake up a princess without committing suicide at the same time.
He dialed.
"What?" Her voice was jagged and sleep stained.
"Good morning to you too, Rin," Squall greeted, and couldn't help the sheepish grin that crossed his face. He could almost picture her, dishevelled hair, eyes barely able to keep open, a frustrated mess sprawled in some contorted position across her bed.
"Squall, what do you want? It's fucking early."
"I need to bring Ellie back now," he replied calmly. "I have to be at the police department this morning and I can't take her with me."
"Hyne... Okay, when are you gonna be here?"
"Give me an hour?"
"Seriously? It's..." He heard her fumble around to see what time it was. "...quarter to seven. On a Sunday."
"Don't you think I know that? I don't exactly have a choice in the matter." He cradled the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he picked out a coat from his closet. "If I could keep her for the day, trust me, I would."
"I know... Just... Sorry, I had a late night. I'll see you when you get here."
"Okay, see you soon," he replied just before hearing her hang up on the other end of the line. He tried to pull himself back into focus on what to do next, pushing down his anxiety at the notion of what a 'late night' meant.
Ellie was still sound asleep, and Squall couldn't help the guilt that crashed into him as he gently prodded her awake. Her tired eyes opened hesitantly, frowning sternly at him for interrupting her dreams. "Daddy, I'm too sleepy right now... Go 'way..." she half-groaned before a yawn fled her lungs.
"I know it's early," he told her apologetically. "I got called into work today, so I have to drop you back off at Mom's house."
Her frown turned to a look of dismay. "No... I wanna stay with you."
Squall forced a pallid smile and pushed the unkempt strands of hair out of her face. "I'm sorry, Ellie."
After a small struggle, he managed to get Ellie out of bed and ready to leave. The drive was as silent as ever as they ventured through the grey morning. He didn't want to bring her back; when she was gone, he lost his self-control, lost his will to try. A part of him wondered if it was considered pathetic to need a child more than the child needed its parent. The times they shared together were like handholds on a steep cliff; he was afraid that one day, he'd reach up and there wouldn't be anything there to keep him from falling.
The cold morning released its sharp winter fangs and pounced upon autumn, delivering its killing blow. The clouds that had survived the night sighed onto the earth, a supposed gift from the faeries. It muddied the streets with a thick, brown slush that tried to pull his car any direction but forward. Squall hated it. He longed for the Balamb heat, the smell of the ocean and the blanket of humidity, the salt air. Three winters spent in Galbadia were three too many.
As he pulled onto Rinoa's street, his felt his stomach sink. Aeron's car sat by the curb, still sitting in the same space it occupied on Thursday night, waiting for him like a migraine. He parked behind it and got Ellie out of the back seat, all while trying to silently fight off the bile that was warming the back of his throat. She did not seem to notice his disappointment, eyes barely able to keep themselves open, too tired to recognize anything more than absolute necessity.
Squall retrieved her bag and helped to walk her up the steps to Rinoa's front door, careful to maintain their footing in the fresh snow. The door swung open before he could ring the bell. Rinoa took one exhausted look at him before taking Ellie's hand in her own and ushering her inside. Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles, telling a thousand stories that she would not dare say aloud.
"Thanks," was all that he managed.
Rinoa shrugged. "Yeah."
It was awkward to the point of being painful, and the only consolation—albeit petty—was that Aeron himself was not in plain sight. A picture painted itself in his head, one of the too-suave fox man lying on her bed in the spot beside hers, the spot that he had forfeit years ago. He tried to cast the mental image aside, and hoped that it didn't show on his face.
He tried to think of something else to say. "Laguna will be in town next week. I...maybe I could take Ellie earlier on Friday?"
"Sure." She crossed her arms over her chest and took a step backward. "Just let me know when."
"Alright."
Squall turned his attention back to Ellie and faked another smile for her. With a tired gait, the little girl walked up to him and hugged his legs. He knelt down and took her in his arms, kissed her messy hair, and wondered if she knew exactly how much he didn't want to let her go.
He arrived at the station just as Quistis was getting out of her car. He was on his second cigarette since dropping Ellie off and considering a third before he went inside. The back of his mind kept nagging for a shot of good vodka to take away the edge that kept slicing into his psyche. His thoughts felt grainy. A small amount of relief echoed through him as he spotted her carrying two cups of coffee from one of the better cafés in Deling. Not quite vodka, but better than nothing.
"Good morning," she greeted. "Venti with cream and brown sugar, right?"
"That's right," he confirmed as he grabbed his notebook before locking up his car. He then took his cup from her and relished the feeling of warmth against his cold hands. "Thanks."
They walked into the station together, staff and officers slowly starting to filter in for the morning shift. Climbing the cold, grey stairs, they made their way up to the homicide department, to this supposed insider, the holder of key information, the interrupter of Sunday morning sleep, the one whose claims cut short visits with daughters, ripped away his handholds and let him dangle helplessly on the edge of his cliff.
A young, soft-faced detective in a department store suit came up to them with a manila folder. "Hello Commander Leonhart, Miss Trepe." He addressed them with the formalities that made Squall cringe. "I'm Detective Bellangier; I spoke with you both earlier. I've pulled up a file on the informant. Her name is Genevieve Marchand, twenty-four-years-old, lives in the Oakridge neighbourhood. She has a couple of charges for possession of a controlled substance under thirty grams and public intoxication. Nothing terribly major. She's waiting in interview room three whenever you're ready."
Quistis dutifully plucked the folder from the detective's hands and offered a word of thanks before dismissing him. She opened it up to the woman's photo as they retreated into their makeshift boardroom office. "She looks harmless enough," she commented before taking a sip of her coffee. "No real affiliations with any known drug dealers despite her charges. Her parents live in Winhill, where she grew up, moved to Deling at seventeen, did a year of a BFA at U of G and dropped out...yada, yada."
Squall took off his peacoat and threw it across one of the empty chairs before sitting himself down next to her. He adjusted his glasses and took a long, careful look at her picture. She looked young for her age, with unnaturally jet black hair and slightly plump features. A gaudy ring looped through her right nostril. "She looks like a lost girl," he mused, "and he's a fear peddler. They're a match made in burnout heaven."
Quistis laughed. "Well, aren't you in a snarky mood this morning."
"Maybe." He interrupted the smirk that was forming on his lips, taking back a large drink of coffee. "I guess I shouldn't get too presumptuous. Who knows what she has to say."
"Only one way to find out."
He nodded. "Yeah, I suppose we shouldn't keep her waiting."
They made their way into interview room three, where the girl was sitting quietly, head resting against the battered white wall. He stared at her for a moment as he sat down, her heavy, oily black hair, pale skin, makeup smeared from tears and sweat. She was at least twenty pounds lighter than her photo had depicted, making her once plump features look sharp and unfitting. The same hoop tackily adorned her bony nose. Punk rock garb and wishing for seventeen again. She smelled like jasmine and cheap beer.
"Genevieve Marchand, my name is Squall Leonhart and this is my partner, Quistis Trepe." He set his notebook down on the table. "We've been told that you have information pertinent to the Leigh Ellsway case."
She stopped biting the inside of her cheek and looked at him with a hazel gaze. "He can't know I'm here," she whispered.
Quistis perked up. "Who can't know you're here?"
She ran a trembling hand through her tar slick hair. "If he finds out, he will kill me."
Squall frowned. "Enough, Genevieve. We're not here to listen to you make vague references to some mystery man. Who is going to kill you? And why, for that matter?"
A small smile wormed across her lips, but he could find no semblance of happiness in it. A dead girl's smile. Her voice was airy and raw, like a sandstorm. "I was with James Grayson last weekend. Well, most of it, anyways."
He opened his notebook and quickly reviewed his makeshift timeline.
Sunday evening, Dollet, roughly 18:30—Leigh phones Meredith Ellsway after dinner, tells her mother of plans to meet friends from university.
Sunday evening, U of G campus,19:00?—Leigh and Nima York get ready to meet friends; Leigh receives call and leaves residence without Nima.
Sunday evening, Deling City, 19:30 to 3:45—James Grayson states that he is home during this time. Mother does not corroborate his alibi.
Sunday night, Deling City, roughly 22:00—Leigh is murdered at this time according to autopsy; cause is asphyxiation.
Monday morning, 1900 block of 57th Ave, Deling City, 03:46—Leigh is found dead in alley between Boko's and convenience store. Body is nude, with 'X' cut between breasts. Same as all other victims.
He took a long, slow sip of his coffee, which was becoming disappointingly lukewarm. "What did you and James do during that time?"
"I met up with him on Saturday. We got some food from a burger place downtown for dinner and then we went to one of his friends' places for a bit." She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly before continuing. "We decided we were gonna go party at District, so we got some blow from his buddy and took off. It was...a pretty crazy night. A lot of drugs. A lot of booze. We went back to his friend's place and crashed there.
"On Sunday, James got kind of weird. I dunno if he was pissed off or fucked up or hungover or what. He kept babbling about it being the time to repent or something creepy like that. I tried to get him to tell me more, but he just kept saying I wasn't ready yet."
Squall jotted down everything, pen moving at a fevered pace across the page, his handwriting getting looser with each line. "Do you have even the slightest idea why he'd say something like that?"
Genevieve shrugged. "I know he's really into Hyne. I'm not sure if he's exactly religious, though."
"What happened next?"
"We finally got some food at like, 16:00 or something. He seemed really on edge, I dunno. Something wasn't right with him; I think it had to do with the whole repenting thing, but he still refused to elaborate. We went back to my place in Oakridge and hung out for a bit longer, but he was just really distant; he wouldn't stop checking his phone. He looked at the damned thing at least once every two minutes. I guess someone must have been texting him.
"He took off in a hurry, anyways. I guess it was around 19:00? He said he had something to take care of. I passed out until I heard him knocking at around midnight. And then I saw that he...he—"
Genevieve suffocated on her words and buried her face in her knees. Squall could see her start to tremble, her meagre arms pulling her legs tighter, body curling into the fetal position, begging for a womb to keep her safe. It reminded him of Rinoa, sitting on the Ragnarok in the abyss of space, wishing for her mother's comfort that they both knew would never come. He tried to keep himself gripped on reality, pulling his chair close to the lost girl and placing an uncertain hand on her shoulder.
"What were you going to say? What happened?" His voice came out in a soft tone he didn't know he was capable of having with anyone other than Ellie.
"When he came back, he had...he had...blood...on his shirt," she choked out. "I asked him what happened. He said it was none of my concern, that the blood wasn't his. I knew that he knew the Ellsway girl; fuck, I had met her myself once...I just...I didn't think that he... It didn't add up until I saw it on the news last night..."
Her trembling had turned into full-blown sobbing, ugly cries that belonged to neither a woman nor a child. Squall wondered how many more broken people he'd have to face because of this case. Despairing fiancés, confused friends, angry fathers and weeping mothers, fucked up girls who couldn't tell the difference between friend and foe.
"He's going to kill me," she said, once, then, over and over, like a breathless mantra. "He'sgoingtokillmehe'sgoingtokillme."
Quistis shook her head. "He's not going to find out that you came here. We'll make sure of that. You can stay completely anonymous."
"He'll know," Genevieve said. "You need to find him before he finds me."
Squall nodded, slowly, leaning onto his forearms and searching her eyes. They weren't dead like James'; there was still a glimmer of youth burning bright from behind her misty tears. "I have to ask: why did you choose to come forward? Is there a reason other than the conviction to do the right thing?"
Wincing, she uncurled her body from its position on the chair and lifted her shirt. His mouth fell slightly agape at the sight, the purple blossoms staining her ashen skin, some big, some small, some wrapping around her curves in a traitor's caress. Some rimmed with yellow and some laced with red ribbons of battered veins.
"He did this?" Squall asked, barely a whisper.
"I kept asking him where the blood came from, what happened that night, and then two days ago, he came over and said he'd had enough." She grimaced and her over-plucked eyebrows pointed downward like sharp pins. "I...how can I let this happen to anyone else? If it is him, he has to pay for it."
"Do you know where he's at right now?" Quistis asked. Her posture was rigid, hair and makeup exactly where it should've been, the epitome of everything the lost girl was not. "He isn't staying with you, is he?"
"I think he's hiding. Running from place to place. He knows he can't stay in one spot for too long." Genevieve let her shirt fall back down and pulled her knees back up to her chest. "I'm afraid to go home."
Squall picked up his notebook again. "Do you know the addresses of the places he might be? We can send Deling PD to look for him."
She pulled out her cell phone. "I think I have a few spots saved in my GPS... Here. The first four on the list are his friends' houses."
He looked at the phone and copied the addresses onto paper.
4691 Kingston Boulevard
3276 45th Street
1103 19th Avenue
2104 Robson Drive
"Do you have his phone number in here, by any chance?" he asked, tapping the phone with the end of his pen.
"Yeah, I do," she said, picking up the phone again. He wrote the number down as she read it out to him. "241-396-5573."
Squall nodded. "Thank you. You've been a massive help."
She stared up at him again with those bright, tear kissed eyes. "You'd better come through."
Squall should have been happy. He wanted to be happy. He had finally gotten enough evidence to obtain a search warrant, had the marshals—the bloodhounds of Galbadia's police force—tracking down James, had detectives looking up phone records. Soon, the DNA results of the blood found under Leigh's fingernails would come back and he could start building a solid case against him. He'd get what he needed to put the Hyne-obsessed man behind bars and end this forsaken investigation. Everything was coming to fruition.
He couldn't stop thinking about Genevieve Marchand. The lost girl was the result of life decisions gone for worse. She reminded him of milk, how easily it could go bad, invaded by something foreign, grotesque and sour. She was curdled, an empty remnant of her past, her potential nothing but a shadow.
He lay on his couch and watched the Sunday afternoon snow surrender to gravity in some fruitless battle with the sky. A woman sang to him about passion and sincerity, her amber coloured voice accompanied by the melancholy chords of her piano and the rich hum of the cello. He pretended for a moment that he knew her, that she was an old friend; they'd talk about the follies of love and share a joint and somehow the pain wouldn't feel as sharp.
A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers. He wanted something more, but he wasn't sure exactly what. Faster, slower; heavier and harder; completely dissociative or honest and grounded... He wanted Rinoa and thirty-year-old white wine and jazz and clean, cool sheets, calla lilies and strawberry-scented shampoo. He wanted Zurie and ecstasy and trip-hop and long walks to nowhere and empathy through chemistry and watching the sun rise as he came down.
He didn't know what he wanted anymore.
Even as the sun nestled beneath the western oceanfront, the air remained thick and hot. He was used to it, the Balamb summer, the feeling of the dry Centran wind as it mixed with the humid, tropical air. It made him feel like something wild, something that could not be tamed, something that wasn't him.
It was his twenty-first birthday. They had decided to have a beach party outside of the ever-vigilant eye of Garden, just the six of them; a vague breath of the youth they should have been experiencing. He couldn't help but feel like it was a charade, a play where they were supposed to convey the roles of normal twenty-somethings, and pretend that they weren't hardened mercenaries with bloodstained hands and conditioned minds.
He sat down next to Selphie at the edge of the low tide, feeling the wet sand between his fingers and toes. She offered him a small smile and continued to play her guitar, a downtempo melody that she expertly plucked with practiced fingertips. He listened to it carefully, determined it to be in the key of C-minor, with a 3/4 time signature. He understood the theory perfectly, but the purpose of it all was something else.
She stopped playing suddenly and he looked up at her. A wink and she was retreating up to where the others were, away from the water, only to come back seconds later with two bottles and a pair of red plastic cups. "This is the good stuff, birthday boy," she announced as she poured their drinks. "It's an awesome tequila you can only get in Balamb. I premade a cocktail mix to go with it."
He took his cup and tried a sip of it. "It's good."
"No, it's great," she corrected. "But I guess you're too much of a noob to know the difference."
He snorted. "A 'noob'?"
"Yeah, a noob, like a novice or whatever you wanna call it."
"Oh." He took another sip of the concoction, noting the hints of citrus and grenadine as they danced on his tongue.
A sigh escaped her. "Why aren't you hanging out with everyone else?"
He quirked an eyebrow. "Why aren't you?"
"I asked you first."
He was quiet for a moment as he looked back toward the others. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of riveting conversation; he could hear the sparks in Rinoa's voice, see it in her body language as she became passionate over whatever topic she was talking about. He wondered what that felt like, to feel such a connection to words. Whenever he tried to think of the right ones to choose, he usually came up with silence. Now, however, there was a question burning in his mind, one that he had been longing to find the right time to ask.
He voiced it, awkwardly. "Do I really belong here?"
Selphie looked at him for a moment, her forest eyes staring into his sea. She was making him anxious, and he wondered why he had decided to ask at all. He could condition himself to endure almost anything, but this, this silence and her insistent gaze... It was unbearable.
He was about to stand up and walk away when she spoke.
"Maybe not."
It wasn't the answer he was expecting. She was supposed to be offering him empty comforts, telling him that he really did belong, that he was a part of them, that he was their friend, that they all had history together; why wouldn't he belong? And then another thought crossed his mind: if not here, then where?
He sighed and let his body fall onto the hard, wet sand. He felt the salt water crawl between the fibres of his t-shirt and shorts, but his eyes were cast to the clouds. They burned a ferocious shade of pink, the shade of passion and lovers; he wondered if he could blame this lost feeling on the sky.
"I don't think I belong here, either," Selphie said, somewhat to his surprise. She took another drink of her tequila cocktail and stared out at the ocean.
A surge of curiosity. "...Trabia?"
She laughed, but there was no humour in it. "More like anywhere but here."
"What about Irvine?"
"What about Rinoa?" she countered.
"I asked you first." He smiled, rare but genuine.
"Touché." She dug her toes deep into the sand. "I dunno. I mean, he loves me, but he also loves the game, you know? I don't think he's ready to stop playing."
Squall nodded and sat back up to finish his drink. Selphie took his cup and refilled it along with her own. It dawned upon him that maybe they weren't as different as he had once believed. They were the broken ones, shards swept neatly into a corner and hidden behind a gossamer veil.
"I love her," he admitted to the clouds, "but I can't shake the feeling that I am still missing something."
"Then maybe you are."
She didn't say anything more, but he could tell that she understood. They sipped on tequila until they were drunk, returned to their friends, their lovers, played the part of twenty-one. He tried on happiness; it fit like a glove that was too small, restrictive and tight, the seams digging in all the wrong places. If Rinoa noticed, she didn't say anything.
He woke up to find himself still in the same position on the couch, unaware of how or when he had fallen asleep in the first place. The townhouse was dark, and the invasive winter cold had seeped in from outside, crawling up his arms and nesting underneath his skin. A violent shiver coursed down his spine, affirmation that he was indeed awake now, whether he wanted to be or not.
Blinking the exhaustion from his bleary eyes, he flicked on his phone. He cringed at the glare as he struggled to make out the time: 20:37, still early—too early to go to bed. He cursed under his breath and forced himself to sit up, feeling his body groan as he tried to shake the stiffness from his muscles.
An empty pack of cigarettes sat on the coffee table next to his still smoldering ashtray, laughing at him. He crumpled the box in his hand before letting his forehead fall to rest against his palm. A dull ache was starting to form between his temples, and his frustration mounted as he became painfully aware of the inertia in the room, choking out his patience.
He hated waiting. It reminded him of when the Garden first took flight, all that time spent adrift, aimlessly floating around and wondering what was going to happen next. Back then, he trained, keeping his body and mind sharp and ready for anything; an attack by the Galbadians, another internal uprising from NORG's faction, maybe even a freak accident that would cause them all to sink...
He had no desire to train anymore. He tried to pinpoint exactly when he had lost interest, when it had started to feel like a chore. Rinoa had been so bothered by it, his need to be the perfect soldier, to be the epitome of SeeD and Garden and all it stood for, and now... It didn't matter that he finally understood what she meant when she told him how much she longed for something more. By the time he had experienced the world outside of Garden, felt that insatiable longing for himself, it was too late.
The irony was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew he had to move on, with or without her, no matter how hard it would be, no matter how much it would hurt. His mind had become focussed on one singular goal: wrap up the investigation and resign. He wouldn't allow Cid to deny him his escape next time.