Making all our plans in the Santa Cruz sand that night
Thought I had you in the palm of my hand that night
Screaming at the top of my lungs til my chest felt tight
I told myself that I'm never gonna be alright
Chapter 10: Mercurial
"What happened?" Mason yelped, looking frantically between Sherry and Liam.
Liam slunk into his chair like an abashed puppy.
"Of course you won't tell me," Mason muttered. "You never do."
Sherry leaned over to whisper in Mason's ear. "There was blood on the chains. It looked like he broke the metal."
"I swear he's on steroids," he complained. "The other day, he tried to bench three hundred pounds. He nearly died."
"Steroids?" She considered it. "Do they have side effects this strange?"
"One time someone I know got high and almost jumped out his window," Mason mused. "He didn't actually do it, though."
Sherry glanced at Liam, who stared gloomily at his hands. His eyes had that glazed over, daydream look and his skin showed no signs of any cuts or bruises.
"My uncle is a sheriff's deputy," she said. "I called him, but he was acting weird too. He didn't send over any actual officers, just Scott and Stiles."
"Liam didn't actually go missing, though," Mason amended. "He had no reason to cause a major fuss."
"Liam jumped out of a second-story window."
He nodded. "Yeah, you're right."
Movement by the cafeteria doors caught her eye. A gaggle of teenagers sauntered into the room, giving off a VIP air. Scott's group, Sherry realized, was no doubt at the top of the high school food chain. That thought, in any other situation, would have made her shy away from them, but things were different now. Something was wrong with Liam and it seemed that the only people who knew were Scott's clique.
She tapped Mason's shoulder. "I'll see if I can get anything from Scott and Stiles."
He perked up. "Can I come with?" On second thought, Mason looked hesitantly at Liam. "Actually, I'll stay to make sure this dude doesn't jump out another window."
She nodded slowly. "Okay." As she dodged crowded lunch tables to get to Scott, she felt Liam's hooded eyes following her gloomily.
Scott saw her coming before she even made a sound. He held up his arm in front of Stiles like a bar, signaling him to stop.
"Sherry!" Stiles exclaimed over-enthusiastically the moment he noticed her. "Had fun with Liam?"
She glared at him. "Sure, up until he fell out the window and nobody let me in on what was going on."
Sheepishly, Stiles scratched the back of his head. "He was just a little nervous."
She lifted her eyebrows. "A little?"
"Yeah!"
Crossing her arms, she stated, "If he wanted to ditch me that bad, he could've told me."
Stiles stared, gawking. "Are you serious or are you joking?"
"You decide."
He made a frustrated face, his chin and mouth scrunching up. "Anyway," he said.
"Stiles set you up with Liam?" Scott asked, a smirk playing at his lips. Sherry glared at him. "You still seem to be hanging out with Mason more."
She blinked. "Because he's my friend now and he's actually nice?"
"Stiles!" Malia appeared out of nowhere, grabbing his hand. She gave Sherry a curious glance before tugging her boyfriend away. Stiles spasmed, caught off guard, and followed after her doggedly.
"You know Mason is gay, right?" Scott checked.
"Of course!" she retorted. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm just saying. It's not good for your heart to fall in love with the first person you meet," Scott said.
She started, objecting, "I'm not in love with Mason!"
Scott gave her a look. "I didn't say that. But you like him."
Sherry stared at him. "Man, Stiles was right when he said you're good at reading people's emotions."
Stiles leaned over the lab bench, his eyes flicking over to Mr. Lewis furtively. "So we finally did some research for you," he whispered. "We know someone who might be able to help you."
Sherry's heart skipped a beat. "You're kidding."
"No! His name is Chris Argent and he's a really good associate of ours."
She laughed. "Associate?"
"Well, what do you want me to say?" Stiles glanced at Scott guiltily. "Scott's dead ex-girlfriend's overprotective widower dad?"
"Not that," she blurted, alarmed.
Scott ambled over as if he had just heard what his friend had said. "Fred won't let me help him on the project," he complained. He shot Stiles a look. "Did you tell her?"
"About your connection to Argent or the other thing?"
He nudged Stiles aside and took over the conversation with Sherry. "Our friend Argent got into contact with the man who killed your dad," he explained. "He's part of a secret mafia-type organization and says he was just following orders."
Sherry's voice shook. "He said he wanted to kill me and my dad because my mom gave herself up to the police. He hated our guts."
"It's a hive-mind sort of thing," Stiles quipped unhelpfully. "They're all evil."
"Your mother was charged with selling government information, right?" Scott asked. Sherry nodded acutely. "The Calaveras operate on an honor code. They consider it their business to hunt down dangerous people and your mother had access to their files. When your mother admitted what she'd done, she put their entire organization in jeopardy. And she'd agreed to the code."
"She was blackmailed," Sherry protested. "She wouldn't have done what she did on her own accord! She was a respected government agent!"
"In the end, that doesn't matter," Scott stated. "Your father continued to try to press charges against the Calaveras. They warned him, but he continues to attack their secrecy, so they had no choice but to kill him."
Sherry didn't like the emotionless tone in Scott's spiel. "And what about me?"
"They thought you were in on it too." He faltered. "I'm not saying what the Calaveras did was right, but that's their logic. If you try to avenge your parents, you should expect that the Calaveras will revive their attempts to kill you."
"So you're telling me I shouldn't try to get justice for my parents?"
"Not until you know exactly what you're doing." As he moved, his T-shirt sleeve rode up, exposing the black ink of his tattoo.
"There was another murder two days ago," Sherry remembered distractedly. "Wolf-like but black circles around the body."
Stiles swiveled around to stare at her. Scott tensed.
Sherry studied them. "Did they ever find any clues?"
"The victim used to be my neighbor ten years ago," Scott said.
"And they think they know where the paint was bought from," Stiles added.
"All this is so terrible," she shivered. "Their families must be overwhelmed."
"We'll find the killer, I promise," Scott placated. "At least for this, I know there will be justice."
"Nervous?" Parrish asked, his hands tight on the wheel.
"A little," Sherry said.
"Only?"
Outside, the steel cables of the Bay Bridge raced past the sedan windows, blurring the view of the calm bay and marshy salt flats. Looming every closer was the jagged city outline, faded against the foggy sky. Somewhere, in the midst of all those skyscrapers, was Sherry's mother, hidden by the gray walls of County Jail #2.
"Will she be mad that it took me over a month to visit her?"
"Of course not," he hushed. "She'll be happy to see you."
Sherry nodded shakily, jiggling her leg up and down. She turned up the radio.
After awhile, they finally made it off the bridge, the car transitioning onto the pavement of San Francisco's busy streets. After much tortuous and steep uphill driving, Parrish parked the car by a curving, slate-colored building on 7th Street.
"Ready?" He got out of the car and pulled out his wallet, inspecting the parking meter.
Sherry stared out at the two county jails in front of her. Number one, she knew, was for temporary prisoners, a middle place for recently incarcerated inmates. Number two was where her mother was, the only jail in the county to house women. "Nope," she muttered. She adjusted her jacket and smoothed down her hair.
Parrish headed toward the doors, nodding courteously at the prison guards. For once, Parrish was in everyday clothes, not his drab deputy's uniform. Sherry sped to keep up with him, matching her steps with his. The building intimidated her, so she huddled against her uncle, her only safety and familiarity in the menacing place.
"We've scheduled a visit," Parrish told a man at the front desk. "Linda Ming?"
The man searched through the computer in front of him, his mouth set into a permanent frown. "10:40 to 11:10?" he asked. Parrish nodded. "Follow me."
The man led them out of the lobby, into a side corridor, and took several mechanic turns. They entered a room separated into two sides. A glass partition sliced through the center, dividing a long white table. Each booth was equipped with nothing but side walls and an archaic corded phone. Already, Sherry could see an orange jumpsuit on the other side of the window, waiting patiently.
She gasped and froze, anxious to go further. Parrish squeezed her shoulder. "You can do it, Sherry."
She looked up at him, her eyes timorous and wide. He gave her a nudge. Reluctantly, Sherry stepped into view of her mother, slowly taking a seat in the cold chair in the booth and picking up the phone.
Her mother smiled, her eyes crinkling fondly. Her blond hair, usually preened and glossy, was now dull and flat. "I missed you."
Sherry could barely speak. "I... missed you too, Mommy." When was the last time she'd called her that? At least eight years.
"How was the funeral?" she asked tentatively. The federal law prohibited prisoners from attending functions like funerals or weddings.
"I wish you were there," Sherry whispered. "I was surrounded by people I didn't know."
"You didn't invite your friends?"
"I couldn't," she said. "And I haven't seen them since I moved."
Her mother nodded understandingly. "I'm sorry, Sherry." She took a deep breath. "How is your new school?"
"Not as good as VCHS," she laughed softly. Her vision blurred and she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the warm tears. "Some people are okay."
"Friends?"
"Yes, Mom."
"And how are your grades?"
It always came back to that subject. Even incarceration couldn't keep her mother from asking about that universally important topic. "I'm doing fine," Sherry said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "The classes are easy."
"That's good to hear. How has Jordan been?"
Sherry glanced briefly behind her, where her uncle leaned patiently against the concrete walls. He smiled comfortingly at her. "Best uncle I could ask for," she answered. "Sometimes he's busy, though."
"The irony. My cousin's a sheriff's deputy and I'm in the county jail," Sherry's mother chuckled. "I hope I'm not impeding his career."
"I don't think so," Sherry said. "Do you want to talk to him now?"
"I'd rather talk to you. You're my daughter."
Sherry stood up abruptly. "I don't know what else to talk about," she blurted, dropping the phone. Guiltily, she backed away. Her mother just watched her, a forlorn expression wavering on her face.
Parrish studied Sherry uncertainly, as if he was unsure whether to say something. Instead, he just sighed and walked over to dangling phone, bringing it to his ear and slipping into the hard chair.
For the next ten minutes, Sherry stared blankly ahead of her, watching the two of them converse in low tones. She barely noticed when they were done, needing a prodding from Parrish to resurface from her thoughts. She jerked her attention back to her mother, torn between leaving and going back to say more.
Her mother waved, a small smile etched onto her aging skin. There weren't any anti-aging skin creams in prison.
"Want to say anything more?" Parrish questioned.
She signaled a no silently. With one last glance at her mother, she fled from the room. Reluctantly, her uncle followed after. The heavy door clicked shut behind them.
Like she was on autopilot, Sherry retraced her steps back to the lobby, past the front desk, and to the car. Parrish unlocked the door, letting her in. Once they were both within the privacy of the car, he turned to Sherry with concern. "Want to talk about it?"
She shook her head minutely, her eyes drifting to look at something far ahead.
"You don't have to lock yourself away," he reminded her. "I'm here for you."
She sniffed, wiping at her eyes even though no tears were flowing. "She hates me now," she murmured.
"No, she loves you."
"I shouldn't have done that."
"That doesn't mean she hates you."
"I know you're disappointed in me," she whispered, her voice cracking. She clenched her fists within the fleece pockets of her jacket. "I just want to go home."
"I'm not disappointed in you," he reassured. "I know you're having tough times. And we'll go there after lunch, to pick up all your stuff."
"No," she said. "Not there. Home."
A/N: When I was writing this chapter I had all the feels omg. idk. SEVEN MORE READS UNTIL 2K! Please share this story :D
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