Chapter Ten

Officer Puckerman showed up a couple of hours later, like Santana had told me he would. I'd spent the time between watching television, but it grew tiring after the fifteenth time I'd had to remind myself to keep it in focus. I'd been half-poised and waiting for more minutes than I could count but the buzzer still startled me out of my seat when it sounded. I got up and pressed the button so that he could get into the building and then I left the apartment door open while I sat back on the couch to wait for him. I muted the TV, too, although I'm not sure why, and it can't have been more than a minute-or-so later that he strolled in.

"Hey," he said, completely nonchalant, before closing the door after himself.

"Hi," I said back.

"You okay?" He shoved his hands into his pockets and approached slowly, opting to sit on the couch opposite mine rather than beside me.

"Yeah." I nodded. "I think so."

"Santana patch you up?" He gestured toward the band aid on my temple and I briefly touched my hand to it.

"Uh-huh," I responded.

Officer Puckerman bobbed his head up and down. "Santana's good with stuff like that," he told me, "Her Dad's a doctor."

I frowned, although it was more to myself than at him. "She said she doesn't see him much," I said.

"She doesn't," he retorted, "But he's still a doctor." He took off his jacket and left it in a crumpled pile beside him and then he relaxed back in his seat. It somehow made me feel a little more at ease. "You hungry?" he asked.

I shrugged. "A little. Why?"

"'Cause Santana never has any food here," he replied. "You wanna order pizza?"

I nodded in response. Pizza actually sounded really good. "Sure," I said.

"Good girl," he mumbled under his breath as he squeezed his cell phone out of his jeans pocket. I shoved my hands between my knees and stared down at my feet while he called the pizza place and asked for a large pepperoni stuffed crust for us to share. When he was done, he kicked off his shoes and then leaned back with his hands linked behind his head that shone slightly with damp. "So…" he said with a smirk, "How long've you and Santana been doing the dirty?"

A shock of panic jolted through me, like a tiny lightning storm in my heart. "What?" I stammered.

"Well, there's a pair of panties on the coffee table," he explained, still smirking, "I just assumed. But if I'm being presumptuous, I apologize."

My cheeks burned like hot irons and I closed my eyes for a moment at my own stupidity. Why did I put them there? "I don't think Santana would like us talking about this," I mumbled. It was the only response I could think of, but it was true. Officer Puckerman knowing whatever it was he knew didn't really affect me. But Santana was his friend. He shouldn't have known private things about her unless she wanted him to.

"Hey," he held his hands up in mock defence. "I'm just saying I'm glad, is all. That girl needed to get laid."

I fidgeted uncomfortably in my seat and heard the leather of the couch stretch under my weight. "Will she be mad about you knowing?" I murmured.

He shrugged at me. "Probably. She gets mad about most things."

I guess I kind of knew that already. "Okay," I said.

"One time in high school she broke my nose just 'cause I spilled soda in one of her fancy-ass purses," he told me.

I smiled just to be polite. "She did?" I prompted, relieved about the almost-change-of-subject.

"Uh-huh." He nodded at me and then he kept looking at my face for a few seconds before rolling his eyes. He smiled as he grabbed for the remote that sat between us on the coffee table, and then he pointed it at the TV. "You mind if I change the channel?" he asked.

I shrugged because I don't think I had ever felt more indifferent about anything in my life.

/

Officer Puckerman only stayed until we'd finished eating our pizza – not that I would have minded if it had been longer. After the initial awkwardness I actually kind of enjoyed his company. Like most people, he was easy to be around once I'd gotten him talking about himself.

And I liked to listen instead of talk because I didn't like the way entire sentences could sometimes just tumble out of my mouth, completely unrecognizable as the thoughts they'd been in my head. Words seemed far too important now to let myself mess them up. And listening to Officer Puckerman speak tirelessly about nothing was like a vacation.

After he was gone, the silence felt like a gust of cold in my chest.

I got ready to go to sleep, slipping into a pair of Santana's pajamas like she'd told me too. And I had to forgo cleaning my teeth because there was no spare toothbrush. I always hated doing that.

When I climbed into Santana's bed I buried myself beneath the covers because they smelled like her. I turned my face into the pillow and breathed in. I drowned myself in it. And where I was laying, I made my own warm patch right beside the groove Santana's body had left in the mattress, where it depressed slightly and tilted to the side.

I liked the thought of my warm patch being beside her groove.

It took me a long time to fall asleep. And as I did, I hoped I wouldn't wake up before morning.

/

I had only been vaguely aware of something touching my arm for a few seconds. It was warm and when it started moving was when I brought my fists to my eyes and rubbed at them as I yawned. When I cracked them open I had to blink away the translucent film that had covered them as I slept, and how vividly Santana came into focus above me shocked me into remaining silent for a second.

I thought fleetingly of my sister, and how the way I saw Santana in that moment was the opposite of how I saw Jessica now. Completely backwards, in fact. Every day the image of her face that lived on the inside of my eyelids got a little less detailed. A little less real. But I couldn't bring myself to study photographs of her, the way I'd done with my Grandma and my parents after they'd died in my desperation not to forget. It would have been like admitting something that wasn't true.

Not yet.

Santana took her hand away from my bicep and let it drop into her lap as I sat up. She remained beside me on her knees, dressed haphazardly in sweats and with her hair tied in a messy pile on top of her head. The thought of her sneaking around, trying not to wake me, filled my heart with a pleasant warmth. "Morning," she mumbled, "How're you feeling?"

"I'm okay," I replied, my voice thick with sleep.

"Did Puckerman come by?"

"Uh-huh," I confirmed with a nod. "We had pizza."

I yawned again and Santana bobbed her head up and down. "That's good," she said under her breath. "He wasn't a jerk, was he? He kinda has a weird sense of humor but he doesn't mean anything by it."

I shrugged. "No. He was nice. I liked it when he was here."

She cocked an eyebrow at me. "You did?"

I nodded. "I don't really like being on my own." It felt like far more of an admission that it really was. Santana frowned.

"Never?"

I hesitated for a moment because I wasn't sure what was so surprising about that. "Not really," I replied.

It took her a few seconds to say anything back, so I watched her frown iron itself out. "I don't think I believe you," she stated, a slight hint of mockery in her tone. "Have you ever got on a bus and sat beside a stranger if the two seats behind him were free?"

I scrunched up my forehead. "Well… no, I guess not. But that's different."

"No, it isn't," she said. "Being alone will always be the better option at some point. It's just human nature. We're all fucking terrified of each other."

I sighed and then shook my head. "…Okay," I relented, not that I actually believed her either. I'd realized that night I took care of her and fell asleep on her chest that there was a difference between being alone and being lonely. Being alone, you could get used to. The pain of it was dulled by the promise of change, but loneliness… there was just no growing accustomed to that. Not for anybody.

Not even her.

And it certainly wasn't something to aspire to. "But I don't think I agree with you," I added.

Santana bit back a smirk. "Fair enough… but I can assure you, after years of trying to prove myself wrong I've discovered that there's no company finer than my own. Spending time with other people seems like a waste of time at this point."

I couldn't help snorting a laugh. But I was glad I did because it made Santana stop trying to fight her smile. "I can't even tell if you're being serious anymore," I told her.

She shrugged. "Well, have fun figuring it out."

I bit my lip and rubbed at my eyes again. "It's too early for this," I muttered.

"Yeah… I'm kinda getting off track," Santana sighed with a soft shake of her head. "I actually need to talk to you about something."

"Okay." I nodded so she would continue, but her expression had shifted faster than I thought possible and made me almost hope that she wouldn't.

"Okay," she echoed, "So… you know that body we found in the storage facility?"

I nodded slowly. "The man that Bug killed?"

Santana huffed out a breath. "Yeah," she nodded, "Him… Well, he was Bug."

My brow furrowed because I didn't get it. I had to ask her what she meant.

"The dead guy was Bug," she clarified. "Well… not exactly. He was Benjamin Ullman-Green. Ya'know, the guy whose unit it was? He was pretty decomposed. They had to use his dental records to identify him. I think this Bug guy, whoever he is, killed him and took his truck. That's why Green went off the radar… he's been dead all this time. The only activity in his bank account for the past year and a half has been for the rental on the storage unit. That's how me and Puck found it in the first place. It explains everything."

I shook my head because it didn't seem that way to me. "I… I don't understand," I stuttered.

"Bug stole the dead guy's identity," Santana said. "He found someone he knew nobody would miss, killed him, and now he's driving around in his truck and working out of his storage facility and maybe even using his name. Basically… it means he's pretty much untraceable."

I felt the knot in my stomach hitch just a little tighter. "Fuck," I mumbled.

"Fuck, indeed," Santana agreed with a roll of her eyes.

"Do the police know about it?" I asked her, "I mean, you said Officer Puckerman called them from a payphone yesterday, right? And the dental records thing. Did the cops do that?"

She pinched her lips together and then scooted even closer to me, so that her knees pushed into my thigh and there was no space between us at all. She pulled my hand into her lap and when I felt her thumb rubbing circles into my skin I had to close my eyes for a second. "Yeah, they know," she said softly, "But that's not everything." I nodded so that she would continue and Santana cleared her throat before she did. "CSI combed through the place top-to-bottom when they got there. Obviously they found things that Puckerman and I missed. There were pictures and journals, all kinds of stuff."

I nodded, feeling myself grow impatient for something I wasn't sure of. "Okay," I said.

"He's the guy I've been looking for, Brittany," she told me.

I frowned. "What d'you mean?"

Santana gave a flustered sigh. "There were pictures of Kitty Wilde in there," she said, "Cassandra July, too. And… your sister and a couple others. We don't know who they are yet but we're gonna try to find them."

Her words felt poisonous. I absorbed them and felt my insides shrivel up. "I don't... How is that possible?" I breathed.

"I don't know," she shook her head, "I should've listened to you… that night in my car. You were right, I'm so sorry."

I shook my head like she had done. "He's… a serial killer," I said dumbly.

I felt Santana squeeze my fingers a little tighter. "Your sister still doesn't fit the pattern," she told me, "The others were killed in their homes. But he was careful with Jessica. He wants something from her."

I shook my head uselessly again. My heart pounded against my ribcage and panic rose inside me like bile. "No... he's a killer," I repeated, "He could be doing anything to her… right now. He could be-" I stopped short and when I made eye contact with Santana again it made me want to cry. Without thinking I snatched my hand away from hers and then I clutched at the front of her sweatshirt. "You have to find her," I said, "You have to."

Santana's expression softened further as she wound her fingers around my wrists and peeled my hands off of her. "I'm trying," she told me. It was gentle and it was honest, but it wasn't enough. I choked on a sob.

"But you have to," I said, my voice an octave higher than it was a second ago, "I need her. Please. We can try something else."

Santana bit her lip for a second and then shook her head again as she placed my hands back in my lap. "It's not fair for you to say these things to me, Britt," she whispered.

I closed my eyes and felt a warm tear run down my face. Another chased it, but that was all that got out. I didn't understand what it was about Santana that drew things from me so easily, even when I wanted them to stay hidden. I hadn't cried in months but in front of her I'd done it three times. I had vowed not to speak unless it was necessary but she pulled words like ribbons from the back of my throat. Flimsy and indefinite.

"I'm sorry," I breathed. When I opened my eyes again, Santana gave me a pressed but sympathetic smile. My heart began to slow just a little.

"There's a silver lining here," she assured me.

"There is?" I asked, skeptical.

"Yeah," she replied, "The other cops believe you, now. And me. They don't really have a choice."

I nodded reluctantly. "…Okay," I agreed. She was right. Having more people believe us could only be a good thing. "Will it still be you helping me?"

Santana bobbed her head. "Yeah, I'm kinda assigned to your case by default 'cause I was already looking for this guy. But your sister's still just a missing person right now. That's Hummel's department. And Schuester's gonna wanna talk to you later. I told him I'd come see you so that he wouldn't send any cops to your house… so, I can take you down to the station later if you want?"

I lifted my shoulders up and down. "Okay," I answered.

Santana ducked her head a little closer to mine. "This is a good thing, Britt," she said quietly.

I nodded at her again. "Yeah… I know." I tried to smile and Santana's lips quirked up at the corners, too. "Does this mean they're gonna let that guy go? Cassandra's boyfriend?"

Her shoulders slumped a little and she shook her head. "Not yet," she answered, "There's nothing to suggest he wasn't still an accomplice at this point, but I'm hoping for a retrial once we've got more evidence. He's always had his appeals overturned in the past but I don't think that'll happen this time."

I looked down at my hands in my lap and started fiddling with my fingers. "When do I have to go to the police station?" I asked.

"After I've taken a nap," Santana replied. I smiled a little at that. "You can go back to sleep, too, if you want?"

I nodded my head. "Okay," I said.

When I glanced back at Santana she was studying my face. But after a few drawn-out seconds she looked away from me and I felt the bed shift beneath us as she began to move. She slipped under the covers and laid down on her side and after a beat I followed suit. "Just, try to relax for a little while, okay?" she said as I pressed my cheek to the pillow.

"Okay," I repeated. I moved my head forwards a little so that my face was closer to hers and Santana's eyes got ever-so-slightly wider. I made it so that we were sharing a pillow, and then I moved my hand so that it was on her neck. Santana shook her head almost imperceptibly, but she didn't say anything so I closed the space between us and pressed my lips gently to hers. I made sure I was quick and as I drew back I felt Santana's hand on my chest, just below my throat, making sure I didn't come back for another.

"Brittany… what happened last night can't happen again," she told me softly.

My heart jolted and I frowned, but I didn't question it. I had no right to. "Oh…" was all I said.

"It's just not a good idea," she added, "Not now this is official. I don't think it'd go down too well and I can't risk being kicked off the case."

I swallowed thickly and felt my cheek ruffle against the pillow as I nodded again. "Okay," I whispered, "But… I would never tell anybody. Just so you know."

Santana pinched her lips together in a strained, almost pained, smile. And then I felt her hand moving from my chest, up over my throat before stopping at my face. She pressed her palm into my cheek a little firmer than I think she meant to and rubbed her thumb over my skin. "I know you wouldn't," she whispered back, and then she huffed out a sigh. "C'mon, we should get some sleep."

I wasn't tired anymore. I had slept all night but I agreed anyway. "Okay," I said. I watched her close her eyes but I didn't close mine, and I wondered if she could feel me looking at her. If that was the case, she didn't seem to mind. After some minutes, her breathing slowed and deepened and even though her expression hadn't changed I knew she sleeping.

I stayed where I was and she never took her hand back.

/

"Did anybody tell that man's family, yet?" I asked. "Benjamin, I mean?" I didn't feel right, calling him Green, like Santana had been. It seemed too cold.

She looked a little thrown by the question when I first looked over at her. I had been silent for the first ten minutes of our journey, content to watch the windshield wipers swish back and forth as they kept our view of the waterlogged street from being obstructed. The thought had struck me out of nowhere.

"Uh… no," she answered, "He didn't have any family."

"None?" I frowned.

Santana shrugged. "It happens, Brittany."

"But… what'll happen to him?"

She shifted awkwardly in her seat before answering. "There'll be an ad in the paper and if nobody claims him within thirty days he'll be given an Indigent Burial," she said. "There was a little money left in his bank account. Should cover most of the costs. Maybe not the headstone… they're kinda pricey. But everything else."

My chest squeezed unpleasantly. "So, it'll just be a hole in the ground? That's it?"

"Pretty much," she replied, "I mean, he'll have a stake with a number on it, but no name or anything."

"That's… awful," I said dumbly. I actually felt a little nauseous at the thought.

"Try not to think about it," Santana told me, "It's not your problem, okay?"

I lifted my shoulders up and down in a shrug. "It should be somebody's problem," I mumbled.

"Well, you have more important things to focus on right now," she said.

I bobbed my head up and down, even though I wasn't sure I agreed with her. Talking with Sergeant Schuester may have been more immediate, but that didn't make it more or less important than anything else.

"I need to call Sam," I told her. I hadn't actually meant to express the thought out loud. Her silence was pulling words from me again. "I need to tell him what's going on."

"You can do that later," Santana was quick to assure me. "Stop finding things to worry about." She glanced away from the road to shoot me a quick but playful smile. She was trying to lighten the mood.

"I don't know how you can act so normal," I murmured. I knew I'd said the wrong words the moment they left my lips. Brave. How could she be so brave?That was what I had meant to ask.

"Because I see stuff like this every day," she replied. "It is normal for me."

Something about the way she said it made me even sadder than the thought of Benjamin Ullman-Green's lonely grave. "Do you ever wanna quit?" I asked.

She hesitated for a moment before shaking her head. "Not yet… I'm still waiting for the pay-off," she retorted.

I frowned, but gazing at the side of her face told me nothing. Her expression was unreadable from that angle. "What d'you mean?"

Santana puffed out her cheeks for a moment and then shook her head as she blew out the trapped air. It made her look cute, like a hamster. "I dunno. I always thought doing a job like this would make me tough, ya'know? That's how it's supposed to work. But sometimes I just feel like… jello."

She seemed so indignant at the prospect that I wasn't even tempted to smile. And the fact that I wasn't completely sure I understood seemed irrelevant, so I nodded. "I like jello," I mumbled.

Santana breathed out a joyless laugh and shook her head again. "Well, you know when people like jello, right?"

Her question made me pause for a second. "…No," I said.

"When they've got a scratchy throat, that's when," she answered.

When she said it, I understood… at least, I thought I did. "That's not the only time," I whispered, but Santana didn't say anything back.

We pulled into the parking lot of the police station around twenty minutes later, having spent the rest of the drive over in silence. It was early evening now and even through the water-spattered windshield I could see that the sun was beginning to set outside the car. Santana had slept longer than she'd intended earlier and woken up frazzled and grumpy. She'd made me rush to get ready.

But now she just unbuckled her seat belt and sat there, so I did the same, and when we made eye contact I felt it again. That quick-warm breeze-through-my chest feeling. Her eyes glazed over, so dark, and the sound of rain pounding against the roof of the car ebbed away to nothing. I knew the silence wasn't real but even so, it stole my breath for a second.

In that moment, I wouldn't have been able to tell you my own name.

"You ready?" Santana said softly. She spoke the way you would to somebody you were trying to wake up.

It took me a second, but I managed to nod. "I think so," I answered.