A/N: Thank you to everyone who is still reading this and to those who review - I know that it has been ages since it has been updated. It is really gratifying that there are some people out there who are understanding this fic and thinking about it. There has been some negative feedback which I would like to respond to - the story that I am writing is about characters who have flaws and so automatically some of their actions are not going to be things that everyone would be comfortable with or agree with, in fact that is why it is a story. I write more about Quinn in this because she is the character who I feel is most flawed - the story is about the history of the relationship between these characters and I am not trying to get you to side with one or the other, just tell you a story about what happened to them. Anyway - here is another installment.

Chapter 11 - Tangled Web

'Thanks, Roy,' Rachel called over her shoulder as she flung open the door at the back of the car. 'Just hover around... this shouldn't take very long.'

'Very good, ma'am,' he answered and she rolled her eyes in response.

'And please cut out the ma'am, it makes me feel ridiculous.'

She always told him not to call her that, but he always did. It drove her crazy.

'Yes, ma'am.'

He gave her a slightly superior look as he drove off, and instead she braced herself for the task at hand.

Rachel paused to look up at the building, a sigh pulling itself from her lips. Of all the places that she had anticipated being at 11am on Monday morning, outside one of the most prestigious boys schools in New York was not one of them. Santana owed her. Santana owed her big. She flipped back her long dark hair as she strode forward, pushing her way through the large glass doors and into the school.

She made her way swiftly down the corridor, the mill of children rushing around her, oblivious to this adult who did not share their world. Rachel took off her sunglasses as she walked, snapping them shut and placing them into her Rebecca Minkoff bag. One of the male teachers stopped and watched her appreciatively as she strode passed him; maybe he recognised her, maybe he didn't. Her face was more often in the gossip magazines than out of it these days, but she was still primarily a Broadway actress and so actual recognition was variable.

As she walked into the foyer before the principal's office she felt an unfamiliar tug of dread… it had been a long time since she had entered a school, and even longer since she had been summoned to the principal's office. On the two occasions she had been there in her final year, she had had a simmering and sullen blonde by her side. The memory, long forgotten until this day, was both sweet and sad. How different their lives may have been, she thought wistfully, but regret was not something that Rachel invested much time in anymore.

The present day principal's office was much more ornate than Mckinley high had ever been. Four parents hovered stony-faced in the waiting area, and they reeked of money; expensive clothes, expensive jewellery, expensive perfume. Rachel ignored them as she stepped towards the desk, putting on her most dazzling stage smile. After years of auditions and recalls, of fighting and fighting to get what she wanted, Rachel Berry could perform any role you wanted her to – and this was no exception.

'Rachel Berry,' she introduced herself to the slightly harassed looking receptionist who gawked at her a moment. Clearly someone did recognise her. 'I'm here for Carlos Lopez-Pierce. His mother spoke to the school earlier to say that I would be coming in her place.'

'Lopez-Pierce?' The receptionist echoed hesitantly, 'Lopez-Pierce?'

'Pull yourself together Janet,' a man who was evidently the receptionist's supervisor cut in. He looked at Rachel with the kind of smug look in his eyes that she was sure was reserved for the parents of the troublemaking kids. The actress felt a stab of protective ire flash through her at that and her gaze hardened. The supervisor gestured dismissively to the corner of the room, 'he's sitting over there. Principal Hicks would like to have a word with the boys and their parents once they have all arrived.'

Inwardly Rachel groaned. Of course, she had been expecting this – though she had been hoping to avoid the experience. She was intuitive enough to know that these principal/students/parents things were more about pitting the parents of badly behaved kids against each other than it was finding the root-cause of the trouble.

'Thanks,' she replied curtly, ignoring the other adults in the room in favour of finding her charge. He was sitting on the chair in the corner, legs swinging as he glowered at the floor. It was apparent that he had suffered a bloody nose, and if the scratches and scrapes on his arms were anything to go by, he had been involved in quite a scuffle. His uniform was in disarray. Rachel had to stop herself from rolling her eyes, wondering what had possessed Brittany and Santana to send their kid to a school that insisted on the children wearing uniforms.

She came to a halt in front of him and folded her arms across her chest.

'Carlos,' she greeted somewhat dangerously, the smallest of smiles on her lips. He snapped out of his glower to look up at her sharply, a surprised smile flashing across his cheeky face.

'Mami sent you?' he asked, clearly surprised. He had been worrying about which of his parents were going to turn up. It was usually Momma, and he often felt that it was better that she arrive with her wide, disappointed blue eyes than it was to have his Mami appear in her storm of fierceness. But this development left him confused. Aunt Rach was an unknown quantity. She was usually fun and playful with him, and she liked to listen to what he had to say rather than ignoring him like other adults tended to, but then there was an edge to her that made him know that she was not someone to be messed with.

'Evidently,' Rachel replied dryly, before picking up the ice pack that had been discarded on the chair and gently pressing it against his face. Well at least she wasn't yelling. And she didn't look sad and disappointed like Momma.

'It's cold,' he whined, hoping to garner some support.

'You'll live,' she replied unsympathetically.

Twenty minutes later, and Rachel Berry was starting to lose her patience. They were crammed into the principal's office; four glowering children and six stone-faced adults, and really, Rachel had better things to be doing with her time. The principal, in her opinion, was as spineless as Principal Figgins had been and was more concerned with stroking the egos of some of the rich parents than he was sorting out the mess that Carlos had apparently caused. The little boy was glaring at the floor and to be honest, Rachel didn't really blame him.

'I think that we have heard enough,' Rachel cut in as the principal started on yet another ego-stroking venture towards the evidently wealthy and over-protective mother to her left. The number of chairs in the room had been limited, and she had decided to stand behind the one that Carlos had chosen rather than sit beside him.

'Carlos, apologise,' she instructed firmly. The boy looked up at her mutinously, his brown eyes furious.

'But they were bullying her!' he objected self-righteously. And seriously, Rachel could see his point – if only things could remain as straightforward as when you were seven years old. But the world introduced shades of grey, and nothing remained simple for long.

'It's not the motivation but the method that you need to apologise for,' she replied seriously, pointedly ignoring the others in the room. 'Bullying is very wrong, and you are right to try to stop it… but trying to stop it with your fists is equally wrong. All that fighting will do is cause more trouble.'

She held his gaze for a long moment as she let that sink in. He looked so much like Santana that she couldn't help but feel her heart go out to him. The fierce dark eyes, the stubborn frown.

'Now, apologise,' she said softly, and for a moment she thought that he was going to object some more. She raised an eyebrow at him pointedly and he reluctantly complied.

'He's suspended for the rest of the week,' the principal announced as Rachel made it clear that she was about to leave. She turned a withering look on the man.

'And you really think that is an effective form of discipline?' she asked icily. Tension thickened in the room and she raised her chin haughtily. 'And what of your three bullies? Suspension as well I presume?'

The principal looked uncomfortable and a couple of the parents looked outraged. It was awkward trying to suspend the offspring of the rich and famous, especially when you were trying to garner their favour.

'It would be highly inappropriate for you to claim to have a no tolerance policy towards bullying if you don't actually follow it through, don't you think?' She pressed on meaningfully. She gestured towards the bruising on Carlos' face. 'And the evidence suggests that they didn't exactly play the victim when one little boy tried to defend his friend. If you are going to suspend Carlos for fighting, it seems only logical to suspend the others for fighting as well. Same crime, same punishment.'

Her dark eyes were hard. The principal squirmed.

'It seems only fair,' he reluctantly agreed, taking an intense dislike to the latest addition to the entourage of one of his most troublemaking students. And at his announcement, there was a cry of outrage from one of the mothers and the beginnings of an objection from another. Carlos grinned with a swell of triumph. The harassed principal huffed. 'What did you say your name was again?'

That dazzling stage smile lit up her face, not quite making it to her eyes.

'I didn't,' she replied, 'Rachel Berry.'

The man seemed to choke on his own tongue, his cheeks turning rosy as he put the name and face together. But it was already too late.

'Come on, Carlos.'

She turned on her heal and strode towards the door, opening it briskly. She had spent far too much precious time cooped up here already. The little boy looked smugly over at the older bullies he had fought with. He may have lost the initial battle, but Aunt Rach had definitely won him the war and they all knew it.

'Now.'

He wiped the grin off his face and scurried to get off the chair and out of the door as quickly as possible.

The commotion that was rippling through the normally tranquil offices caught Santana's attention the minute she arrived back from the courthouse. She paused at the door of her office and grabbed a passing paralegal by the elbow.

'What the hell is going on?'

The girl looked up at her with wide eyes.

'Santana, thank god. Ms Stanton-Lee wants to see you immediately. She couldn't reach you on your phone…'

'I went straight to court for the Brody case. What's happening?'

'She's in the boardroom,' the paralegal took an unsteady breath. 'The firm has just taken over the Joe Waters case.'

Incomprehension and then a wave of disgust rippled through Santana at the recognition of the name. She felt physically sick. The shock must have shown on her face as the paralegal took her arm and pushed her in the direction of the boardroom.

'She wants you on it.'

The scene within the lofty room was reminiscent of an unusual battlefield; boxes and boxes of files and a swarm of junior associates rifling through everything in a frantic rush. Kimberly Stanton-Lee caught sight of her from her position amidst the chaos and beckoned her over, her expression serious.

'You can't be taking this case,' Santana stated quietly once she was within earshot. Kimberly was a partner at the firm. Attractive and approachable but still a partner. They sized each other up momentarily.

'It's very high profile,' she replied pointedly. The firm could certainly do with a few more of them.

'Because he murdered twelve people in cold blood,' Santana retorted, 'you seriously cannot want to defend him?'

'The case is huge…'

'He's mafia.'

Kimberly's eyebrow rose challengingly and the Latina folded her arms across her chest. There were a few cases that treaded a thin line for Santana morally, but being part of the defence of a man who was likely to have killed many more than the twelve he was accused of really grated the wrong way.

'Santana – we already took the case, and we will very shortly be going to court. I want my best people on this team. That includes you.'

Santana stared at the older woman, her dark eyes hard.

'I'm first chair on the Brody case,' she said stiltedly. 'We have been in court all morning.'

'I'm taking you off it,' Kimberly returned her gaze with equal steel, 'you are working this case and I don't want to hear anything more about it from you, understood?'

Santana exhaled the air through her teeth, the unsettling feeling churning within her. It was moments like this that reminded her that the firm essentially owned her. She nodded almost imperceptibly; of course she would do whatever a partner in the firm asked her to.

'You have some kind of medical connection, don't you?' Kimberly asked after the tense moment had passed between them. Santana shrugged.

'My father is a doctor.'

'Great,' Kimberly was all business as she gestured to an intimidating stack of files at the end of the table, 'that's all yours then.'

Santana raised an eyebrow, wondering if it was even worth asking what the hell she was meant to be doing with them.

'Medical reports. Of all the alleged victims including their post-mortems. I want you to familiarise yourself with them. We have a strategy meeting in 3 hours. Be ready.'

Santana ground her teeth in irritation, turning to the stack and wondering if there was anything worse to be doing than trawling through the gruesome murder victims final hours.

'He has been awaiting a court date for at least three months,' she said speculatively, 'why have we only just got the case?'

Kimberly met her gaze again, holding it silently for a moment as though she was weighing something up before speaking in that fresh, clear voice of hers.

'Because his previous lawyer was found dead in the early hours of the morning.'

An obvious hush descended in the room in response to the statement.

Kimberly straightened, her green eyes scanning the boardroom seriously as the junior associates paused in their activities. No one dared to speak for a tense second or two, and slowly the associates started moving again, as though a heavy blanket had fallen across them.

'Fuck,' Santana muttered to herself.

'Tell me about the fight.'

It was certainly an order and not a question. Aunt Rachel smoothed her dark hair back and looked at him intently in a way that spelt out trouble in his seven year old mind. Carlos chewed on his lip as he looked up at her from across the table at the diner.

'Can I get a milkshake?' He tried innocently.

'No.'

'Soda?'

'No.'

'But I'm thirsty…'

Rachel pursed her lips as she glanced down at the laminated menu, allowing herself to take pity on him a little… he was adorable after all, and he was developing a black eye already. The mere sight of it blooming across his smooth, young skin was enough to start her blood boiling.

'You may have juice or water,' she said grudgingly, 'if you are going to get wired on sugar it may as well be natural sugar.'

'Thanks, Auntie Rach.' He flashed her a smile but her serious expression did not budge. Tough audience. He tapped his palms on the table as he read the menu, deliberating in the careful way his Momma did before choosing in a delicate manner that was totally unsuited to a seven year old. Rachel watched him closely, trying to get a grip on her own protective ire. She couldn't even imagine how crazy she would be if she had children of her own, she would never let them out of her sight.

'Now,' she started again once she had ordered some drinks, 'tell me about the fight.'

The boy slumped down in his chair.

'Do I have to?'

The whiny tone made her smile.

'Yes,' she replied equally firmly. 'We have talked about fighting before, little man. And while your parents have exclusive rights to discipline you, as your auntie I absolutely have the right to lecture you.'

His wide dark eyes met hers for a moment and then he dropped his head into his hands dramatically. He knew, as well as anyone, that a lecture from Auntie Rach was a fate worse than death.

Lima. September 2012

Summer had come and gone and Quinn had barely seen it, still lost in her haze of guilt and grief. It was the week before her eighteenth birthday that Uncle Mike came to visit her again, the visit that she had anticipated with a dark dread.

'You were expecting me,' he stated in that deep, quiet voice after the pleasantries had been exchanged. He held a box in his hands and the same man, with a ragged scar across his right cheek hovered by the door. Quinn's eyes flicked apprehensively between them, careful to fold her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting nervously.

'You said that you would come.' She replied, her heart hammering hard.

Uncle Mike was sitting opposite her, in the careful way that men of power sit and she willed him not to say the words that she feared that he might. The fragile veil of the lie remained intact as long as the words were not spoken, as long as nothing was spoken aloud she could pretend that she did not see the truth. A heavy grief swelled within her then, for her mother, for the woman that she realised she had not really known at all... and how she never would.

'Yes I did.'

He did not smile this time, but watched her in the silence between them. Held her gaze, the gaze that reflected his own.

'Russell worked for me for a long time…' He started.

'I know.' Quinn cut him off.

Another pause. He could see the cold resistance in her posture and sighed deeply in response. He had hoped that the time he had given her would be enough, but in the moment that he had seen her, he knew that he was wrong. The time had not made her grief softer, but hardened it.

'I cared deeply about your mother,' he tried again. And this time it was the sharpness of her gaze that stopped him.

'Don't talk to me about her,' the girl said quietly.

'I know that you don't want to hear it…'

'No,' Quinn smiled then, a smile of disdain that did nothing to soften her features. She was as impenetrable as a fortress. 'You don't know anything about me.'

It was not said petulantly as it might have been, but a plain statement of fact. She wanted him gone and away from her. Gone in every possible way that he could be gone. To have never existed.

He smiled softly.

'I've known you your whole life, Quinn.'

The words skirted around the statement that was obvious to them both. He wanted to tell her gently but then caught his breath as he recognised the look in her eyes, the steady, hard gaze and the fear behind it. She knew, he realised. She knew and clearly had known and held the truth heavily within herself. They were more alike than he had appreciated. The girl swallowed.

'I don't need to hear it, Michael. I know what you are. I know what you are to me,' she stated, 'but it is nothing more than genetics - you are as much a stranger to me as a man on the street. Russell being dead doesn't change that.'

She looked away for a moment, as though the hard words had taken more effort to speak evenly than she had anticipated. She closed her eyes briefly.

'Why did you bribe them to alter the police report?' Quinn's question caught him off guard.

Michael flexed his fingers.

'What makes you think that it is altered?'

'Because it was,' the blonde replied shortly, her eyes flicking certainly to his, 'I know my house... And I knew my family. The report states that they were all upstairs together, that the fire originated from the room that they were in.'

Her eyes glazed over as she looked down at the carpeted floor, seeing but not seeing it.

'…it states that the fire was accidental.'

Michael's face was a careful mask as he listened to her words, his eyes cold. At the door behind him the scarred man listened with interest, leaning back against the wall. Quinn ignored the churning fear that gnawed at her.

'What are you trying to say Quinn?' Michael asked dangerously.

She felt a tremble run across her skin. At the edge of her awareness was a fear that she was slowly being allowed to see the ugly truth, that the thoughts that had been occupying her relentlessly since the funeral were finally able to be voiced.

'That my family was murdered.'

He was still for a moment, then the muscle at his jaw twitched. Quinn daren't even blink as she watched him, her throat burning. Everything in his reaction just confirmed her darkest thoughts.

'And you bribed the police to cover it up.'

He measured her up. A small smile twitched at his lips. Smarter than he had given her credit for, and cold as ice.

'And why would I do that, Quinn?' he asked leadingly, an eyebrow arching upwards. 'Why?'

Her gaze was steady.

'That's my question.'

'Goddamn it Quinn! Pick up the phone!'

It was the millionth message that Brittany had left on the other blonde's voicemail in three days and she was starting to get frantic. She glanced at the large glass doors through to the boardroom within which the publicity director held court, running through the images that would shortly be rolling out across New York and then the country. Her conviction that Quinn would support her despite the intense breach of privacy was starting to waver… Maybe it was because she had finally started to realise the extent of what she had done, that at some point she was going to have to turn around to her old friend and say "hey, Q, all those times that we were chatting and messing about with the camera, and you were telling me your biggest fears and secrets… yeah, all those times that you trusted me… well I made them into a beautiful film… and I am going to broadcast them to the world… sorry."

'Any luck?'

Brittany groaned as she turned towards Simon who had followed her out of the meeting.

'Her cellphone must be dead or something. She's been gone for three days now.'

'Do you know when she is back?'

'If I knew that, do you think I would be this worried?' Brittany demanded, flashing him an exasperated look. After so many years of marriage, some of Santana's mannerisms had been bound to rub off on her.

'Hey! Don't take this out on me, I'm trying to help you here,' he retorted.

'I know. I know and… I'm sorry,' Brittany sighed, 'it's just… they are bringing the dates forward again for the publicity and… I'm feeling the pressure a bit, okay? She was meant to be in Harvard just for the weekend.'

Simon took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder, checking that there was no one within earshot of them.

'I know, Britt,' he murmured quietly, 'I know the pressure that you are under. And I know that you are trying, really trying.'

'But I haven't got her signature on the papers yet…'

'No,' he let out a tense breath through his teeth, 'but if she is a sure thing, if she is as loyal to you as you say she is… then maybe we can go with the original documents. No one else has to know, Britt. It's just you and me… And you can tell her when she comes back. But only if you are sure. Only if she is a sure thing.'

Santana drummed her fingers on her arm as she listened to Kimberly prep the team of associates that were perched around the boardroom table. The uncomfortable churning in her stomach had not dissipated from the morning, and reading briefly through the files had not helped matters. Twelve murders. Probably more.

'…I want each and every one of you to be fully committed to this case, despite any personal reservations that you may have.' Kimberly's eyes fell briefly on Santana as she finished her little speech and San met her gaze evenly. She wasn't going to apologise for feeling awkward about defending this man.

'His plea is not guilty but he was not awarded bail at his last hearing,' Edward stated, 'Santana, what do you think of the previous legal team's strategy?'

She exhaled slowly, looking up.

'Well, I've not examined the files in depth yet, but I think that their approach was bold and may well incur reasonable doubt,' she shrugged a shoulder, 'Mr Waters claims that it was his partner Dan Holbrook who was responsible for the murders of eleven of the victims. The cause of death for all of them is major haemorrhage following knife injury, and we have a forensic expert statement that the murder weapon for each is likely to have been a five inch switchblade. The one that does not fit the pattern is the twelfth victim, which was Mr Holbrook himself who died from a gunshot wound through the back of the head.'

'The circumstantial evidence that links Joe Waters to each of the victims also leads Dan Holbrook to each of them,' one of the other associates added, with an expectant look. 'The only murder that cannot be accounted for is that of Dan Holbrook himself.'

'Who Mr Waters is claiming was killed by a rival organisation,' Santana added sceptically. What was worse than defending this guy, was realising that they may well be able to get him off. And that would always be on her conscience.

Lima. September 2012

Quinn was sitting in the same position in her wheelchair long after Uncle Mike and his companion had left the Lopez house. The box that he had brought with him lay heavily across her knees, and the presence of it was making it difficult for her to breathe.

'Be careful, Quinn,' a soft voice came from the doorway and she looked up with shock to the gentle expression of Maribel Lopez's face.

'Pardon?'

'I said "be careful". Men like that… nothing good comes from men like that,' Santana's mother said softly, coming slowly into the room and settling herself down on the seat that Michael had vacated half an hour before.

'You don't even know who they are,' Quinn replied quietly, looking down again at the heavy box on her lap. Michael's words echoing around her head, burning inside her chest. Maribel raised an eyebrow.

'Before I came to this country, I saw many things, Quinn,' she replied in the cryptic way that Santana's mother often spoke, 'things that will haunt me until I die. There are many bad people in this world. Bad people like those men.'

Quinn looked up sharply at her.

'Were you listening?' she asked directly.

'I didn't have to.'

Quinn took a shaky breath, trying to re-establish some sort of equilibrium within herself.

'He's my father,' she said softly, her voice cracking on the word that fell from dry lips. Surprised she could even say it.

'I know,' Maribel whispered, her eyes filled with a heavy sympathy that she could not express. 'You can tell by the eyes… the structure of your cheekbones. You are very alike.'

The Latina sighed, stopping herself from reaching out to the fragile girl in front of her who had started to tremble.

'I didn't know… My mother never told me,' Quinn whispered. 'Russell never… he never… Don't tell Santana. Please. I couldn't bear for anyone to…'

The tears that tracked down her cheeks were silent and Quinn brushed at them furiously with the back of her hand. Maribel watched her steadily, unfazed by the tears, or by the revelation.

'I don't know who I am anymore…' the blonde girl whispered, 'I don't know what I am.'

She swallowed thickly, her hands trembling against the armrests of the wheelchair, the awful heaviness of the box on her lap.

'There is this darkness inside me… this blackness. And it is swallowing everything. Everything.' She took a ragged breath, looking up to meet the woman's eyes once more, 'I just feel angry. So furiously angry. And it is consuming everything. Every thought that I have… and every day, I lose sight even further of what I was before, of the things that I wanted. I feel like I am just a shell. A nothing.'

And finally Maribel did cover the girl's trembling hand with her own, squeezing the icy fingers.

'It can get easier, Quinn,' she stated quietly, 'not now. Maybe not even a year from now, or two. But it can get better, eventually, if you choose for it to be. There is always a choice. A choice for anger, or vengeance, or for love. It may not seem like it, but that is the choice that you are making, today, and everyday. Find something in this world that is worth holding onto, and it will pull you through your darkness. And oneday, you will wake up and find that it is easier, that things are slowly getting better.'

Quinn closed her eyes, focussing hard to control her breathing and letting Maribel's words sink in, but all she could hear were echoes of Michael's voice. Of the ugly truth that he had unravelled for her. The minutes stretched on, but Maribel's gentle grip on her hand did not falter, and eventually when she opened her eyes, she was calmer.

'Thank you,' she whispered.

'Don't thank me,' Santana's mother replied chidingly, 'now, some lunch, Quinn. You are fading away.'

She stood to go back through to the kitchen, gesturing for Quinn to follow her before noting the box on her lap.

'What did he give you?' she asked absently as she made her way towards the door, not noticing the way in which Quinn froze for a moment.

'Early birthday present,' the girl recovered quickly, glancing down at the box as Maribel left the room. Feeling sick at the weight of the Colt M1911 that lay beneath the fine tissue paper.

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