Thank you for all the new reviews, favourites and follows, they really well and truly make me happy :)

Sorry for the wait, I've kind of been busy and I wanted to make sure I knew what would be happening before writing this chapter (I've sort of been writing this story by ear, but at the same time I've had a plan... if that makes sense?)

Oh, also, I have the feeling that this chapter will probably have some characters acting a little OOC. I'm sorry for that, but I'm not going to change it as, to be fair, this whole story has a lot of OOC concepts...

As always any reviews, follows and favourites are appreciated and recieved with much gratitude :D

DISCLAIMER: I own NOTHING

Updated 11/07/17

CHAPTER ELEVEN

She didn't get why they weren't already gone, weren't already kicked out, bruised and beaten. She'd lied to Stef - whilst she was working as a fucking cop - and insulted both women in the worst possible way. But they hadn't said anything about it, hadn't really reacted at all. It was like they knew she hadn't meant it - and she hadn't. She'd just wanted a reaction, a sign, any sort of indication so that she'd know what to look for, what the signs of anger looked like on each of the women and how they acted whilst angry. But instead she got nothing.

Nothing, but an underlying sense of guilt at the bottom of her stomach She'd barely said a word since Lena had showed her to the room she'd be staying in and had handed her two pillows and a toothbrush - she'd somehow lost her previous one during the move from Jim's house to the Fosters'.

Sitting down on the inflatable mattress that had been placed against the wall opposite to where Mariana's large queen sized bed was positioned - apparently Jude and her would be getting their own beds but they hadn't arrived and until then this was the best they could do other than sharing the sofa - she sighed and rested her head against the cold, smooth surface of the wall.

Seriously?! She felt worse about calling the two women downstairs 'dykes' than she had when she'd caused Jim's death!

But she wasn't only feeling guilty because of what she'd called Stef and Lena. It was because whilst neither had reacted, Jude had been there, in that room, when she'd said it, and once he realised what it meant, there was a chance that he'd be upset. Sure, he might understand, but that was - in her opinion - unlikely. And as such, she felt bad about even thinking to say that with him present. She wasn't, after all, an idiot. Jude was a twelve year old boy who enjoyed wearing dresses and other girly things - she knew what people thought, what they said to each other, she knew what they all assumed.

And that wasn't fair. But then again, when was anything ever fair? Not ever for people like her. And unfortunately, that's what many people assumed abut Jude. That he was a bad seed, a rotten apple, a hopeless case, and all because that's what she was. And she knew there was no fucking point in denying it.

And so she heard what they said, heard what they thought as they didn't bother to lower their voices, didn't bother keeping keeping their opinions regarding her brother to themselves. But what they said - well, what they meant by what the crude, harsh words they used - didn't matter, not to her, and not ever. But still, she knew that what they said could upset him, could cause him to try and hide, to not be himself. And she's taken too much of the systems's bullshit to let him fall now. No, she hadn't meant it, and if he ever thought that she had, then she didn't think she could ever forgive herself.

For the third time, she sighed, but this time it was echoed with a far more exasperated - and more than a little exaggerated - one from the room's other occupant.

Mariana momentarily closed the sticker-clad lid of her laptop and placed the lid for the bottle of florecent pink nail polish she'd been using to the side, before shooting her a clear look of annoyance.

"Do you mind?!" She asked with a huff, "Some of us are trying to concentrate!"

Callie raised her eyebrows, but didn't say anything, instead sending the younger girl a small, sarcastic smile. "Sorry, I didn't know nail painting counted needed that much work put into it." Her tone unabashed and unapologetic.

Mariana glared at her, before turning her attention back to her nails. "Whatever." She muttered angrily.

Callie unintentionally sighed again, and lent back against her bed.

It was going to be a long night...

...

By ten she had made sure she had her emergency let's-get-the-fuck-out-of-here clothes hidden.

By eleven Lena had came in and told them it was lights out.

By twelve Mariana was apparently asleep, turning every now and then, but without any indication that she was still awake.

By one Callie was bored out of her fucking mind and desperate to check on Jude.

By two she'd snuck out of her bed and had now knew that Jude was safe - and surprisingly comfortable enough away from her to be fast asleep.

And by three she'd left the house, equipped with only a flashlight and a bottle of Stef's beer.

She knew that she'd probably get into trouble for the latter item, but she didn't care. Not then, not at all. Somehow, she found herself on the beach, walking barefooted down a deserted stretch of sand, watching the grey, stormy clouds roll across the sky and unable to stop the small smile from appearing across her face as a few daring waves lapped at her feet.

"And here I thought that I was the only one up at this time."

She jumped at the sound of another person's voice, and turned to find a boy around her age with purposely messy, shoulder-length hair grinning happily at her from the pavement.

"I'm glad I was wrong though." He crossed the sand, moving towards her and stuck out him hand. "M'names Wyatt, what's yours?"

She gave him a small smile smile, but didn't say anything. After all, last time she'd just met someone they'd ended up burning a fricking body and then he stormed 'round, furious at her, accusing her of ratting the two of them out to the cops - why would she risk that again?

Then again, this time she hadn't been caught hiding a body in a shed. Instead, the worse she had on her now was the beer she'd nicked from the fridge and somehow she didn't think he'd care much about that...

She sighed and shrugged. "I'm Callie, Callie Jacob. My brother and I are being fostered right now by -"

"Lena Adams and Stef Foster?" Wyatt nodded, interupting her, "Yeah, I know them."

She frowned, "I just said that I was being fostered, how did you know it'd be them?"

"They're foster parents. Their son, Brandon, is in my year - he's actually dating my ex - and, well, everyone knows that they adopted Mariana and Jesus after fostering them for a while. So obviously, you're living with them."

"Oh." She didn't have anything else to say, and instead decided to take a sip from her beer, before offering it to Wyatt who immediately took a large slurp, finishing it off. "Guess that makes sense."

"Yeah."

The two of them silently sat down on the sand, neither one asking if the other wanted to but neither saying they'd rather not. With another huge grin, Wyatt pulled a small, glass bottle, half full with a clear liquid, from under his coat. "Vodka?" He offered.

"Thanks."She grinned at him and happily took a sip, consequences be damned.

It took a surprisingly short time for the bottle to end up empty, and by that time both of them were lying side by side, staring up at the sky, watching as it gradually became a lighter colour.

"You know, when I was little, my mom used to take me to the park and we'd write messages in bottles and then float them in the pond there. I was so young that I didn't even realise they'd never go anywhere, never reach anyone. I thought they'd sail on forever and eventually some guy on a deserted island would find them and be able to use the paper to send a message back. I never got a reply, though. I guess the park-keepers must have assumed that it was just random litter and chucked them away. That's kind of sad, you know..." She sighed wistfully, "It's just kind of sad."

"Yeah," Wyatt agreed. "It is. You know, I used to send them off all the time here. Not messages, exactly, but worries, regrets, fears. even confessions. It sounds silly, but I always felt better after I'd done that."

"Oh," Callie rolled over onto her stomach and traced shapes into the sand, "Well I could do with doing that. I swear that I've ended up with more regrets and concerns this past month than any other time before, in my life. I just keep making crap decision after crap fucking decision."

"Well then it's decided!" With another grin, Wyatt tore the labels off of the two bottles and passed her a pen - for whatever reason he had three in his pocket. "Write something and then we'll set them afloat. C'mon!"

She grinned at that, liking the idea and took the piece of label as well as the pen that he offered. Then she stared at the paper.

What should she write? What was she fearing the most? What was eating her up inside? She knew, of course she did - how could it even be anything else?!

Uncapping the pen, she quickly scribbled it down, before rolling up the paper and stuffing it inside the bottle. Wyatt did the same with the other and together they threw them into the water, teasing each other about one another's throwing abilities. And then they walked way. And she felt better, she really did. It was like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders and nothing could place it back there.

It was like she was free.

...

They really should have checked which direction the tide was going. It was going in not out. Which meant that the bottles weren't going out to see either, instead being carried further in the beach. It was only a matter of time before a jogger, out before the busy hussle of a chaotic day happened across them. At first, he though the brown beer bottle was just worthless litter, another asshole with no thoughts towards the environment at all, before he realised that it contained a piece of paper inside it, like the clear vodka bottle only meters away from it. The first piece of paper was blank, more for show than anything else, but the second... the second piece of paper was. Without hesitation, the jogger grabbed the message and the bottle and headed towards the police station. He had a feeling that the cops would want to see this.

Once there and with an officer he handed over the piece of paper, his hand shaking slightly. "I know it could be a hoax, but..."

"It might not be." The officer nodded, his face full of grim understanding, "Well thank you for bringing this to my attention. I assure you that there will be a full investigation as to what this is about and what it means."

Dismissed, the jogger left, a feel of unease settling on him as he remembered the words he'd just read - the words he'd just shown the police.

'I hid the body, but it wasn't me. I didn't kill him.'