Chapter 11 - To Tell the Truth
Hello everyone! It's been a bit! I haven't been able to flush minor details of this story out into a fic for a while but I think I'm on a roll again. I was thinking about how quickly Emma responded to Killian in my last chapter where they KISS but then I realized I've left Neil out of her past completely so her openness makes sense. I felt the need to defend that, even though nobody has questioned me about it. Thanks for being great, let me know what you're thinking :) xx
He should dismiss himself from this case. He should get himself moved out of Boston. So many things are riding on his ability to become a police officer. Killian can't believe he's just put everything in jeopardy.
That night he dropped Emma off a block from the Boothe house.
"I don't want you going in there, Emma. He's dangerous. Marco is dangerous." 1He knows this isn't the truth because Emma herself seems to be the dangerous one. But he tests her, is driving himself crazy with longing for the truth of this damn shit show of a case.
She stares out the front window, her eyes sliding shut, her lips pressed together. She takes a deep breath, throws him a sideways glance, and opens the door. Killian rolls the window down as the car echoes with the sound of her putting a physical barrier between them once more. She bends over and looks back into the car.
"I'll be fine in there. I can take care of myself."
Killian is a little disappointed she doesn't just reveal the whole story to him right then in there. He settles for replying with, "Aye, that you can."
"Goodnight, Officer," she says. And he's surprised to see her smile at him before turning around with languid movements and walking back toward the house. He watches her parting figure in his rearview mirror, mesmerized by the wheaten hair that shines even in the dull light of a practically new moon.
He hates himself for this. He's jeopardized everything. He's jeopardizing everything and he still has no idea what he's dealing with.
That includes both the case and Emma Swan.
Tonight was supposed to be about answers, he thinks, as he changes into sleeping shorts. Tonight was supposed to bridge a gap between what Emma says happens and what actually happened.
Instead he's left with more questions that aren't exactly conducive to closing his case. He closes his eyes as soon as his head hits the pillow. His body is tired and he's mentally exhausted from everything, from his past, from his present, and from this damn future he keeps imagining, one that involves a blonde-haired girl and the open ocean, sea legs and salt hair, damp footprints and sun drunk smiles.
/~*~/
"David, I have to tell you something," Killian says as he hands his mentor a cup of coffee the following morning. David is standing at his desk, leaning over it to read the files spread across the surface. He runs one hand through his hair and grabs the coffee with the other one.
"What's up?" he replies, and Killian is grateful that he doesn't look up from the papers on his desk. Killian had barely been able to sleep even though his body was screaming for rest. He dragged himself out of bed this morning and knew that it would take more than a cup of crappy precinct coffee to clear his head, but unfortunately it was all he had. He was already on his third cup for the day.
"I don't think I can finish this case."
At this, David looks up. Killian takes a sip of his watered-down coffee and throws a wary glance in David's direction.
"What are you talking about?"
The confession is on the tip of his tongue. I kissed her. I have feelings for her. I can't do this, it's gotten too personal.
Instead he says, "I'm not sure I know how we're supposed to get to the bottom of this case if we can't get the truth out of the family."
A voice hisses in his head. Coward.
David looks like he breathes a sigh of relief as he takes a more casual stance and leans his hip against his desk to face Killian head on.
"That's what the time you have shadowing me is for. I'll tell you for certain that it's quite often we really don't get answers from the families until we find the physical evidence. That's what we have to keep looking for, Jones. Cold, hard facts, tangible pieces of the case that we can lay out in front of them that will eventually lead to a truthful confession."
"But we've already searched the house and still have nothing."
David claps a strong hand on Killian's shoulder. "We'll just have to look elsewhere," he says with a smile.
"We don't have any leads!" Killian's voice raises a bit with his answer as he struggles to keep his composure. He's frustrated with the case and he's more frustrated with himself.
David's face turns serious as he says, "If you're getting this frustrated this easily, Jones, then maybe this isn't the path for you. Finish that," he gestures at the coffee cup that's started to shake in Killian's hand. "Finish that and then we'll make our way over to Marco's workshop." He walks away, heading toward Humbert's office to talk about who the hell knows what.
Let it be him. Let them make this easy for him, let them dismiss him from the case, from the division, from the precinct, from the career. His eyes shift from the now empty space in front of him to the desk he's been allowed to set up. It's sparse, but the two objects he has been allowed to "decorate" with knock him down a step from his pity party.
Nestled between the computer and the lamp are a picture frame and a boat in a bottle. The picture frame holds a photo of Killian and his brother, Liam. They're young and smiling, Liam holding a fish by the tail and Killian holding the fishing rod. Liam had caught the fish, but insisted Killian hold the rod, that way they'd "both have a prop," as he'd put it. The picture always brings a smile to Killian's face, but it also puts his heart into a convoluted series of flips and breaks. One second he's happy from the memory, the next he's in physical pain. He wants to remember Liam like this, he wants to love the time he had with his brother, he wants his memories to be pure, not full of violence and pain.
He's glad, after a minute, that he chose that moment to look at the picture. He's reminded himself why he's in law enforcement in the first place.
But damn it to hell when he imagines how Emma and Liam might have gotten along.
"Ready to go?" David asks, suddenly back at Killian's side.
"Aye," he says, crumbling the paper cup in his hand and tossing it into his waste basket. The two walk out of the precinct and into the squad car, filling the silence with an occasional sentence about the weather or what they had for dinner.
"How'd you get that black eye, by the way?" David finally asks. Killian had almost forgotten.
"I'm surprised it took you that long to ask."
"I was hoping you'd offer up an explanation and I wouldn't have to ask."
"To be fair, it's not the worst black eye I've ever gotten."
"To be fair," David mimics, "Officers in training shouldn't be participating in any kind of off the clock vigilante justice."
They both chuckle and Killian shrugs. "What can I say, I guess I'm more cut out for this than I think."
David throws him a sidelong glance and drops the joking tone of the conversation. "What happened?"
"You're gonna laugh at this one, mate."
"I'd better."
"I have a removable shower hose and it fell out of its holder and hit me in the eye last night." Killian had told himself this story so many times last night and during his commute this morning that he almost believed it himself.
David doesn't try to hid his surprise or his disbelief. "You're kidding me."
"Wish I was."
The car rolls to a stop in front of Marco's workshop. The storefront is nestled between a pizza chain and a general store. In fact, Marco's business looks to be the only family business on the block.
It stands out. While the other buildings have unsightly, commercialized awnings and promotional posters in their Windex-ed windows, Marco's remains the symbol of Bostonian tradition – aged brick, bay windows, and a dangling sign that reads the Boothe name in delicate script. It's quaint and inviting and completely unassuming.
In the squad car, David turns to fully assess Killian. Killian keeps the humor in his eyes, keeps his face in a loose half smile. He shrugs one shoulder and reaches for the door handle.
"Should we go inside?"
David is slow to answer. "Yes, but if you're lying –"
"Why would I lie?"
David shakes his head. "I don't know, but I like you, Jones. I want you on this team, in this division. But I can't protect you no matter how much I like you. My love for the job goes way beyond personal relationships, understand?"
"Yes."
"I don't care how much promise you've shown or what kind of bond we've made over this case in particular. I am the job, I've always been the job. I have a wife I adore and have to protect at all costs, I don't like dirty investigations no matter how much I might have grown to like a potential officer. Have I made myself clear."
"Yes, sir," Killian answers, his voice quiet and in awe of the passion his mentor had just exhibited. But it's also quiet from his shame.
David gives him a short nod and climbs out of the car. Killian gives him a second head start before climbing out behind him. The two walk up the curb and push the front door open, a tiny bell chiming to alert the employees that new customers have entered the shop. The workshop isn't empty. There's one elderly woman glancing at an immaculately crafted clock, her fingertips gently tracing the intricate rose details. The craftsmanship was magic, Killian would give the guy that much.
"Ma'am I'm sorry but we're going to have to close the shop for now," David says, charming her with that trademark smile. "You can come back later, I'll have the shop owner put that on reserve for you."
Killian ventures holding out an arm, makes light conversation with the elderly woman as he walks her out of the shop.
"Is Marco in trouble?" she asks him, her voice as shaky as her fingertips, the emotion in her eyes as transparent as her skin.
"He's – "
"Because he's a good man," she insists. "Don't punish him for the things his son does."
"Pardon?"
"That son of his," she waves a hand in the direction of the Boothe home for emphasis. "That boy and that no good girl they took in. Marco told me all the stories, all of them. That girl has been nothing but trouble, rubbing off on their poor son."
"Their poor son?"
"Would you walk me down the block, dear?" the woman asks in response. "My car is at the corner of the next street."
"Of course madame, but what is it you were saying about the Boothe boy? About August?"
She taps his arm once, twice, three times and laughs, a sound that comes from a place of genuine humor. "He's a good boy, always was. He was a Boy Scout growing up and used to offer to shovel stoops whenever it would snow."
"You live near them I gather?"
"Oh no, but this little neighborhood talks. Anyway," she sighs, "He grew up and became a brooding nightmare for Marco. The shop suffered, his work suffered. That rose clock in there that you rudely pulled me away from was the finest piece of work I'd seen from Marco in years!"
Killian covers the sound of his laughter by clearing his throat. By now they had reached the woman's car, but she was still clinging to his arm. He walks her around to the driver's side, but doesn't make any move to open the door. Not yet.
"When did he start acting out?" he probes. He can't help but feel like there may be some answers here, but he also knows this woman might not be his best source of intel.
"I don't really know."
"Can you think of any specific cases of rebellion?"
"Well, you know what, he did move out for a few months. Then Sarah had that heart attack and they took in that blonde girl and now the poor family is torn to pieces!"
Killian nods in response, making a mental note that this woman was verifying parts of their story.
"Other than that," she continues, "I just know Marco was upset. More often than not."
Killian nods again and this time opens the car door for her. "Thank you for your help, ma'am. We'll make sure Mr. Boothe puts that clock on hold for you."
At this point she has completely changed gears and thanks him, rambling on about the weather and the clock and closes the door with a parting remark about the plants she has to water when she gets home. Killian walks around the front of the car, mildly frustrated that she wasn't of more use.
"Oh, sonny!" she calls, leaning across the center console of the car to look at Killian out of the now rolled-down window. "One more thing about that family and their history of foster kids!"
He pauses on the sidewalk and turns to face the car, squinting as the sun reflects off the silver paint and into his eyes. "Pardon?"
"How many kids are on record?"
Where was this coming from? "Two."
Her voice is suddenly filled with confidence and sturdiness. "You might want to investigate the third."
"The third?"
"His name was Neil. They had him for one day before he ran away."
"With all due respect, how do you know this, ma'am?"
"I told you this part of the neighborhood talks. If those two kids won't, you can ask more of the crazy elderly people who live around here. I can guarantee we've got a lot more information than you're getting!" She rolls the window up and cackles, a sound that echoes in Killian's ears and leaves him even more confused than he was this morning.
His walk back to the shop is swift and purposeful. With every step he does the best he can to dissect the information he was just fed. Is it credible? Probably not. Was he going to tell David? Absolutely.
As he reaches the shop, David is leaving it. He takes sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on, nodding at Killian as he approaches.
"Anything?" Killian asks.
"Not really," David sighs. "A couple of clocks, some hand written receipts, and a whole lot of tools. We'd need a warrant to search further."
"I might have something," Killian offers as the two walk back to the squad car.
"What do you mean?"
"That old woman, she was mildly insane but she told me something I can't help but latch onto."
"And?"
"It seems as if there was some kind of off-the-record attempt at fostering a boy from the streets. Or at least that's what I gathered. She said his name was Neil."
David still hasn't started the car and he's turned his body to face Killian, rapt with attention. "Is that all she said? Do you remember her exact words?"
"Something along the lines of 'They didn't tell you about the third boy, did they?'"
David sighs and shakes his head, running a hand along the back of his neck. "I don't think any of that information would hold up, honestly. But we can try to see what we can find out about this boy. I doubt it would help anything at this point but it's worth a shot."
"Aye," Killian replies. "Nothing about this case is making sense."
David nods in agreement. "You'll find it happens more often than not. We just have to keep looking until the trail burns out or we make new paths. And I think you've helped start one. Relatively good work, Jones."
Killian doesn't respond. The two patrol the immediate are for a while, passing the Boothe house once, twice, three times, circling the block, parking a few houses down to watch for any signs of movement.
There aren't any, and Killian finds himself disappointed with the fact that he didn't get to see Emma, not that they didn't get anything new for the case.
He should dismiss himself from the case.
But as the door opens and it is Emma – hair in a ponytail, earbuds in, running shoes on, nothing vulnerable about the way she holds herself or the energy she projects as she stretches – he knows he has to stay on.
