January 2012
Beacon Hills, CA
Record Breakers
Bea finished putting her hair up into a messy bun, having taken it down from the neat style she'd spent an hour pinning it in before the funeral. She dumped the extra bobby pins into the trashcan that sat outside the doors and they fell inside in a messy clatter.
The chill of the air was chased away by the heat of the modest instrument store as she passed through the automatic doors, and Bea passed the section of digital pianos and scanned the room for Diane.
A slight man wearing a blue uniform t-shirt stood at the counter. There was a guitar laid across the top of the counter that he bent over, squinting at something in the neck as he twisted the strings.
"Are you here for the banjo with the cracked resonator?" He asked without looking up.
Bea stopped walking when she was within an arm's reach of the counter. "You… sell banjos with cracked resonators?"
He snorted and stopped when he saw she was frowning in confusion. His eyes were magnified behind thick reading lenses and it made him look like a younger, more Jeff Bridges version of the old repairman from Toy Story 2.
Looking her over, his exaggerated blue eyes gave a great blink that she thought she could hear from across the counter. "Ms. Rooster?"
"Uh, no," she said with a smirk.
He dropped the small tool in his hand into a cup and pushed his glasses to the top of his head as he stood up. "Good thing, too." He offered her a companionable grin. "I'm afraid Ms. Rooster's banjo doesn't have a great prognosis."
She stared at him for a few moments while he gathered more tools and began to return them to a large box on the side of the counter with careful, practiced movements. "Right… Bea paused. "I'm actually looking for the manager."
The man's genial expression dropped like a dead weight. Suddenly, he took a step back and become distantly professional. "Oh. I see. Well, the manager is out for… personal leave. She won't be back for… a while, and in the mean time, I'm standing manager, so you'll have to come to me with all of your complaints. Would you like the number for customer service?"
"No, no!" she quickly waved off. "Nothing like that, I actually—I'm, er, friends with the manager. Sort of. I just wanted to give her my condolences."
The loosely hostile sneer vanished and was replaced with wariness. He drew in a deep sigh and grabbed the oversized toolbox from the side of the counter with a grunt. "I'll pass the message along. Now, is there anything else? I'm still expecting that customer for the irreparable banjo and I'd like to grab another cup of coffee before she gets here."
"Well, wait," She frowned, resting her hand on the glass counter top. "She's not coming in, I take it?"
He pressed his lips together and shook his head.
Bea nodded, thinking of how happy Diane had been to finally get promoted to manager, and how unfair it was that it had been taken away so quickly. "Well do you know where she lives? I'm sure she could use a friend right about now."
He snorted. Once again, when he saw she was serious, he stopped short and slowly frowned. The toolbox clattered as he dropped it back onto the counter. "Diane's in jail."
"What?" Bea exclaimed. "Jail!? For what?"
Hesitation stopped him from responding. Bea almost reached around the counter to grab him by the collar and force him to answer. She gripped the edge of the counter tightly instead. Apparently deciding something, the man let out a loud, huffy sigh and shook his head. "Screw it. It's not like she'll be coming back any time soon to blow me crap for this, so—and this is really all I know… she shot some guy."
"What?" Bea balked. "Why?"
"Diane is… an angry griever," He explained with an unhelpful shrug. "Which should really come as no surprise. As for why she shot the man, I don't exactly know, but maybe it's the usual motive. What do they call it? A crime of passion?"
"But—she wouldn't just… I never would've thought that…" She rubbed at her forehead and dispelled a breath, looking back up at him. "Did she kill him?"
"I don't believe so," He waved off, suddenly looking somewhat amused. "It's a flesh wound."
Bea shook a mystified face at him. "How do you know all this?"
"She was screaming it at the deputies that came to arrest her this morning," he revealed, a boyishly excited grin on his face. "Got it all on camera in the back if you'd want to see."
"No—" she stopped. Against her better judgment, she blinked at him. "Wait… seriously?"
He looked like he wanted to say yes. "Ah… Second thought, I probably shouldn't. If this thing goes to court I'll have to give the tapes up and then I might get caught in the crossfire for disclosing confidential information."
"Fuck!" Bea cursed, banging her fist on the glass counter. "Did you say deputies?"
"Local department," He nodded. "Eight fifteen AM sharp, before we opened. We hadn't even gotten the drawers counted yet."
She sighed heavily. Scratching at her eyebrow, Bea tapped the counter and thanked him.
"How did you get here, anyway?" Parrish asked, annoyed. He hovered near his desk like he could think of about fifty other things he'd rather do than this.
"I walked," Bea said.
He looked her over. "From the music store all the way across town. Wearing funeral clothes."
She looked down at her black dress and paused. "It… yes."
"Okay, well… why did you have to walk? Usually you ride that bike."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why did you say it like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like a joke!" She exclaimed, waving her hand at him.
"I'm not joking!" He shifted on his feet and another deputy who stood near the coffee pot snorted. Bea kept the glare off her face when she looked his way. "Hey, I have a mountain bike I use on my weekends off! I'm not laughing, I swear! Is it broken? I have tools; I might be able to fix it."
She cringed at his concern. "Don't be such a boy scout, Parrish. It's fine."
"I've never been a boy scout," he discounted with a flat expression.
She gestured to his uniform, which was the short-sleeved version once again. "Yeah, you're missing the scarf. It shatters the illusion."
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So what did you need, anyways?"
"Actually, I…." she threw a hesitant glance at the other deputy. "Can we talk alone?"
Parrish frowned at the request, but nodded. "Is this about your dad?"
"What?" She came up short and tried to read his face, but Parrish quickly rearranged his features to be blank and unassuming, so she didn't catch much beyond deception. Her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing, it's just…" Parrish frowned intently. "He took a sick day."
Bea's shoulders relaxed and she dispelled a breath, nodding in agreement. "Yeah. Well, this is sort of about that."
He gestured to the interrogation room off to the side and at Bea's skeptical look, he snorted and waved her on encouragingly. "Come on, don't tell me this is the first time you've been in one of these."
"It's the first time I've been on the other side of the glass," She admitted. The room was small and poorly lit; fulfilling every single cliché there was on TV. A table occupied the center of the room with two chairs on either side. An extra chair sat unused in the corner.
Bea waited for the door to shut behind them without taking a seat.
"Did you need something to drink? I think there's some coffee or tea or something in the break room," Parrish offered as he sat, his hand fiddling with the notepad at his hip. He took it out and also took a pen out of his breast pocket, nodding to the chair opposite him.
She shook her head no.
"Grab a seat and we'll get started," he suggested.
"Look, this isn't really, like, a report or anything like that. This is more of me asking you for a favor."
Parrish's eyebrows rose. He scratched at his temple. "Okay… what do you need to ask that you couldn't say in front of the other deputy?"
She hesitated.
"That you also couldn't ask your dad?" He added, staring willfully back at her deer-in-the-headlights look of surprise. Parrish rolled his eyes. "I'm not blind, you know. We might be the same age but I'd appreciate if you gave me the same respect I give you for your job."
She winced from that unexpected jab. Shifting on her feet, she pulled her jacket around tighter and nodded shamefully. "Sorry. I… I guess it's because I grew up around the station, so I don't see you guys as officers."
His face lost its edge as he considered it. "I hadn't really thought of it like that. I guess… that makes sense. You grew up around policemen, huh?"
She shrugged. "But you're right. I'll try to refrain from calling you a boy scout in the future," She smirked.
Parrish rolled his eyes and looked away as he closed his notepad. "So what's this favor?"
Bea finally sighed and sat across from Parrish. "It's about Diane," She lowly admitted.
Parrish perked up. "Diane, as in Sasha's sister, Diane?"
"I just wanted to check on her," Bea admitted.
He sighed much like she had moments ago. Bea watched knowingly as Parrish ruffled his hair and looked at her tiredly. "Who told you?"
"Her coworker," Bea explained. "The new standing manager. I actually didn't catch his name. He said that… he said that she shot a guy?"
"She's being charged," he nodded. At her questioning expression, he elaborated. "Aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, trespassing and resisting arrest."
"Jesus Christ," swore Bea. She covered her face to process the news. What would make Diane do something so reckless? And so soon after Sasha… "What about her family? Have they been to see her at least? Or tried posting bail?"
Parrish hesitantly shrugged. "She has none left. Sasha was pretty much it. And… there's no bail yet. They're withholding it. I think the fear is that if she got the chance to finish the job, she'd take it."
A heavy silence filled the room and Bea was overcome with conflicting instincts. Part of her was afraid that if she tried to interfere she would only somehow make things worse. But another part whispered that Diane was alone right now. She would be at the lowest point of her life and trapped in one of the worst places someone could be.
"Can I see her?" Bea asked, unwilling to acknowledge that her eyes stung. She blinked harshly and Parrish was gallant enough to pretend not to notice.
"It's no use," Parrish lightly reasoned. "Besides the fact that it's against protocol, I'd be willing to bet money that she wouldn't talk to you anyway."
"I have to try," Bea insisted. "I might be able to help."
"Help?" He shook his head. "How? It's an open-and-shut case. There's no doubt that she did it. She admitted it to us the second we told her she was under arrest. In fact she was disappointed he wasn't worse off."
"Who did she shoot?" Bea reached across the table as though she could physically pull the answer from Parrish, but she let her hand fall flat against the top.
"I can't disclose that at this time," Parrish regretfully told her. "I'm sorry, Bea. It's an ongoing investigation."
"Then let me see her, at least. From what you're describing I'd be willing to bet money that she hasn't made your lives any easier. But she knows me." Sort of. "If I could get her to talk, then… maybe I could help her. Convince her to take some deal or something."
"You'd do that?" Parrish frowned. "Why do you care about them so much?"
"Because!" Bea stopped to take a calming breath. "Because right now..." her mind flitted with a thousand explanations, none of which really bolstered her case because they were too deeply rooted in emotions. Because it's wrong to leave someone to fend for themself when they've just had their heart ripped out of their chest. Because Bea's been there, she's been in Diane's shoes and she knows how tempting it is to want to take revenge on anything, on everything—to make everyone hurt as much as you do. "I have a vested interest to remind her the world isn't against her."
Parrish seemed to understand, but it didn't mean he approved. He let her words marinate before responding. "Her sister died two nights ago," he quietly acknowledged. "And all she's been able to talk about—besides how much she wishes she 'killed the bastard'—is how Sasha won't get a proper funeral if she can't make arrangements."
"Let me help her," Bea said. "I can help her."
Parrish sighed. He sat his keycard down on the table and stood from his seat. "I'm going to get you a cup of coffee."
She watched, silent and stoic as he left the door wide open and his keycard face up. The hall was empty. Distantly, she could hear Parrish asking the other deputy to come help him with the printer so he could get a form ready for Bea to fill out.
Bea waited a few moments, pocketed the card and ducked down the hall.
The holding cells looked the same as they always had. Diane sat on the cot that was attached the wall with her elbows on her knees and her head down. Even when Bea stepped in the room, Diane didn't seem to notice her presence. She heard Diane sniff and rub what might've been a bracelet between her fingers.
Bea cleared her throat. Diane gasped and quickly shoved whatever was in her hand under her thigh. She froze when she spotted Bea. Diane's red-rimmed eyes looked past Bea and she frowned when she saw no officers in the hall.
"What, no backup?" She smartly quipped.
Bea crossed her arms and approached the bars of Diane's cell. "I'm sorry about Sasha."
Diane flinched. Her face was pale and there were bruises under her eyes that spoke to how little rest she'd been getting. Bea had just seen her two days ago, but Diane looked so different it could've been two years.
She wore a baggy tan jumpsuit, and Bea knew from her years spent hanging around the station that it meant her clothes had likely been covered in blood and therefore confiscated as evidence. It also meant Sheriff Stilinski didn't anticipate that she would be getting out any time soon.
Diane didn't respond to Bea's condolences, which she understood. However heartfelt the delivery might've been it fell short of consoling her at all.
"I stopped by Record Breakers this morning to look for you."
Diane snorted. "Yeah? What did Donnie tell you?" She shook her head. "He tell you about the deputy I clipped in the nose? Or that I knocked over a display of harmonicas because they chased me around Benny Hill style?"
A laugh escaped Bea's lips like a yelp. "No, but that really paints a picture."
"What do you want?" She gestured around the cell. "You here for another interview? Want to ask me about how Sasha's death makes me feel, up close and raw?"
"No," she fiercely denied. "No more interviews."
"What, then?" Diane stood to take slow, purposeful steps towards the bars and Bea got a good look at the butterfly bandages that held together a nasty looking gash on her forehead she hadn't noticed before. "Because I got nothing left to give you people. I'm done. Forever."
"I just wanted…" Bea's throat started to ache and she cleared it before she continued. "I wanted to ask why you would do this?"
Diane's eyes darkened and she stepped back, a shadow crossing her face.
"Because," Diane snarled. "That son of a bitch deserves to rot in hell for what he did!"
"What did he do?" Bea finally asked, watching Diane closely.
Diane rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and paced across her cell. "He cheated on me," She admitted, her voice breaking.
Disbelief, sick and tainted with disappointment, bubbled fast and hot in Bea's chest. "He cheated on you?" She couldn't keep the derision out of her voice and Diane picked it up in an instant.
She practically threw herself against the bars as she screamed, "With my baby sister, you judgmental cow!"
Bea stumbled back and blinked in surprise. "What?"
Diane nodded forcefully, her eyes shining bright. "Yeah. You're catching on now."
"That's what she meant when she said…" Bea realized aloud. "Sasha said when you came to get her from the motel that she was confessing about something. She never did say what it was, but that's it, isn't it? That's what you two had your big argument about? And that's why you told her not to come back?"
"I don't give a shit about that—" She launched into a string of insults and curses that was hard even for Bea to follow. By the end of it, Diane was panting and she kicked at the bars of the cell as hard as she could. Her hair dangled in her face and she lowly growled that, "He took advantage of her! I never would've let some broke ass hipster come between me and… me and…"
A sob racked her body and Diane seemed to dissolve to the floor. She shook so hard that no sound came from her mouth as she twisted her hands in her hair.
Crouching down, Bea slid her hand through the bars to grab Diane's shoulder.
Diane barely noticed. She gasped in a shuddering breath. "I was just s-so mad," She admitted, her voice breaking. "So fucking mad. She… she actually… and it's his fault. How was I supposed to—to live—knowing that it was because he… because they..." Diane sucked in a breath. "And I… What choice did I have? I couldn't let him get away with it! He couldn't just…"
She shook her head and pushed her hair back, her voice thick with tears. "I did what I had to do," She insisted, lifting her eyes to Bea. "I did what anyone would've done. I made sure that bastard paid."
"You… shot him," Bea uncertainly clarified.
Diane leaned back against the wall and reached for the pocket of her pants. Bitterly, she laughed. "Fuck, I forgot. No cigarettes." Her hands trembled until she clenched them into fists. "Yeah, I shot that son of a bitch. In the ass."
Bea choked out a laugh that she immediately stifled with her hand.
Diane looked at her sideways, an eyebrow cocked. "I wasn't aiming for the ass," She lowly revealed. "But that fucking coward tried to run."
This time she didn't hide the crooked smirk as she rested her chin on her arm and tried to picture how it went. "He'll have to live with it for the rest of his life."
Diane shook her head. "It's not enough. Sasha's dead because of him. I'll be in prison for the next few years, and all he gets is a shiny scar on his ass cheek that he'll probably lie about and use to pick up chicks. It's not right."
Bea had nothing to add because she was absolutely right. She quietly thought about it and Diane scoffed softly at something.
"You know what?" She muttered. "I don't care how long it takes. I'll wait fifty years if I have to. But one way or another, he's gonna get what's coming to him."
There was no good response in that situation, so Bea kept her mouth shut. Choosing her words carefully, she said, "Sasha deserves a funeral."
Diane flinched. "You think I don't know that?" She growled. "I can't very well give her one from here, can I?"
"I'm offering to give her one," Bea quickly finished.
Diane stared at her blankly. She looked caught between anger and disbelief. "You?"
Bea nodded.
"Why?" Diane glared. "Why would you do that?"
"When I spoke with Sasha at the candle light vigil, I noticed how tired she looked so I suggested that she should go home to get some sleep. She wouldn't even hear it. She said that…" Bea's heart twisted slightly. "It was important to be there for her classmates, even if she hadn't been there in time to help them sooner."
Diane's face scrunched and she quickly covered it with her hands. A pained sound caught somewhere between a groan and a sob was muffled by her hands and she drew in a ragged breath. "Damn it," she wept, dropping her hands to push herself higher up against the wall. "That fucking kid, I swear. Look, even if I wanted to say yes, I couldn't. All my money is going towards legal fees. I told you, I got nothing left to give."
Bea sadly nodded her head. "Don't worry about the costs, Diane. It's immaterial."
Diane gave her a weird look. "Fine. Whatever that means. Do whatever you freaking want. It's better than the alternative. But only if you promise not to play any of that Bette Midler Wind Beneath My Wings crap, okay? Play some AC/DC or Led Zeppelin or something."
Bea beamed at the sullen woman before her. "As you say."
Stiles had been sufficiently confused when he got the call from Bea to come pick him up at the station. Fortunately, he hadn't been wrapped up in anything that prevented him from coming, so together they drove to the mechanics so Bea could check on her car.
Bea stood at the front counter with her hand pushed in her hair and her eyes closed as she listened to the mechanic explain that it would be another couple of weeks before she could get her car back.
"You've already had it for two weeks though," She said in a carefully measured tone. The mechanic nodded and added nothing. Bea blinked at him. "Well… what have you been doing for two weeks?!"
"We're backed up," He excused. "A couple of weeks ago we had a lot of ice. I've got two other cars that need their hoods and bumpers replaced; one of them needs new headlights installed. One of them needs an engine rebuilt. They all need cosmetic touch ups. I've got a police cruiser that's got its wires all crossed and I can't figure out what's going on with it."
Stiles perked up from where he'd been browsing the steering wheel covers. "What's wrong with it?" He asked, sliding up beside Bea with interest.
"Every time the left turn signal is engaged the windshield wipers start going crazy," The mechanic burst, some pent up frustration spilling through in the exclamation.
Stiles made a noise of intrigue and asked if he could see it.
"Just—" Bea cut off with her hand in the air. She took a breath. "Can we focus?"
The mechanic shrugged at her. "Look, I apologize for how long it's taking but it's not exactly a quick-fix situation you've got going on here."
"Do you have the parts you need?"
He sighed and raised his eyebrows hesitantly. "The bumper and the hood have been removed and I prepped the body a couple days ago between repairs for other cars while we waited for the new ones to get in. They came yesterday, and except for a few adjustments, they're basically attached."
"Great!" She clasped her hands, pleased. The mechanic stared blandly as she started to dig through her bag. "Do you take American Express?"
He started to chuckle and Bea did a double take. The mechanic readjusted the way his cap sat on his head and smacked his lips as he chomped at a light green wad of bubblegum she could see peeking through his teeth. "Slow down there, sweetheart. You haven't heard the kicker yet."
"The…" She looked at Stiles who was careful to keep from making any sudden moves, apparently sensing her spike in blood pressure. "The kicker?"
He then launched into an overly complicated explanation that was impossible for Bea to follow, rattling off terms she should know but didn't, and by the end of it she gathered that it would be another month or so before the part he required made it to the shop.
"You said it was the truck's fault, right?" The mechanic asked.
Bea shrugged because she didn't see how it was relevant. "Yeah, why?"
"Well he did you a favor. A blessing in disguise or some crap like that. It's a miracle you didn't get wrapped around a pole somewhere."
"Oh yeah," She said with a roll of her eyes. "He was a real guardian angel. But none of that fixes my transportation problem!"
The mechanic shrugged unhelpfully. "Yep. About two hundred and thirty five bucks will though." Bea rubbed her face.
"This is going to take another month?" She clarified, ignoring his explanation on the hunch that it was an intimidation tactic that mechanics sometimes used so they could overcharge you for unnecessary repairs. She dug around in her bag.
"At least." He readjusted his cap again and looked at Stiles.
"Are you sure there's… not any way to get a couple weeks shaved off that?" She asked, focusing a meaningful look on him as she slid a five-dollar bill across the counter.
He stared at her, unimpressed. "Well as tempting as that offer is, it's like I said: it's going to cost around two-hundred and thirty more dollars for the part. Did you say it was American Express? We don't take that card."
"Two-hundred—" she squawked. "Can't you just slap on some duct tape and send me on my merry way?"
Stiles shuffled and said, "I remember the last time I had a conversation like this. The mechanic died."
The man behind the counter stood up straight and frowned incredulously at Stiles. "Was that supposed to be some kind of ass backwards threat, kid?"
"Just an observation," Stiles shrugged. "In my experience the career outlook for you isn't great; that's all I'm saying."
The mechanic squinted in disbelief at him for a second before his eyes popped open and he recoiled in shock. "Hey! I know you! I remember you! You're the kid who found Johnny when he was crushed by that jeep last year!"
Bea leaned in front of Stiles' with a hand on her hip. "Excuse me?"
Stiles coughed awkwardly.
"Him?" She grabbed her brother's shoulder like she thought maybe the mechanic was confused. "This skinny little chicken legged boy found one of your coworkers—did you say he was CRUSHED?"
Stiles tried to answer. "Yeah, uh, it was like a… like a Final Destination situation, and it took a lot of therapy for me to get past that one—but thank you, Mr. Mechanic, for reminding me of it so colorfully; my nightmares thank you," Stiles sourly stammered.
Bea grabbed her head as it spun in incredulity. Her mind felt like it'd been short-circuited and no matter how she tried to think of it, she couldn't quite come to terms with the fact that her little brother found a human being crushed under his jeep last year. How had she not heard of this?
Stiles waved a hand and caught Bea's stunned attention again. "Oh, hey, but my jeep was fixed so I left you guys a vaguely positive yelp review."
The mechanic's eyes narrowed. "Oddly enough that didn't really improve the steep drop in customers we've had since the accident."
Stiles hands closed into fists. He looked down and cleared his throat discreetly. "Could be the, uh… customer service is to blame for that…"
The mechanic looked over Bea's shoulder at a man who entered the shop. The door closed with a gentle tinkle of the bell on the door, and he looked unsympathetic as Bea massaged her temples and counted to ten for the third time.
"You have another form of payment, right?" He popped a bubble in his gum.
Bea let her hands fall from her head and withdrew to force a polite smile on her face while Stiles flicked at the display of motor oil on the counter. "Do you accept checks?"
"There's the shop over by the library," Stiles recalled. He'd been trying to persuade Bea to have her car towed to a new mechanic shop the entire rest of the ride.
"It's fine, Stiles."
The jeep turned into the parking lot in front of the high school and Stiles waited to turn to her until it was parked. "It's really not," He frankly stated. "You've been showing up to interview people on a bike like Steve Carrell in The 40 Year Old Virgin."
She scoffed and smacked his arm. "It's not that bad!"
He stared at her dubiously until she sat back and had to laugh, the image of Steve Carrell swerving joyfully across the road on a bike stuck on a loop in her mind. "...Seriously? It's that bad?"
He shrugged. "If you don't go to another mechanic shop at least rent a car. Please. For the love of god."
Before she could respond, someone rapped at the window by her face. Bea jumped in her seat and knocked her head against the roof of the jeep and Stiles exclaimed loudly in surprise.
Mason was standing on the other side, holding up a brochure with a wide grin on his face. He gave a thumbs-up and pointed at the brochure enthusiastically.
"Who is that?" Stiles complained.
"That's who I'm meeting with," She explained.
"Him?" Stiles pointed at the young man, who'd backed away from the window to wait impatiently outside. He waved with a cheerful smile. "He's… intense."
Bea blew out a sigh. "Yeah, but he was one of the last people besides me to talk to Sasha before she died. And I think I'm going to ask if he wants to help me plan her funeral."
"When I picture investigative journalists meeting with sources, I picture… codenames and dark, shadowy parking garages. Not…" They both turned to look at Mason, who was shrugging at Bea as if to ask her what was taking so long.
"Reality is much less glamorous than Hollywood would have you believe, brother," She patronized with a pat on his cheek.
Stiles pulled out from her reach irritably. "Except that actually happened. Watergate? That was real."
Bea rolled her eyes. "Okay, but this story doesn't involve the president."
"How do you know?" Stiles countered with a tilt of his head.
She pushed his shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mickey."
He motioned for her to stop. "Wait a second, you're seriously not coming home for dinner?"
She shrugged as she opened the door and Mason made way for her. "Call me if you need anything."
He watched with a frown on his face as Bea closed the jeep and put the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
"I was surprised to get your call," Mason admitted. The jeep backed out of its space and Bea turned to wave one last time at her pouty brother, who pulled away. "Is that your brother?"
"Yeah, you know him?" She hooked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction Stiles had gone.
"Oh, not really," Mason shrugged. "He's part of the upper echelon in the school; you know, different classes and different social circles. And obviously since he's your brother that means he's the sheriff's kid. He's also Scott McCall's best friend, right?"
It was somewhat surprising to hear her brother described as such. In the past, it would've been Scott who was Stiles' friend, not the other way around. "Wow," Bea said, raising her eyebrows. "You really do your research."
Mason blushed. "Oh, no, I just pay attention to the details."
She winked at him. "Sure, kid. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me."
"Are you kidding?" He scoffed. "I'm so invested in figuring out what's going on it's not even funny. Before it was just sad, but now it needs to end."
Bea stopped walking. Mason turned and waited to see what she would say. "It's good to hear you say that," she admitted. "I didn't realize how much it was effecting you."
"Really? I mean, you already know I organized the vigil. Who do you think came up with the idea to have it in the first place?" He asked, pointing at his own chest. He was displeased that she hadn't taken him more seriously. "These deaths are more than just tragedies. In fact, I don't even know what to call them because tragedies makes it sound like they're accidents, and at this point… I mean, come on. This many in such a short time?"
Bea watched him carefully. "Suicides," she provided. "They've been calling them suicides."
Mason hesitated. He looked around, and seeing there were some students who stood near the entrance of the school and seemed to be waiting for someone to pick them up, he visibly held back what he really wanted to say. Instead, he said, "The vigil ended pretty quickly. It wasn't too late out and it was New Years, so a group of us went out to a diner to celebrate. Well… celebrate isn't the word I should use. We were all pretty shaken up about the news of the latest victim, so… more of a distraction, I guess.
"When we got there, I noticed Sasha sitting alone with a coffee and a slice of pie, not even eating. She let me sit with her for a few minutes and she told me she was waiting on someone she said she knew wasn't going to show. I didn't ask who and she didn't say. I offered her to come back to my friend Liam's place, because we were going to have a few drinks and just try to have a good time—you know, salvage the night. She agreed at first."
"Really?" Bea blinked and shook her head. "Wow. That's… Mason, that's really nice of you."
He shrugged. "I just wish she hadn't changed her mind. She said yes and came over to sit with the rest of my friends. Things seemed to be going well, but then they mentioned the latest victim and tried figuring out who it was and… I don't know, something changed. She wanted to leave, but after the news I didn't want her walking through town alone at night. We dropped her off at that motel." He shook his head and his face cleared from the darkness of the memory. Mason looked at Bea in confusion. "Why would she stay at a motel? Why wouldn't she just go home?"
"It's… complicated," Bea sighed. "There were a lot of things going on in her life that I would've thought would make it hard for her to relate to you guys."
"What do you mean?" He frowned.
"Mason, you're really nice," Bea conceded. "More than that, you seem like a great friend to have. I think you reaching out probably meant more to her than you'll ever know."
Mason blinked, stricken. He lowered his gaze and nodded at the ground. "It wasn't enough, though."
Bea kept her mouth shut because all she could think to say was Sasha didn't actually kill herself because they aren't actually suicides. How could she prove it? She couldn't. So she didn't say a word. She just touched his shoulder and offered him a smile, and Mason pulled out a brochure. He took a deep breath.
"So, in light of that, you mentioned something about putting on a funeral for Sasha because her sister is… in jail?"
Bea nodded. "Long story," she said. "She shot a guy. I'm sure it'll be in the papers soon enough. Don't ask. Are you in?"
"It's a good idea," Mason acknowledged. "And right up my alley, obviously. I was thinking about it, and I don't know if Sasha is religious at all, but if she isn't then maybe having the service at an alternative venue like this beach would be nice."
"Oh, Mason," she breathed, looking at the pictures of the white sand beach. "Do you think people would be willing to travel forty five minutes, though?"
"If we planned it right? Definitely." He hesitated. "The only thing is… it's not cheap. But I bet I could try to raise the money."
"You'd do that?" Bea asked.
Mason shrugged. "I can try."
She smiled at him and took him by the shoulder. "You and me? We're doing this."
They stood in the parking lot, bouncing ideas back and forth about who they could enlist to help. Bea said she would ask her brother if he knew any good, willing party planners—and if he might help spread the word. Mason pointed out that the music store Diane managed might have connections to some local musicians and wondered if they could put together some sort of concert.
The more they talked about it, the clearer the picture became. The biggest challenge would be timing it right. It was still cold out, and school started soon. The event itself didn't hinge on being at a beach, so if they needed to they could still use a church, or if worse came to worse, Bea figured she could use their moderately sized backyard. She hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Somehow they got onto the topic of rental cars. Mason took the opportunity to brag about the car that he'd managed to scrape enough money together to buy at the end of his freshman year.
He took her over to the car and they were in the middle of checking out the interior when he got a call. Tossing her the keys, he told her to test the heated seats for herself and told her he'd be right back.
Bea was poking at the GPS screen when a voice from outside made her jump and hit her head on the roof of a vehicle for the second time that day.
"Hey, lady, this isn't your car!"
A rather short, and very angry looking teenage boy was throwing his gym bag down on the parking lot to march over and grab the door of the car. "What are you doing? This is my friend's car! Get out!"
"Hey! Whoa!" she put her hands up and pointed down at the ignition. "I didn't break in, see? Those are his keys!"
"You stole his keys!" The kid violently assumed, and moved closer. "Don't make me drag you out, lady."
"All right!" She laughed. He glared and backed up, but didn't let go of the door as she slid out of the car and took two large steps away. "You might wanna… turn the car off."
"Give me one good reason not to call the cops," He demanded, and faltered as he looked her over. "Why are you wearing all black? Are you sure you're not a robber?"
"What? No! This is a dress! I wore it to a funeral!"
"You could just be saying that to get me to trust you!" He defensively asserted. "You're sitting in a car that doesn't belong to you! My friend's car! You know what? You're not going anywhere. I'm gonna get the principal or… I'll call the cops!"
"I had permission! Mason will be back shortly and he can explain."
The boy hesitated. Still frowning, he pursed his lips and looked her over again, his eyes lingering on her dress suspiciously. He kept his gaze locked on hers in a clear warning as he moved forward to duck into the car and turn it off.
He closed the door, and turning back to look directly at her, made a show of lifting the remote into the air and locking it twice for good measure. Then, as though he was a guard, he crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly on the ground to watch over the car. "We'll just see what he has to say," He nodded.
She snorted. "Would you quit glaring at me?"
"No!" He pointed at her. "How did you know his name?"
"Because I know him!" She wanted to laugh, but somehow managed to swallow it. "He's helped me out a couple of times."
The boy narrowed his blue eyes until they were stuck on her every move. "Yeah, we'll see about that."
"Okay," she smirked.
"Humph."
"Liam?" Mason asked. He still held his phone in his hand as he approached. He looked at the way Liam stood between the car and Bea and snorted. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you!" The guy named Liam exclaimed, and gestured at Bea. "Do you know her?"
"Who, Bea? Yeah! I was showing her my car because hers is in the shop and she's trying to figure out what kind she wants to rent."
Liam blinked and gradually dropped his protective stance. "…Oh."
"Why did you look like you wanted to tackle her when I came up?"
"She was—" He started, pointing at her. Then he dropped his finger and scratched at the back of his head. "I mean, I thought she was trying to steal it, I guess."
Mason laughed. "Dude," He said.
"Hey!" Liam shouted. "You're welcome! How about a thank you? What—what if I'd been right? I would've just saved you from losing your car!"
"Yeah, very heroic of you," Mason grinned with a roll of his eyes. "Give me my keys, okay?"
Liam snorted. Then, sheepishly he turned to Bea. "Sorry." He shrugged a shoulder. He looked her over again. "Did you really just get back from a funeral?"
She slowly nodded and Liam winced.
"Was it Debbie's?" Mason asked, and at Bea's nod of confirmation, he shook his head. "That's weird! I stopped by too, but I didn't see you there."
"I didn't stay long." Bea looked at Liam, who looked like a kicked puppy.
"Man, that sucks. I would've gone too, but I didn't know her, so it felt kind of… I don't know, fake, I guess. Anyways, sorry again." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Liam."
"Bea," she greeted, accepting his handshake. "Mason helps me out sometimes with the article I'm writing about the suicides."
"Oh, you're the writer?" He pointed at her in question to Mason. "Yeah, he's like, your superfan. He used to cut out some of your articles and keep them in a binder."
Mason laughed awkwardly and took Liam by the shoulders. "Buddy," He said through clenched teeth. "That binder was a portfolio of award winning articles. There were more than just Bea's. You make it sound like I built a shrine for her."
Liam put his hands up in surrender with an amused smirk. "Okay," he snorted, shrugging at Bea.
Mason sighed. "Don't you have practice?"
"Oh, no, I was actually just working out. Practice won't start until classes start on Thursday." He smiled innocently at Mason and then looked back at Bea. "So why are you guys hanging out now? Is this about Sasha?"
"Sort of," Bea explained, nudging Mason's shoulder. "Mason is going to help me organize a funeral for her."
"Wow," Liam looked to Mason, mildly concerned. "You're really going deep with this… uh, suicide thing. You okay?"
Mason waved him off. "Oh, yeah, it's nothing it's just… it's the right thing to do, you know?"
Liam nodded. "Cool, well, I'm always free to help however I can." He looked at Bea. "With interviews or whatever, too."
"Oh!" Mason gasped. He looked to Bea with a huge grin and took Liam by the shoulders. "Actually, that might work. See, Liam here is new to Beacon Hills, so, that makes him kind of like the shiny new toy."
Bea's eyes lit up and she turned to Liam with a slow smile spreading across her face. Liam looked between them, suddenly uncertain. "I am?"
"This is good," Bea agreed. "This is really good."
Thank you guys so much for the favorites, follows and kind reviews! You have no idea how motivating it is to receive reviews like that. They really make it all worthwhile! So thank you again!
Sorry there wasn't more Derek or Peter this chapter, but the next one will include them; I swear!
Also, MASSIVE shout out to JackieOh for making wonderful fan art for this fic! If you'd like to see for yourself, you can go to this link by replacing "dot" with a period and taking out the spaces (I know the spaces are annoying but ffnet won't allow straight up links, so):
fanficjackieoh dot tumblr dot com / post/163123710365/ casey-michaels-her-body-was-found-yesterday