A/N: I was doing good, wasn't I, Dearest Readers? Updating every two weeks on the dot. Then wham! I got the flu(most likely from a Walmart shopping cart—take advantage of those free Purell wipes, people!)and lost my writing groove. But! I'm groovin' now. Ho-yeah! as Peggy Hill says. This chapter is shorter than usual, however, but I'm hoping to update again next weekend.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Doubt

Of all the biological functions his body went through, sleep was the one Trevor hated most. Was it necessary? Unfortunately, yes, but that didn't stop it from being a major waste of time, when he would much rather be wreaking untold destruction and killing enemies, or whomever.

Then there were the nightmares that often plagued him. Sometimes they weren't exceptionally bad; black-and-white fragments of vaguely frightening images that played across his unconscious mind like a noir movie and had no real meaning. But sometimes the nightmares were in bright, painful, hideous technicolor, so clear and distinct they could've been real, and carried with them some horrifying message or truth, some possibility or inevitability his mind defensively avoided during its wakeful hours. That was the thing about dreaming; there were no defenses, no cerebral bouncers to keep the frightening troublemakers out.

Presently in his unconscious mind, he was walking alone through the desert. It was sunny and windy. Sand whipped around his legs and swept through the air, and the odd tumbleweed rolled and bounced across the desert floor like a beach ball. Above him, wisps of white clouds brushed across a canvas of faded blue. It was supposed to be hot in the desert in mid-summer, but it wasn't. Trevor felt cold, a cold that went to his bones despite the layers of the smart black suit he was wearing for some reason that wasn't presently available to him.

In the distance he could make out a white shape through the thin layer of swirling, golden sand, which wasn't quite a sandstorm, though it seemed to be trying really hard to become one. The closer he got to the shape, the more distinct it became. It was a chapel, like the one in Pueblo Rojo where he'd rescued Sonia.

No. As he closed in on it, he saw it was that chapel; the broken stained glass in the doors was familiar. He could hear eerie organ music coming from it; it sounded like something out of Phantom of the Opera or an old Dracula movie.

Trevor climbed the steps and opened the big, wooden double doors, their old hinges crying out. As soon as he stepped inside, he was assaulted by frozen air that momentarily stunned him in his tracks and a smell that could only be described as dank and dead. The organ music abruptly stopped, and it seemed the whole goddamned instrument had disappeared as well, because he didn't see any organ anywhere. Perhaps it had never even been there.

All three rows of pews on each side of the aisle were packed full of people, but no one looked back at his entrance. Their attention was front and center, on the closed black coffin standing before the altar.

This wasn't right. Though he had willfully come here, Trevor wanted to leave. It wasn't that he was afraid—fuck no—he just had this sense that he was in the wrong place. But he didn't leave. Some other force suddenly took hold of him, compelling him up the aisle, which was littered with dead, crispy rose petals. Up the aisle toward that black box of death.

The funeral-goers were still as statues, quiet as shadows. The only sound in the chapel was the tortured screak coming from the ancient floorboards under his black dress shoes. Trevor sensed something weird about the silence, something...off.

Then, one by one, the people in the pews slowly turned their heads toward him, like a bunch of creepy, possessed dolls in a horror movie. And Trevor saw that they were not living people as he had first assumed. Their faces were shades of white, gray, and grayish-green, and showed various stages of decomposition. They wore suits and dresses that were tattered and worn; perhaps the clothes they had been buried in. They stared at him with condemning eyes.

Trevor knew those faces. Of course he did; they were people he'd killed, after all. Not all the people he'd killed—it would take a brobdingnagian church to hold that many dead—but these were the handful of memorable ones, people he had once loved or liked, but had been found guilty of committing some unforgivable offense against him and were unable to escape his merciless wrath.

That whatever force that had compelled him up the aisle was now his own morbid curiosity. If these were the memorable ones, then who was in the coffin? Whose weird-ass funeral was this?

Trevor stopped in front of the coffin and placed his hands on the lid, preparing to lift it and take a gander at the corpse. The surface was smooth and cold and shiny black. Pretty, bottomless black, just like...

He suddenly took his hands back as if the lid had grown too hot to touch. It was like a switch had clicked on in his brain and shined some light in a dark, hidden corner. He knew who was in that box, and he didn't want to look anymore.

Trevor backed away, wanting to put as much distance between that coffin and himself as possible. He raised his hands to the back his head and spoke an emphatic, childish rebuttal. "No." It wasn't true; it couldn't be true.

He backpedaled into numerous pairs of grabbing hands—cold, rotting hands—and instantly tried to jerk free, but those hands were strong. The dead wrestled with him like cops trying to restrain an uncooperative criminal. He hadn't even heard them rise from the pews.

They forced him back to the coffin, their angry voices urging him to look, to see the truth for himself. Trevor refused to open it, so three of the dead did it for him. One of them was his brother Ryan, fourteen now as he was at the time of his death. His head was cocked at a gruesome angle thanks to his broken neck. The back of his skull was caved in enough for Trevor to see the black, rotten mess that had once been his brain. His spine, both legs and his left arm were supposed to be just as broken as his neck, but for whatever reason they weren't.

Yes, there had been a short time when Trevor had loved him. There had even been a time when he'd looked up to him and wanted to be him, but that had been long, long ago, before his balls had even dropped, before he'd wised up to the fact that Ryan was both a dick and a threat and no matter how hard he tried, Trevor would never be the golden boy.

The dead hands pushed at him again, forcing him forward. Go on, their owners said. Look. Witness the truth. Except he didn't hear them, not in the general sense, because they weren't speaking in that movement-of-mouth, outward-voice kind of way. He heard them in his head.

Trevor didn't want to look, he was fucking afraid to, but his eyes betrayed him.

She rested on a bed of black satin, wearing a dress of innocent white silk and lace that looked more bridal than funerary. Her hands were folded neatly over her bosom and her hair fanned out around her in pretty dark chestnut waves. A veil of the same white lace as her dress crowned her head and made a bed for her hair. Her skin was pale as alabaster and flawless, showing not a hint of decay. She was beautiful even in death.

A pitiful sob wormed its way out of his throat. "What happened?" Then louder and outraged: "What the fuck happened to her?!"

"The inevitable, brother..." Ryan said, his decayed lips moving, although what made him so fucking special that he could speak with his own mouth, Trevor didn't know. His brother pointed a decomposed finger of blame at him. "You."

"What? No, that's fucking bullshit!" Trevor flared, growling the words. He started to reach for him, wanting nothing more than to tear the little fucking liar's head right off his shoulders, but those rotting hands held him back with preternatural strength.

"You're the one who put her in that box," Ryan accused.

He shook his head, refusing it. "No. Just 'cause I put you in one doesn't mean-"

"You killed her."

You know its true, said that collective mind-voice of the dead. It's who you are.

"She was going to leave again, because that was inevitable too. You murdered her before she could, just like you murdered all of us."

Murderer, the dead hissed. Monster.

Trevor fought again against the icy, putrefied hands leeching onto him. "Fuck you! Fuck all of you! She means more to me than the whole fucking lot of you!" He was furious, not because they were calling him names he knew he was, but because he was afraid what his brother was accusing him of was true.

Ryan said nothing this time. He merely pointed to the coffin and the mind-voice of the dead said, The proof speaks for itself.

Inside, Sonia remained motionless, but a red flower of blood bloomed on her dress between her breasts and expanded until it soaked her entire torso. A red line appeared in the flesh of her bruised throat—bruises he had put there during their fight at Sandy Shores Airfield—and opened up. Blood poured out first in little streams, then in an endless river, spilling over her. Her skin began to shrivel and rot all the way down to her bones. The blood flowed and flowed, filling up the coffin, and Trevor had the absurd idea that she was going to drown in it.

He tried to reach for her, to pull her out, despite knowing she was already dead and it didn't matter. That was when he noticed the bloody knife gripped by his right hand.

And as her own blood began to swallow her up, Sonia opened her eyes and spoke with the dead's mind-voice, echoing their words: It's who you are.

Trevor jerked awake with a strangled noise and levered himself up with his elbows.

Yuck was the first thought that jumped into his groggy head. He felt cold and icky all over, as if icy bugs were crawling around under his flesh; it was a feeling he had yet to find a proper name for, but which he always felt upon waking up from a particularly nasty dream.

Dragging a hand over his face, he sat up fully and eyed the thick bar of golden sunlight that spilled in through the motel room window and across the floor. The window faced the west, so it had to be close to evening. He'd slept the whole damn day away.

Trevor looked to his right, to confirm that Sonia was still beside him, but that space now reserved for her was empty.

A worm of fear writhed in his guts.

Not again, he thought, but he noticed her clothes were gone from the floor. It was also quiet—too quiet. The shower wasn't running. The bathroom door was open and the light was off.

This isn't happening. This is not fucking happening. She wouldn't do this to me again. Trying to convince himself. Or perhaps it was straight-up denial.

Trevor swung his legs over the side of the bed and was about to rise when a few more dismaying things were brought to his attention. That little sandwich bag full of cheap, plastic stars and the framed photo of her family, both were gone. On a gut feeling, he went through that duffel bag full of money, that money she had claimed she wanted nothing to do with. There was a thousand of it missing.

Okay, Trevor, he thought as he started to pace the floor now. No need to panic. There must be a logical explanation for why she took all her shit and enough money for a plane ticket to anywhere on civilized earth. C'mon, think.

Of course there's a logical explanation, that ever-lurking, cynical voice of his mother said. She's been playing your ass like a fiddle since day one and finally got bored with the game. I tried to warn you she was lying about everything, didn't I? But do you listen? Oh, no. You never listen and you never fucking learn. How many times you gotta get burnt before you realize no one is ever gonna stick around and love the likes of you?

But they'd had sex; fantastic sex and a lot of it in one night. And she had been the one to initiate it. She wouldn't have done that unless she had feelings for him, unless she truly wanted him, not after how quick she was to reject his advances in the beginning.

Right, mommy dearest laughed, like that little whore's never used her cunt to get what she wants.

"That's not fair," Trevor said. "It was a long time ago, and it was only to pay for the skag."

Sure. It ain't like she's never lied to you about anything, right? Face the facts, boy. She just wanted to fuck with you. Been doing it since the day you met, hasn't she? The lies and deception, the little cheeky remarks, always pushing your buttons and making you jealous. Was probably faking those orgasms too. She gets off on this shit; this was all just a game, you blind dumbshit, and now that she's had her fun, it's time to move on to the next pathetic, lonely idiot.

Sometimes it was hard to argue with that voice, because sometimes it said shit that made sense. She had done those things, hadn't she? And he had caught her smiling a few times while she did them. Enjoying it, getting off on it.

She's gone and she ain't coming back. You were just a toy, easily cast aside when you stopped being amusing. And you fucking know it now, don't you?

He felt his chest tighten, his eyes burn, and a moon-sized lump swell in his throat, and knew what was coming: the pain and despair, the tears and wishing he and the person who had hurt him were dead. He wanted to get lit; no, he needed to get lit, to flood his brain with so much dopamine that it became impossible to feel that pain. But there was nothing to get lit with.

So Trevor tried to hold back that dark tide of anguish rolling up on him by throwing a heap of anger and destruction in its way.

He grabbed the nearest object—the alarm clock—and hurled it across the room with a thunderous, soulful "Fuck!" The clock smashed through the TV screen with a satisfying crash, and of course he didn't stop there.

Trevor snatched the room phone off the nightstand, ripping the cord out of the landline socket. It took flight as the alarm clock had, bashing against a wall with a clang and knocking off a framed print of some painter's rendering of the Venturas skyline at night. It shattered on the floor, broken glass scattering around the carpet.

He took up the chair by the door next, raising it over his head, wholly intent on smashing it through the goddamned window. That was when the door opened.

Trevor twisted and threw the chair in that direction instead, because only a person could've opened the door and hurting a person would feel really fucking good right now.

Quick reflexes had Sonia ducking down low, out of its path. The chair winged over her head and through the threshold, smashing into the windshield of a car parked right outside the room. Its alarm started whooping.

"Jesus fuck!" Sonia shouted at him as she straightened up. Her eyes were wide and her expression disbelieving. "What the hell's wrong with you!?"

Trevor momentarily lost the ability to speak, surprised—shocked even—that she was there. He had been sure that cynical mother-voice was right, because, more often than not, she was. As soon as the shock wore off, however, the anger came flooding back and gave him his voice. "Where the fuck were you?!"

Sonia frowned and took a step toward him, but that was as far as she got.

"Back off! Or I swear to God!" Trevor warned, pointing a shaky finger at her and retreating back a step. Perhaps the cynical voice had been wrong this time, but that did nothing for his anger—and he was really fucking angry. He didn't trust himself; he didn't want that nightmare he'd had to become reality. "Just fucking stay over there!"

Sonia stopped in her tracks. "What's wrong? Calm down." She lifted the grease-stained paper sack she was carrying in her hand. "I just went out for some grub and to-"

"Calm down?! Fuck you! I just woke up from a scary-ass nightmare to an empty bed and no explanation why! You had me believing you fucking ran out on me again; I think I have a right to be a little fucking upset!"

"'A little fucking upset'? That's the understatement of the century." Sonia tossed the paper sack on the nearest bed, crossed her arms over her chest, and frowned at him. "Are you gonna do this every time I go somewhere without you, automatically assume I'm never coming back?"

Trevor mirrored her defensive posture and shrugged coolly. "Can't exactly blame me, what with you being a flight risk and all. Your shit's gone and there's a grand missing from that duffel bag—my money, I might add. Yeah, that's right, ol' Trev notices shit. You care to fucking explain that?"

She did, but not in words. She reached into her back pocket, pulled something out, and held it out to him on the palm of her hand. It turned out to be a few somethings; five little gram-sized baggies containing a painfully familiar substance he frequently used.

Perfect, Trevor thought unhappily. That's just fucking perfect.

Sonia stretched her hand out further at him, a gesture that said go on, take them. He refused to at first, but stubborn pride soon submitted to that persistent and overwhelming need for his poison, as it always does. He took a few jerky steps forward and snatched the drugs from her, muttering a bitter and dissatisfied "Coulda fucking said something about it. Or left a note, like I did for you."

"I thought I was gonna be back before you woke up; I've only been gone for thirty minutes. I just took the thousand to be safe, didn't know how much it was gonna cost," Sonia informed him. "The meth was five hundred. Bought everything the dealer had on him; he was happy as a clam." She smiled a little, but it was forced.

Trevor made himself look at her despite how difficult it suddenly was. To avoid eye contact might indicate guilt—which he definitely did not feel. Nope. Not him. Never. Shit. "How'd you know I was out?"

Sonia shrugged. "You slept for more than eight hours, for one thing. So obviously it wasn't in your system anymore. Then I realized that's why you looked so exhausted earlier. You were sober, which I've never actually seen before. Figured you must've burned through whatever stash you had."

He scratched an imaginary itch behind his ear and cleared his throat. "Oh. Well, good to know you're lookin' out for me. You still shoulda fucking said something."

She stared at him wordlessly, that Buddhist Monk impassiveness on her face. By now, he'd come to know what that blank look meant, and it wasn't good. She had her walls up.

"So...uh, listen-"

"I don't know what made you think all my shit was gone," Sonia cut him off. "The only thing I took with me was the money and the room key. The only shit I have is my purple handbag and my cellphone, and they're both in the room. There's my handbag." She pointed over near the bathroom door, where a very obvious purple purse sat on the floor. Then she pointed to the nightstand, and frowned. "Well, my cellphone was supposed to be there. Did you move it?" Sonia walked between the double beds where the nightstand was, searching for the object.

Trevor saw it first, laying there on the carpet. He must've knocked it off when he'd ripped the room phone out of the wall, which meant it had been there the whole time. While she bent down to pick it up, he openly winced. Why the fuck hadn't he noticed this shit earlier?

There was still the other things, however. "What about those fucking stars of yours and that framed picture? I suppose you got a convenient explanation for why they're gone?"

She did. "I put them in my purse earlier, while you were still asleep. You can check if you want."

No thanks. Knowing his luck, he would find both items there. She was already doing an excellent job of making him look like an idiot and an asshole—not that she really needed to exert herself for the latter. He certainly wasn't going to help her.

"Anything else, Trevor?" she asked, as she shoved her cellphone in a hip pocket and turned around to face him. She stood with her head lowered, eyes on his, legs slightly apart, shoulders squared, and one hand closed into a fist; she looked like she was either going to charge at him or punch him. Probably both.

"Uh, let's see... Is have been dotted, Ts have definitely been crossed...nope, we're good." Except Trevor didn't think that was really true because, you know, all the hostile body language. Also, he was still very naked and she hadn't once taken the opportunity to ogle the equipment that had her literally screaming in pleasure hours ago. That was a bad sign. "We are good, right?"

"You should eat something before you get lit," Sonia said. She left out the and I hope you choke on it, but it was definitely implied by the contempt he now heard in her voice. It went weird with her blank expression. "And you should do both soon. You're getting twitchy...and stupid. I'm gonna be outside."

She stepped past him, but Trevor grabbed hold of her upper arm, feeling the muscle there tense up at the contact. He was fully prepared for her to whirl around and biff him in the nose or perhaps claw his face off, but it didn't come. "I asked you a question, I expect an answer. Are we good?"

Her apathetic expression crumbled into a scowl. Finally, that face was showing some proper anger, although he saw some hurt too in those glittering black eyes.

Sonia whipped her arm from his grasp. "Clearly you don't trust me. What do you fucking think?!"

"Hey, I never said I didn't trust you."

She scoffed. Her lips quivered. "You didn't have to. It was fucking implied. I'm a flight risk, remember?"

Ugh. "Whoa, time out. You're taking that way out of-"

"You don't love me."

Trevor pushed the heels of his palms against his eyes, gnashed his teeth together, and let out a loud, exasperated groan. She was wearing down his patience real goddamned quick. "I'm trying really hard to be civil with you, woman, but you're not making it fucking easy by fucking telling me how I fucking feel!" He dropped his hands from his face and gave her the glare to end all glares. "And you know something else, I'm getting a little fucking sick of you doubting me!"

"Ditto," she spat back.

"Ooh, no, no, no," he said, wagging a finger at her face. "No ditto. Me thinking you ran off is not the same thing as you doubting me. Totally apples and oranges."

"It's exactly the same thing!" Sonia argued. "You doubted I was coming back!"

"No, I was sure you weren't. That's not the same as doubt."

Sonia gaped at him. "Yeah, you're right. It ain't the same thing. You didn't doubt, you weren't uncertain, you were sure, which is a hell of a lot worse and brings us back to my original point. You don't trust me, and you can't love someone you don't trust. I don't need years of experience to know that. What do I have to do to assure you I'm not going anywhere, Trevor?"

"Well, you could literally shackle yourself to me for a start."

She was not amused. "Be serious."

Trevor heaved out a sigh. "I don't fucking know, alright? Maybe nothing. I-"

Her cellphone interrupted. Sonia pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and said, "It's Brian. I should answer it. He's probably got information on Brice's whereabouts."

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Trevor said bitterly, waving her off. "Go talk to fucking Brian...but we're not done here, sunshine."

She didn't say anything as she stepped outside to take the call.

Trevor studied the baggies of crystal he still held, pushing them around his palm with a finger. "Well, why don't we get this fucking party started, eh?"

"Ah, I had a feeling you weren't dead, Sonia. Lupo's not going to be pleased with you killing his consigliere," said a chuckling voice on the other end of her cellphone.

Sonia clenched her hand tighter around the device as she got that dropped-stomach feeling, like she was heading down the steepest dip on a roller coaster. That was not Brian's voice. That was Paul Pierno's. If Paul had Brian's phone, that could only mean one thing. "What did you do to him? What did you do to Brian, you bastard?"

"Relax, Sonia. The Marshal is alive...but for how long depends entirely upon you. I didn't call to exchange harsh words and threats, and I honestly couldn't care less about the Lupo family's enmity with you—that's my father's concern. This is strictly business, Sonia. I have something you care about and you have something I want, so I was thinking we do a little trading."

She was confused. "What could I possibly have that you want?"

"Trevor Philips."

Sonia didn't say anything at first—couldn't say anything, because her heart was suddenly in her throat. She swallowed hard and then asked, "Why?" Of course, it was stupid question. She knew why.

"He's a problem that needs to be eliminated before he causes me and my business partner any undue difficulties. And you're going to deliver him in exchange for Brian Schmidt's life. I know you're fond of the good Marshal." He paused a moment, and then added: "You know what, I'll even forgive you for trying to attack my father at the Lady Luck and killing his bodyguards—no retaliation, you have my word. I'm feeling generous today."

I also killed your dumbass brother, Sonia wanted to tell him, for no other reason than to hurt him. But telling him that would ensure that Brian didn't get out of this alive. Apparently Paul didn't know his brother was dead. The body likely hadn't been found yet. "And I'm supposed to just trust your word?" Which she would never do under any circumstances.

"I wouldn't have gotten this far in the business if I wasn't a man of my word, Sonia."

Bullshit, she thought. You've only gotten this far because you're fortunate enough to be the don's son. She remained silent for a few moments, to give Paul the impression that she was considering, then she said, "I want proof of life. Not a photo, I want to talk to Brian."

"I suspected as much," Paul said.

There was a pause, and then the next voice she heard on the other end was Brian's. "Sonia? Izzat you?" He sounded like he had a mouth full of Novocaine, but it was definitely him.

They've been tuning him up, probably busted his mouth up, she thought. "Yeah, Bri, it's me. You okay?"

"Purfit, jus purfit." It was a little hard to understand him, but it sounded like Perfect, just perfect. "Der jus beeding da szid ot uv me." They're just beating the shit out of me. "I fugt up, Sonia." I fucked up, Sonia.

"It's okay, Brian. You're gonna be fine," she tried to reassure him. She wished someone would reassure her.

"Doan giff dem whad dey won." Don't give them what they want.

Then Brian was gone, replaced by Paul. "So, do we have a deal, Sonia?"

Never, you slimy motherfucker. Obviously handing Trevor over was not an option, but neither was turning her back on Brian and leaving him to die. There had to be another way, she just needed time to find it. For now, let Paul think she was still the same old backstabbing Sonia. "If you want that lunatic, he's yours, but I need some time to figure out a way to do it. He doesn't trust me." And I'm not even lying about that one.

"Oh, so he does possess some intelligence."

Sonia ignored that. "You know, I'm surprised you're not just asking me to kill him for you." She wasn't surprised at all. Paul wasn't asking her to kill Trevor for the same reason he wasn't asking her where he might be at presently so he could get rid of him sooner rather than later. Because he wanted both of them together in the same place, to kill them.

"Brice wants that job for himself, apparently. Says he wants to make use of that tattoo on Philips's neck. Whatever that means."

Sonia pictured that prison-fine tattoo and its ridiculous instructions—cut here—and laughed in spite of herself. "And he's probably not the first to want to. Well? You gonna give me time or not?"

Paul got quiet a moment, probably considering—or wanting her to think he was considering. Then: "You've got until eight o'clock tomorrow morning. No later or Brian dies. No weapons or Brian dies. I'll contact you soon with the location. You're betraying the right person this time, Sonia." He said that mockingly. "I've heard plenty of stories about him since I've been out here in San Andreas, most of which I don't doubt the validity of. He's an old, rabid dog that needs to be put down."

She laughed again, only this time it wasn't genuine. It was cold and mean. "And the only thing that could possibly make him any worse is if he murdered innocent little kids like your monster of a father."

The silence on the other end was as glacial as her laugh. Then: "If memory serves—and it does—you're the one who got Marshal Schmidt's son killed. It was your act of betrayal that led to it."

Sonia hung up on him, seething. She was about to put her phone away when it beeped, alerting her to a text message. It was from Brian's phone. When she opened it, there was a question: Are you going to get the father killed too? Below the question was a photo of Brian, tied up to a chair, his face swollen and bruised and bloody. Behind him, somebody in a suit held a butcher's knife to his throat.