One Day This Pain Will Be Useful to You
"You know the problem with history—
it keeps coming back like weeds."
~Marina and the Diamonds.
*Author's Note: As previously mentioned, Clyde and Constance's backstory and relationship is further explored in "Out of Africa". First section contains some mild references to the other story, but you should be able to follow along, even if you haven't read it.*
Interpol Branch Office. London, England.
There wasn't anything left for Clyde Easter to do, except to go back to his rental flat and prepare for his flight the next morning. He'd made the travel arrangements, placed the necessary calls to make sure everything was handled in his absence, and took a few days' worth of personal leave. He'd tidied up the small office that was his whenever he visited the London branch, and had wished the rest of the staff a pleasant evening—there were only a few stragglers left, working on reports or gathering their things to head home as well.
It all seemed so perfectly mundane. His head and his heart thudded with building anxiety.
Was he ready to see Constance again? No, he was certain of that. Would he ever be ready? To be honest, probably not.
To look into her face would be to look into his greatest failing as an agent—he'd been fooled, he'd allowed his personal affections to override his ability to analyze behavior, and he'd even let that same affection keep him from pursuing the necessary disciplinary actions.
He should have arrested Constance Connelly. He should have charged her with treason, with shooting an Interpol agent, with lying to government authorities. But he hadn't. He'd simply told her to hand in her resignation and had swept the rest under the rug.
Because he couldn't do it. For all his anger, for all his years of devoting his life to Queen and country and the ideals of his own morality, he had been impotent in the face of that woman, that woman who until then had been his closest friend, or the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend, anyways.
She'd made him a traitor, too—a traitor to the man that he'd believed himself to be, a traitor to the very laws and ideals to which he'd sworn loyalty for almost four decades, a hypocrite and a liar and a joke.
And he still couldn't be angry at her. That was the worst part. Even now, all he could feel was heartache with a heavy dose of disbelief.
He was pathetic. It wasn't a pleasant realization.
Clyde was frowning at his inner thoughts as he exited the elevator at the first floor, moving quickly across the lobby and instinctively tightening his scarf around his neck as he braced himself for the blast of cold night air that awaited on the other side of the glass and chrome doors.
Once outside, he performed another instinctive habit—scanning the perimeter while simultaneously looking for the sleek black sedan that would chauffeur him back to his flat.
The door opened behind him, and he glanced back—again out of habit rather than curiosity. However, he went for a second glance, because the sight was a welcome one.
Brighid Adair, also clocking out for the night. Her makeup was six shades darker and her earlobes danced with shimmering, jangling earrings. Her hair was in the same style that she'd worn when they'd first met, but it wasn't nearly as neat—the night wind whipped loose strands around her head, her curls lifting in the breeze and giving a momentary homage to the infamous Medusa. She wore a sleek poppy red trenchcoat that dared anyone not to notice her, and a slinky, dark colored skirt flounced from underneath its edges, playful and teasing. Her heels were even higher than the ones she'd worn the other day, if that was even possible—their style and coloring didn't exactly scream office wear, either.
Interesting. So Brighid Adair had after-hours plans.
"Well, well, well," her tone was as coy as her smile, and for some reason, she looked ridiculously pleased with herself, as if she'd somehow achieved a great feat by walking out of the building at the same time as he had. "Mr. Easter, still gracing the hallowed halls of London with your joyous presence."
Jesus, if the woman could be any more sarcastic, they'd probably both die of an overdose.
"Well, someone has to raise the caliber of the building's atmosphere," he returned easily, making a deliberate critical glance at her hemline again.
She laughed, true amusement with a dash of show—she tilted her head back and her earrings flashed in the streetlamp's light, although they didn't compare to the twinkling of her eyes. She looked good, and she knew it. She relished it, and she didn't give a damn about who knew that, either.
Again, Clyde felt that he should have been annoyed at this, but found himself incapable. She wore her smugness so well, with an air that made him feel as if she was sharing an inside joke with him, and it was hard to resent, much less resist. Besides, she was smiling, and he couldn't think of a reason to make her stop—not when it did such wonderful things to her eyes.
She held out her arms, as if offering her ensemble for inspection, "I was thinking of having my whole department switch to semi-formal wear. Jazz things up a bit."
"Do you also intend to add neon lighting and serve cocktails?" He arched a droll eyebrow.
"Only after 3pm," she assured him with a conspiratorial smirk. "We do have to maintain a certain level of productivity, after all."
He gave a short, single laugh at the rebuttal. Heaven help him, he liked her.
Brighid's smile melted into something more serious, her brows quirking downward in concern, "Have you—I meant to come by, I suppose—to ask if you had heard from Emily. I know she landed safely, but we haven't spoken since then, and I thought, if anyone had spoken to her, it was probably you."
She was rambling a bit, obviously flustered by her own sudden burst of genuine emotion and perhaps keenly aware of how vulnerable her actions made her seem.
"I spoke to her today, actually," he kept his own tone brusque and upbeat—he got the distinct feeling that Ms. Adair would prefer for him to ignore her lapse in flippancy. "Emily is on the case, saving the day—you know, her usual bit—so she's right as rain."
Brighid grinned at this, silently agreeing with him. Clyde had the sudden urge to tell her everything—to tell her about Emily's request, about what it really meant, to him, about how it could jeopardize so much for so many people. He couldn't, and truly, he wouldn't, but the impulse still shocked him, because it wasn't one he felt very often, and because he couldn't have imagined that it would be inspired by the woman standing in front of him.
Clyde, old boy, you really are slipping.
It was, if nothing else, a clear indication of just how isolated his life had become—here he was, wanting to divulge private thoughts and details to a practical stranger, because he didn't have anyone else to talk to.
"Well, that's good," Brighid gave a slight nod and a wobbly smile, as if she were still embarrassed about asking in the first place. Her eyes flicked to something over his shoulder, and Clyde knew that his car had arrived. A glance backwards confirmed his suspicions, and he felt a new impulse, one which he didn't ignore.
"Need a lift?" He tilted his head towards the black car, which had just pulled up to the curb.
Now Miss Adair's smile became knowingly coy. She held up her left hand, opening the gloved palm to show a set of keys. "I can drive myself just fine, good sir."
Her tone implied that she wasn't talking about cars. Her widening grin implied that she knew he'd gotten the double-meaning in her words.
Clyde easily fought back a smile and played ignorant. "Well, I hope you have a pleasant evening, Miss Adair."
"Oh, I certainly will." She brushed past, her voice as silky and teasing as the swish of her skirt. Without so much as backward glance, she tossed a light, flitting-fingered wave over her shoulder as she sing-songed, "Until we meet again, Mr. Easter."
He took a few seconds to simply watch her walk away, heading towards the car park. She only teased him because she'd sensed that he wasn't the type to enjoy the banter, because she thought it ruffled his feathers and at least slightly annoyed him; he knew this. And he knew that if it had come from somebody else, he probably would find the innuendos and knowing tones irritating—he often found that people who felt the need to manufacture sexual tension only did so because they were so boring that it was the only way to hold their target's attention. He preferred being around people who could do their job in a forthright and efficient manner, no smoke-and-mirrors, no unnecessary theatrics. He also realized that when he thought of people, he only thought of them in the context of a working environment.
How long had he been this way? When did he make himself an island?
He hadn't always been like this, he knew that much. But over time, his circle of confidences had shrunk—either they died or retired or went to different agencies, crossing lines that didn't allow for the same openness that had existed before. It hadn't been a conscious effort to hem himself into the friendship of a faithful few, but it had happened, just the same.
He wasn't sure if he could change that. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to change that. And he wasn't sure which was sadder.
He slid into the backseat of the sedan, slamming the door and effectively ending that particular line of thought. He was tired, that was all—more than tired, exhausted. It had been a long day after a very long week, and it was beginning to wear on him. He felt detached and afloat and desperate to find an anchor. It had happened before, it would undoubtedly happen again. And just as before, he'd weather the storm as best he knew how—by ducking his head down and getting the job done.
Emily needed him. Emily, one of the few he still trusted, and one of the only people he had in his life who could be considered a friend, a close friend, a friend who knew more about him than most ever would. Emily, a damn fine agent and a solid human being. Emily, who'd put her life in his hands more times than either could recount. Emily, the woman who always seemed to be one strong gust away from blowing off to another world and another place.
He would do this for Emily. It was no secret that he and the members of the BAU lost no love between them. But he would help because Emily asked, and because, deep down, he hoped his accommodating ways would be enough to keep her here, at Interpol, with him. He needed someone he could trust, and she'd proven herself, countless times over many years. And to be perfectly honest, it was nice walking into a building knowing that at least one person in there didn't hate him. It made it a little easier.
Something told him that life wasn't meant to be easy. Not for him. Most of the time, he was alright with that. But not tonight. Fatigue and emotion created a visceral cocktail and he found himself too far gone to push it all back into its box.
Not for the first time, he thanked his mother for her rampant alcoholism, and how it had turned her son into a teetotaler. If he'd been a drinker, he'd already be on his way to a nice, head-ringing bender.
But that wasn't who Clyde Easter was. So instead, he let the car take him to his flat, where he spent the rest of the night pacing, and waiting, and worrying.
FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.
"Welp, that's that." Sura Roza's unemotive voice broke the silence. Her only flourish was the simple, single click of her mouse as she closed out of a search program. Without glancing over at Penelope Garcia, she announced, "There is absolutely no connection between Maura Morrow and any member of the BAU. Or between the BAU and Benjamin Fuller."
"Tell me something I don't already know," Garcia returned easily, keeping her attention on her own computer screen. Roza gave a small hum that implied she agreed with the blonde's snark.
"What about you?" Roza swiveled her chair to face Garcia's desk. "Anything?"
After helping locate Maura's future whereabouts thanks to bank records, Garcia had been tasked with digging further into her personal life—a task that wasn't as nearly as easy as it should have been. Like Benjamin Fuller, Morrow seemed to halt her online life several years earlier. She'd still kept credit cards and paid certain accounts online, but aside from that, there was little virtual proof of her existence. No Twitter or Facebook account, nothing that would normally be used by an author publishing in today's world. Her publisher's website had a page dedicated to her, with a brief bio and links to her works, but nothing that gave any insight into her personal life.
"Yes and no," Penelope frowned, still not glancing back at her colleague. "She's not on social media, which isn't odd, per se, but it does make things harder. Right now, I'm going through old public records. From what I can see, Morrow enjoys dual citizenship in the US and the UK—it looks like she's been primarily based in the States since 1998...when she married Sean Morrow."
"A husband?" Roza rolled her chair closer, curiosity fully piqued. "That's a new development."
"Yeah," Garcia nodded absentmindedly, her big brown eyes scrolling across the screen as she continued accessing court documents, scanning each one for new bits of information. "Looks like she has a son, born in 2001, Emmet."
"So, where are they?" Roza asked, her voice beginning to weight itself with dread.
"Divorced, maybe? Maybe he has custody of the kid?"
Roza shook her head. "I have four kids—and even if I were divorced, even if my husband were given full custody, I'd never do something like this, something that could keep me away from them forever."
She had a point, Garcia decided. This kind of daredevil antics and violence didn't sit well with the general stereotype of motherly love and sacrifice. But maybe Maura Morrow wasn't that kind of mother.
Or maybe she was a mother free from those worries.
"Oh," was all Penelope could say. It was enough—her tone and her physical reaction were enough to bring Sura Roza fully to her desk, chair lightly bumping against Garcia's as she pulled herself up to the computer screen.
"Oh God," Roza was equally dumbstruck.
Penelope's latest discovery still shone blindingly from the screen—two windows, almost identical, both containing death certificates. One for Sean Morrow and one for Emmet Morrow.
"We need to tell the boys," Roza stated the obvious, just before propelling her chair back towards her own desk. Garcia nodded in agreement, although Roza couldn't see it—she was too busy dialing Jack Dawson's number.
Garcia continued her search, this time looking for newspaper articles containing Sean and Emmet's deaths. The death certificate stated cause of death as accidental, but the actual physical cause of death was listed as undetermined—which meant that whatever accident occurred, the bodies were left in such mangled shape that the coroner couldn't determine which injury was the killing blow, or which was sustained first.
She took a long, deep breath before continuing. Whatever came next, it would not be pleasant. In fact, it would be exactly what she hated about this job.
A local newspaper archived on a website wasn't hard to find—grainy photos showed a good-looking man and a smiling boy, underscored by the headline: Father and Son Killed in Home Accident. The details were sparse. Apparently Sean and Emmett had been in the garage when the hot water heater had exploded—a tragic, every-day kind of accident that could happen to anyone. Penelope was grateful that there weren't any photos of the accident in the article. Unlike similar articles of this nature, it didn't end with listing the funeral home, or any funeral arrangements, except for the line: a private ceremony is planned for later this week.
That was a bit odd. Details like that weren't usually omitted unless the deceased was a celebrity or some other figure of public knowledge, whether good or bad.
Penelope searched for the incident report from the Philadelphia police files—and came up empty-handed. Odd, but not impossible. It had been ten years ago. Things like that got lost, or never uploaded onto the digital system. Then she looked for the autopsy reports, which would have been filled out and filed alongside the death certificates. Again, she was met with nothingness.
The feeling of not-rightness intensified. Bad juju abounds, as Emily Prentiss was fond of saying.
Maura Morrow had worked with the FBI. She, in turn, had targeted the FBI years later. Perhaps it was time to see what the Federales had on file.
Penelope returned to the Bureau's private database. A search of Maura Morrow turned up very little—her information and identification packet from her time on the Amerithrax case over a decade ago, nothing more. Garcia tried again and, on a whim mixed with intuition, typed in Sean Morrow + Emmet Morrow.
The database returned with a single line: No records available.
Once was happenstance, twice was coincidence, three times was a pattern. Wasn't that how the saying went?
"What's up?" Roza must have heard Garcia's small noises of frustration.
"I'm not sure," the blonde admitted, chewing her bottom lip pensively. "Aside from death records, I have nothing else on Morrow's family. No autopsies, not even a police report on the accident."
"That's weird," Roza was rolling her chair over to Penelope's desk again, tilting her head slightly as she read the database's query return aloud, "No records available. Huh."
That wasn't right. Something was off, Penelope could sense it. And Roza could, too—her frown implied that she was trying to figure out just what it was.
"And you didn't find anything anywhere else?" Sura asked, although her tone informed Penelope that she already knew the answer.
Find. That was it. Penelope sat up suddenly, startling her colleague with her sudden movements.
"The query return—read it again," Penelope pointed to the screen, rather unnecessarily.
"Right. Got it." Sura nodded, although she didn't recite it aloud.
Penelope's fingers flew across the keyboard, creating a new search, "Give me the name of someone you know—someone who hasn't been involved in a Bureau case, in any way."
"Uh…OK." The request threw Roza off-guard and it took a moment for her brain to respond. "Burt Woodruff."
Penelope searched for the name. This time, the query return read: No records found.
"That's what was off," Roza suddenly understood. "The Morrow search said no records available."
"Right," Penelope's eyes were dancing with adrenaline now. "The database is telling us, without actually telling us. There are records—"
"They just aren't available to us." Sura sat back slightly, her mind spinning. "Which means they're classified."
Penelope gave a triumphant nod.
"Christ," Sura breathed. "What do you think happened?"
The blonde's triumph faded to something much more somber. "I don't know. But whatever it was, it can't have been good."
The door opened, and Dawson and Hotch appeared.
"Tell me it's good news," Dawson spoke to Roza.
His technical analyst's face implied that she wasn't certain about the good part. "Well, we might have found something to contribute to Dr. Morrow's motivation—but you're gonna need to sweet-talk the higher-ups into letting us look at the files."
Dawson gave a groan of disbelief at the thought.
"What have you got that isn't classified?" Hotch spoke up.
It took a matter of seconds for Roza and Garcia to relay what they'd learned so far—ending with the deaths of Maura's family.
Dawson and Hotchner exchanged glances at the news.
"Her husband and son die in suspicious circumstances that could somehow tie back to the Bureau," Dawson surmised. "Beginning to sound like a pretty damn good reason to blow the place up, don't you think?"
"There's something else," Sura piped up, her face ashen as her eyes stayed locked on the screen. "The day of the bombing would have been the tenth anniversary of their deaths."
February 2005. The Morrow House. Suburbs outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
The alarm clock went off much too early. There simply wasn't any other explanation—because there was no way that Maura Morrow had gotten more than a few minutes' worth of sleep, despite rolling into bed eight hours ago.
Her husband seemed to share her sentiments, because he gave a muffled groan as he shifted in the bed, moving closer to the edge so that he could silence the electronic beeping.
"What day is it?" Maura squeezed her eyes shut, truly wracking her brain to remember. What had she done yesterday, what day had it been?
"It's Tuesday." Sean murmured in return, his reply half-interrupted by a yawn.
Maura groaned. "Only Tuesday?"
There was another sound from her husband, which sounded like a form of commiseration. He rolled back over to her, pulling her closer and burying his chin in the crook of her neck. He was so still and so quiet that for a moment, she thought he'd gone back to sleep.
Then they heard it. The crash from the bedroom down the hall.
"Welp, looks like the mancub's awake," Sean said drolly. Emmet's newest fascination was The Jungle Book, and he'd taken to climbing all over furniture and hooting like a monkey, and his preferred mode of ambulation was on his hands and knees (like Bagheera, he would say). While Maura was just as much of a Rudyard Kipling fan as the next, she wished her son could refrain from treating the house as his personal jungle.
Maura gave another low groan as she began to roll out of bed, but Sean's arm slipped around her waist and stopped her. "I've got it."
He was out of bed, scrubbing a hand through his thick, dark hair—Maura knew that Emmet's hair looked exactly like his father's in this moment, tousled and plagued with cowlicks. The only thing her four-year-old son had inherited from her was a pair of ice-blue eyes, so light that they were practically crystalline. The freckles, the goofy smile, the hair, the nose, and even the little gap between his two front teeth—those were all from Sean, irrefutable proof that the boy currently demolishing their house at 6am on a Tuesday morning was his son.
Not that Sean would have ever worried about such a thing, anyways. Maura was physically affectionate, but sex had never appealed to her, so the idea of her engaging in an extramarital affair that resulted in pregnancy wasn't something that generally came to mind. Sean knew this, and despite being much more appreciative of intercourse than his wife was, he never complained. It was a sign that he loved her, truly loved her, but Maura sometimes wondered if he ever went elsewhere, during the long spaces in-between their couplings. She hoped that he did—in fact, in the beginning, she'd told him as much, because she hadn't wanted to feel pressured, and she didn't want him to feel resentful.
So long as you use protection, and so long as it doesn't mean anything. Those had been her two stipulations. He'd merely shaken his head, as if he couldn't even imagine going outside of their marriage for sex, but he'd never sworn that it wouldn't happen. Perhaps even then, he'd known he couldn't promise such a thing.
She was fairly certain that it had happened, while she was away in New York, working on the Amerithrax case. She'd been gone for weeks at a time, and when she was home, she'd wanted to spend every moment with their son. She'd been too tired to notice anything else, but in retrospect, there had been a few days when Sean had acted skittish around her. Probably trying to readjust to life with her, after having his fling. She'd never resented him and had never been hurt by it—and more importantly, she'd never asked.
Part of her wondered if she was broken, damaged, otherwise unhuman—weren't wives supposed to feel shattered whenever they suspected their husbands of having affairs? But then again, weren't wives supposed to not tell their husbands to look elsewhere for sex?
No, not broken, she decided. Just different. Evolved, even. She'd been spared from ever believing the lie that love and sex could not be separated—and her life was easier for it, she was certain. As long as Sean could see that, too, they would be fine.
And they were fine, weren't they? They had standing date nights, they spent Sunday mornings snuggling together in the glorious silence before spending the rest of the day at the park or the zoo or the museum with their bright and beautiful son, they shopped for groceries and made plans for holidays and read their books side-by-side in bed—wasn't that what every person wished for, companionship and calm comfortableness with their mate?
Her husband and son bumbled their way down the stairs, and though she couldn't quite make out the words, she could tell that Emmet was telling Sean a story of sorts—animatedly, as he did everything in life. Sean's low tone interjected every now and then, and the pacing indicated that whatever their conversation was, it was almost scripted. Rhythmic and comfortable and familiar, like every aspect of their life.
She smiled to herself and drifted back into hazy half-sleep, a lazy indulgence that was supposed to help her face the day but really only made it harder to do so.
The next time she awoke, Sean and Emmet were back upstairs—she could hear the usual commotion that accompanied tooth-brushing, hair combing, and face-washing. With another heavy sigh, she gingerly rolled out of bed and found her warm fuzzy robe, grimacing at how her muscles ached despite the long night of sleep. That was how it was, these days—she went to bed tired and woke up even more exhausted.
It made sense, really. Emotional and psychological stress almost always took a physical toll. It had been a month since Agent Dorset had decided to abandon them and halt their Bureau security detail, despite Maura's best efforts. She'd made phone calls, sent emails, even attempted to go to the local branch office in-person. She'd been met with a wall of bureaucratic drivel—placations and empty phrases about how it was Dorset's decision, and he'd made it with "full knowledge of the ramifications". They assured her that every protocol had been observed, and that Dorset had been fully certain of her safety before ending the detail.
Obviously, these people didn't know Kaleb Dorset very well. The man was practically a Neanderthal—his brain was always in fight-or-flight mode, and he always chose fight. The idea of him ever having the ability or the patience to truly consider the full ramifications of anything was laughable.
She might have expressed that sentiment. More than once. In retrospect, that probably hadn't helped her efforts to win them over.
By the time she'd padded downstairs and helped herself to a cup of coffee, Sean and Emmet had gotten dressed and were back downstairs as well, gathering the last of their things for Emmet's trek to pre-school.
"Do you mind taking my car instead?" Maura asked, interrupting her own question to return the affectionate kiss that her husband had placed on her cheek as he passed by. "It needs an oil change—you can stop by the garage on the way back."
Sean rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling—Maura and the local mechanic weren't exactly on the best terms, so she avoided seeing him when at all possible. Like now, when she shirked her car maintenance duties and sent her husband instead.
"It's a good thing you're cute," he informed her, leaning in again for a proper kiss. She grinned in response, knowing she'd won her prize.
"You are the most wonderful man in the world," she decreed, only half-joking. In her world, it was entirely true.
"I am," he agreed. "But maybe you should also try not fighting with every single person that you meet."
The easy affectionate feeling quickly dissipated. "What?"
"I'm just saying—the mechanic, the FBI, our neighbor down the street—it's becoming a pattern, Maura."
"What are you saying, exactly?" As usual, her accent became clipped and even more precise when her hackles began to rise. Arched, her mother would say, your tone becomes arched.
"I'm saying that it's becoming a recurring theme, that's all," Sean never stopped bustling around the kitchen, packing the last of Emmet's lunch and putting the dirty dishes from breakfast into the dishwasher.
"A recurring theme?" She wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or scream. "Stop hedging, Sean, you know I hate it. Tell me outright. What do you mean?"
Now Sean fully faced her, the exasperation evident on his face, "You're confrontational, Maura. You bring out the fight in people—you goad people into arguing with you."
"I have never denied the fact that I am a very direct and brusque person," she countered. "And, yes, sometimes people can't handle that—"
"People shouldn't always have to handle you," he returned, closing the dishwasher with a little more force than necessary. "You could make an effort."
"An effort to do what? To grovel? To smile and nod and agree to things that I don't actually agree with?"
"It's called politeness. Not groveling." He moved past her, setting Emmet's lunch box on the edge of the counter as he grabbed a coat from the rack on the wall.
She wouldn't argue that point with him. Sean was a peacemaker; he bent over backwards to keep the waters calm—his idea of being polite was vastly different from his wife's, and she knew that. Instead, she stuck to things they couldn't quibble about. "I just don't understand why you're taking issue with it now. You have always known that this is my personality, from the beginning. I am the same person as I was when we met."
"And that was twelve years ago," he informed her, slipping into his coat. He took a moment to simply look at her, and suddenly she noticed how old and drawn his face had become, how drained, how exhausted he was. "Twelve years, and you haven't changed at all. Isn't that just the slightest bit sad?"
That hit like a knife in the chest. The air left her lungs and no words could begin to capture how she felt in that moment.
As usual, Sean quickly moved to neutral territory, grabbing Emmet's lunch box and the car keys. "I'll take your car into the shop today. But after this, you're on your own. You'll have to find a way to be civil to the guy, without avoiding him."
Sean called for Emmet, who'd been watching cartoons again in the living room. The little boy bounded back into the kitchen, throwing himself against his mother's legs and declaring his love for her with joyful exuberance.
She didn't say she loved him back. She was still in shock, still without words.
It would be the thing that stayed with her, after everything—she didn't tell her son that she loved him, the last chance she had.
Sean merely gave a grim smile—a smile out of habit, one that didn't reach his eyes, and then hurried down the hallway that led to the garage. Maura remained rooted to the spot, right hand still gripping the countertop in a mixture of helpless anger and heartbroken shock.
It wasn't just what Sean had said. It was what he meant by it. She hadn't changed—but he had. He was changing, and maybe the new Sean didn't want to be with the old Maura anymore. Maybe new Sean wanted more, or wanted less, or simply wanted anything than to be here, with her.
Isn't that just the slightest bit sad? Typical Sean, hedging and trying to soften the blow with his words. He hadn't meant the slightest bit sad. He meant utterly pathetic. That was perhaps the deepest wound—he thought she was pathetic. A bitter, pathetic, frigid woman. Who could love that? Who could live with that?
Sean was a saint in many ways, but he was still human. And every human, for all their strength and resilience and hope, had their breaking point.
Maura wondered if this was it—if this was how it was going to end, in a quiet conversation on an ordinary Tuesday morning, without huge revelation or shattering of the earth.
Then she heard the explosion. It took several moments for her brain to register the sound, to comprehend its meaning and its source, to send the alert to the rest of her body to run like hell down the hall, wrenching open the door to the garage where her car now sat, blackened and smoking, bits of debris scattered around like a deathly halo.
Everything slowed.
She was running to the car, but not fast enough. There were still flames inside, and the heat only intensified her adrenaline. Sean's car, which had been hit by the debris, was blaring its anti-theft alarm, which matched the wailing in Maura's head.
Maura was screaming. She could hear herself, but she couldn't stop it. She wasn't making coherent sounds, but her mind was pulsing with one word, which screamed in time to the car alarm.
Em-met, Em-met, Em-met, Em-met, Em-met...
She pulled at the warped metal of the car door, her hands searing with painful heat as she wrenched it open with inhuman force fueled by fear and maternal instinct. But it wasn't enough. It wouldn't open far enough, she couldn't reach him, couldn't pull him out of the carseat, out to safety.
Emmet was so still, so quiet. There was blood. There shouldn't be blood. This was wrong. WRONG.
She reached into the car, through the shattered window. The glass was jagged and cut into her chest, but she didn't care. The flames pushed outwards again, as if warning her to stay back, but she didn't heed them. Her skin was searing and her nerves jangled alarms of pain in her head, but Emmet was still in the car, how could she leave until he was safe?
Then came the second explosion. Later, she was told that the fire had reached the hot water heater. All she remembered was the sound, the heat, the feeling of being blown back over the trunk of Sean's car, and the sensation of realizing that her arms were empty.
Emmet wasn't with her. He wasn't where he was supposed to be—safe, with her.
Emmet wasn't there. He was too far away and her body wouldn't work, wouldn't get up, get her son. He was lost, he was gone, he was taken. Panic rolled over her body as darkness rolled across her brain.
He wasn't there. He wasn't there...where was he?
Em-met, Em-met, Em-met, Em-met…
"Where I'll go or what I'll do…
It makes no difference what I do without you.
Oh I love you, my darling…
So I'll sigh, I'll cry,
I'll even wanna die
For the one I love is gone."
~Katie Melua.