Rachel was waiting for Raylan when Art dropped him off. "How'd it go?"
"Well, Art didn't jeopardize anything but I know I, and Tim too probably, would have appreciated knowing you'd called him before Clare walked in," he griped, sitting next to her.
"Clare was there?"
"Art grabbed her on his way." Raylan leant forward in his seat, hands on his knees, and whispered, "Graham shot himself. He asked how Kender died, asked what he didn't already know about the details from Stark's death, and said he wasn't going out that way."
Rachel pulled one of his hands to hold in both of hers, squeezing it, she asked, "You gonna be ok?"
Raylan looked at their hands, "Not the first time I've seen it, Rach." But he didn't take his hand back.
"Raylan. We don't have to talk about it, but..."
"Yeah, yeah. I know you're there."
"Do you also know that you're about to go get me a cappuccino to make up for running out with Tim?"
He smirked at her, "No. I didn't know that. Would you like a pastry as well?"

Raylan gave Rachel the synopsis of Graham's death and Lou-Anne's...whatever over Krispy Kremes and Raylan's vanilla ice cream habit. "She handles herself well."
"Who?" Raylan asked with a spoon in his mouth.
"Clare. Do you eat any other flavors?"
"Vanilla's the best. Yeah, Clare's a tough chick. Have to be, her family. Psychos."
Rachel narrowed her eyes, "Izzie said Tim mentioned diamonds the other day."
Raylan's latest swallow lacked the dignity and grace of previous accomplishments. "Diamonds?"
Rachel nodded, "I think I like her."
"Hm. Tim...married," Raylan pondered. "I actually could see that. Did I tell you what they said to each other when she said she wanted to be bait?"
"That she'd live on a morgue slab quietly, yeah, you mentioned," she answered dryly.
"They deserve each other."
Rachel tried not to smile, but Raylan seemed to have perked up.

Tim was up by 6:20. Clare was still burrowed under the covers by the time he'd finished his run and shower at 7:30 when he bounced onto his bed, disturbing her.
Her response: pull the covers over her head and mutter, "I don't wanna see them. They're mean."
"We need to tell them about Graham," he said gently. "And Raylan was saying he'd tell Duffy while we tell Moss. You do still want to be there for Moss, right?" Clare poked her head out, "I want to see his head explode. How bad's my hair?"
Given that her long dark hair was in tangled ropes twisting in more directions than there were compass points, Tim pressed his lips together.
"That bad, huh?"
Dressed in a sweater and jeans that were entirely her own, and with her hair tamed, Clare braved Tim's kitchen. Tim passed her a cup of coffee as she came in and asked, "So, what do we do first?"
"Raylan probably wants a nap, so we can hit your grandparents, then we'll visit Moss while Raylan sees Duffy," Tim pulled out a cereal box and a spoiled container of milk. Looking at it and Clare's "trying-not-to-laugh" expression, "We can swing by an Ihop, too."
She peeked around him to look in his fridge. "Do you even know how to grocery shop? This milk's dated last year?!"
"December of last year. It's only February," he said defensively, "Besides, those dates-"
"They're just guidelines?" she finished cheekily.
"Arbitrary guidelines, " he corrected, leaning in for a kiss. She deepened it and he reacted by pushing her back and boosting her up on the counter.
"I did just get dressed," she said, lips migrating along his throat.
"And you can do it again," Tim said before running the tip of his tongue along the visible edge of the scar, his hands sliding her sweater up with no resistance.
Clare pulled his Henley over his head and tossed it in the area of his living room, "Are we defining this as a flat surface?"
"Unless you have a table fetish I should know about?"
"Pretty sure you know about it already," she said starting on his zipper.
He was already working her jeans and panties out of his way, "And if I want to fuck you against a wall?" Tim moved his mouth to her already pebbled nipples and sucked it between his teeth as his fingers manhandled her clitoris.
"I think we could arrange that," she moaned, kicking her jeans from her ankles to wrap her legs around him. "Now."
"Now?" he teased, slipping a finger into her as she bucked.
Her reaction was to run the tip of her thumb over the beading tip of his penis and drag her nails down his scrotum.
He responded by taking her mouth. Fucking it as roughly with his tongue as he was going to fuck the rest of her, Tim pulled her off the counter and pressed her back against his woefully inadequate fridge and thrust into her.
Clare's nails dug into his shoulders as he kept her pinned between him and the refrigerator. "Har-...there... Tim... Oh," she couldn't get a full word out as he had apparently memorized just how she liked it. She tightened herself trying to slow him as much as come herself as he kept up his frantic pace. She came gasping and moaning his name and God's, before he did.
Finally, gasping, Tim stumbled back to a chair, still inside Clare, and held her to his chest. "So, yeah. I talked about soundproofing..."
Picking up her head against her will, Clare made eye contact and scowled, "Is sex with you always like that?"
"Well, in my personal experience..."
She swatted his shoulder with a limp hand, "You screw my brains out and you don't even have any food here... Brute...Where are my clothes?"
"'Over there, over there, and up there.'"

Rachel finally let Raylan doze off when the twins were up and watching cartoons and plowing through the remaining pastries and juice. She called Art when Gretchen woke up to supervise the boys. "So, heard about the family drama last night."
"Yep. That's a great family. I'm anticipating the History channel special any day now. So, how're your Sullivans?"
"I'm not missing my Ruiz witnesses, if that's anything. Raylan's out for right now, but the kids seem pretty unfazed. Even Izzie, she handled walking over that body like a pro."
"That's reassuring, given the family history," Art grumbled.
"She's got a lot of Clare in her. They're close," Rachel defended.
"Clare the fugitive," he snorted.
"You like her. Don't lie."
Art sighed, "I do. But give 'em a couple of weeks for the adrenaline to taper off, before they start sayin' 'I do's."

Post-pancakes, Clare was scowling like a six-year-old. Sitting in the passenger seat with her arms folded, she stared out at her grandparents' sprawling ranch, lips pursed.
"You gonna move?"
"Eventually," Tim didn't quite grasp how she said it without moving her lips but was nonetheless amused.
"Your bike's in there," he coaxed.
"Allegedly. They lie."
"Clare... You know I love you, right?"
She gave a jerky nod, gaze unwavering.
"Clare?... Babe?"
She turned to glare at him finally.
He gave his most beatific smile, "Grow up." He got out and started up to the house.
She waited until he was behind a couple of pines before she let her grudging smile show, "Asshole."

Tim had his hands in his pockets at the door and was waiting for Clare when Mrs. Joyce Sullivan answered the door, "Deputy... Gutterson, correct?" she said in her well-modulated English.
"Yes, Mrs. Sullivan. Is Clare's bike all right?" Tim continued his beatific smile, a bit less sarcastic this time.
Her well stretched, Botoxed, and pinned face spared little expression, but Tim heard Clare snicker behind him, so he knew he hit a mark. "Gran."
"Hello, Clare," Joyce stepped back allowing Tim in and giving Clare an uncomfortably effusive hug. "Welcome home, dear."
Clare's back stayed stiff as she followed her grandmother, staying far enough back to whisper, "Notice she said nothing about my bike."
Tim took her hand and kissed it, whispering, "Breathe. These relatives aren't trying to kill you."
"Not efficiently anyhow. Graham had to come from somewhere," Clare muttered back.
He squeezed her hand, not looking at her so he wouldn't laugh. "Mr. Sullivan-"
"Joyce, the Marshal is holding Clare's hand," Michael Sullivan interrupted from his position at their dining room table, breakfast still on the table.
Joyce turned and looked at their hands, "Oh. Well, this is the same boy who kept pestering and saying that the case didn't make sense."
"Were the one in the woods too, huh?" Michael's watery eyes narrowed on Tim.
Tim caught Clare's gloating expression and tight lips and leant over to whisper, "Your family."
"I believe I mentioned something about their efficiency," she said softly.
"If either of you would like to be slightly considerate to those of us who were around pre-internet we need a little volume. It's rude to whisper," Michael bellowed and Joyce winced.
"But if we let you hear what I said then I'd be even more rude," Clare pointed out, sitting across from the old man.
He glared, sparing a fleeting glance to Tim before dismissing him. "You were a fugitive. This family has spent three years under the shadow of your running."
"Not the shadow of the charges or accusations. Just the running after someone tried to kill me," Clare's eyebrow shot up.
"Don't be dramatic, Clare," he dismissed her, "Joyce, where's the Business section?"
"Gramps?" Clare said softly.
Tim watched Michael take a deep, frustrated breath before he looked at his granddaughter again. "Yes, Clare?"
Clare had taken the hand Tim wasn't keeping in a death grip and pulled the crew neck of her sweater down. "I'm being dramatic, old man?"
Michael may have been corporate enough to not react, Joyce, however was not. Her hand flew to her mouth and her face went fuchsia as Tim's eyes went to her.
"It can be fixed. You know people, you are a doctor, after all," Michael dismissed returning his eyes to Clare's dark ones.
"Excuse me?" Tim hadn't realized he stood until Clare's thumb found a pressure point on his hand.
"Tim, he's not worth it," Clare whispered, just for him.
"He's getting there," he responded through gritted teeth.
"You can't hit an eighty-year-old man, babe."
"Not very hard, no."
Clare pulled him back to his seat next to her and he sat, holding the old man's gaze while Joyce's flickered between the three of them at her end of the table. Clare let her eyes move to Joyce with sympathy, "Graham's dead."
"What are you-" Michael blustered.
Joyce started, and then began breathing heavily. Clare went to her guiding her head lower, murmuring, "Slow and steady, Gran. It'll be all right eventually."
"He shot himself last night," Tim interrupted Michael, blunter than he would have been with strangers. "He paid Colin Stark to implicate Clare. Then he put a price on her head to try and keep her out of the way."
"You try to market that load, Marshal, and I'll have your badge!"
"The important part of all of that is that your oldest son killed himself last night," Clare said softly, eyes holding Michael's, her hands on Joyce's back.
Michael's eyes moved between Tim and Clare, "Are you fucking my granddaughter, Marshal?"
"Michael!" Joyce's head shot up.
"Is that what this is about? You want to impress the pretty girl out of your league so you bring her down to your level? Pretending her family's as corrupt as your own stock?"
Tim was busy being confused by his left field accusation that he didn't see Clare get up and in Michael's face, "Apologize to him."
"I will-"
"Your oldest son is dead. Your daughter is long dead. Your youngest son is snowed under trying to rectify every one of your's and Graham's asshole mistakes. And, so help me God, I will broadcast every rotten thing this family's done until the Sullivan name isn't worth the ink to print it if you don't apologize. Now."
Tim tried to pull Clare out from being nose to nose with the bitter old bastard, "Clare..."
"You wanna call my bluff, old man?" she whispered.
"Clare! He's sorry, Marshal," Joyce said hollowly. "I won't lose Clare the way we lost Margaret, Michael. I won't watch that happen again. We won't let anything happen, Clare. Not to either of you. Nothing to your career, Marshal," she continued, adapting her matriarch tone to one powerful enough to get her husband's attention.
Michael Sullivan was still battling with his half-Cajun granddaughter. A losing battle in Tim's opinion, but he was prejudiced. Michael smirked, "Well, Clare, I'll give you this, I like this badge more than the one your mother brought home."
Clare went for him.
Joyce only winced as Tim tried to hold Clare back, her legs cycling midair like Wile E. Coyote.

Art was having similar fun with Vasquez at the office.

"Graham Sullivan shot himself in front of three U.S. Marshals, Chief," Vasquez was saying, looking at the widow sitting in the conference room. "What the hell?"

"Yes, he shot himself—"

"At three in the morning. What the hell were you all doing there at three in the morning? And don't try to spin me the widow's line that 'she and her niece were just catching up'. I know better than to buy that one."

Art stifled a smile. Lou-Anne Sullivan had come up with her own version of the night, one that had nothing to do with Raylan and Tim barging in her home to accuse Graham of murder. She was one bitter lady, but was at least on the same side as his boys. "Lou-Anne Sullivan issued her statement. It's on record, do you really want to know more?"

David Vasquez looked at Art. He knew very well that Art was Chief Deputy for reasons beyond age and experience. Art knew when not to ask. "No, I don't want to know. I do want an assurance that this won't bite anyone on the ass, ok?"

"Ok."

Too easy. Vasquez narrowed his eyes, "If Gutterson is sleeping with Dr. Lidet—"

"Dr. Lidet refused protective custody yesterday evening after the gunmen at the safe house," Art pointed out. "The gunmen that came after Brian compromised the safe house to his brother. It's really pretty simple."

"Yeah," Vasquez agreed. "Very clear cut, if he were breathing the trial would be cut and dried."

"Yep."

"So, the next move?"

"Tim's going to inform Moss about the death the same time Raylan tells Duffy," Art said. "Duffy seemed a tad, Tim said, 'put-out,' so we're hoping…"

"The Dixie Mafia is going to clean up Edgar frickin' Moss for you? Ambitious. I didn't hear that."

"I didn't say it," Art corrected, "I was going to say that Moss may be willing to deal to get away from the Dixie Mafia."

"But either way—"

"We win, yeah."

"It's a good plan, Chief. In theory."