Ainsley joined the tightly packed throng of reporters on the steps of the sixteenth precinct. Ger, her camera op, waited in the outer ring, adjusting the rig on his shoulder. Impatience fluttered in her stomach. She was meant to be reporting on a break-in a block away but when the studio got wind of a special announcement she and Ger were sidelined, being the closest to the building. Maybe she'd shoot Malcolm a text, see if he knew what was up. Could be worth ambushing him in his loft later, maybe scrounge up some leads. And if her persistence annoyed him, well, that was her right as little sister.
A spokesperson for the NYPD stepped outside, wearing a grey suit and sober expression. Ainsley's stomach twisted in excitement. She knew that look. That was the look that went with condolences and the knowledge that the media were about to pick a statement apart for hidden truths. She flicked on her microphone and held it up, inching closer to the podium.
"Thank you for coming," the spokesperson said, casting unseeing eyes on the crowd. "I have a short statement and will not be taking questions at this time. What I'm about to say is sensitive and I'd appreciate if you all would respect my precinct's privacy during this difficult time."
Murmurs rustled through the crowd as they collectively shuffled closer. Ainsley was right. There'd been a death. And not just a beat cop, someone important.
"You may have heard," the man continued, "of a duo of homicides last week that targeted one of our units. The victims were people the unit had previously saved on earlier cases and as you can imagine, the loss hit us hard. What you don't know was that a man contacted Major Crimes claiming responsibility for the deaths and promising to commit more murders if his demands were not met."
He paused and Ainsley had a moment to appreciate her brother's ability to always be in the thick of things – anything that happened in Major Crimes, Malcolm would know about.
"As you know, the NYPD does not negotiate with such threats. The Major Crimes unit worked the case despite one of their own being the focus of the threat, and Detective Tarmel was wounded in the field and serious threats were made against several civilians."
The spokesperson sighed and turned a page over.
"To neutralise these threats, NYPD consultant Malcolm Bright took his own life this morning in an attempt to protect the lives of his team from the killer. The suspect is still at large but we are closing in on his location and will have an update on that soon. Mr Bright will be in our prayers. His sacrifice reminds us of the dangers of our jobs here at the NYPD, and the bravery of our officers. Thank you."
The reporters surged around her but their babble never reached her ears. She stood there, frozen, mic still raised.
Malcolm Bright took his own life this morning.
That couldn't – there must be – he wouldn't, she knew he wouldn't, he'd promised her he'd never try again, he swore he wouldn't leave her.
Someone bumped into her and she staggered. The spokesperson was waving the questions away, disappearing back into the precinct. Slowly, the reporters dispersed, phones to ears, voices low and tense, giving orders, sharing tips.
They were reporting her brother's death.
Her brother's suicide.
Malcolm was gone?
A hand grabbed her shoulder, turning her around and sound rushed back to her in a shout.
"Ainsley! Didn't you hear me?" Concern twisted Ger's face. "Hey, are you okay? We've gotta go report on the break-in. You good?"
Tears warped her vision. The mic shook in her hand. With her other she brought her phone up to see the text she had just sent him. Asking for a favour for work. Wanting a lead on a story. Not knowing he was the story.
"Ainsley? Are you crying?"
This was going to destroy their mom.
"I have to go," she said, voice cracking, pushing the mic into Ger's chest. "F-family emergency, I've-I've got to go." She turned and walked away before Ger could say a word, hand flying out to flag a taxi.
This didn't make sense. Malcolm had promised her after the last time, he'd looked her right in the eye and held her hand and sworn he would never try that again. She'd believed him. Even with everything that'd happened to him lately, with Watkins and stabbing their father and all the other shit she didn't know about, he'd been doing okay. He always took his meds, he was around people all day, he –
Malcolm Bright took his own life this morning in an attempt to protect the lives of his team from the killer. Serious threats were made against several civilians.
Ainsley's breath stilled in her chest as she understood. The taxi sailed by familiar streets but she didn't see any of them.
If someone had targeted Major Crimes' old victims, killed people Malcolm had saved ... he'd feel responsible. His friend had been shot, too, Tarmel. Ainsley'd met him in the hospital after Watkins had attacked them. What if the killer had targeted Malcolm specifically? What if she was the civilian? That must be it. It was the only thing that made sense. Malcolm would never willingly break a promise to her, not if he felt he had any other choice. He wouldn't do it without talking to her. He'd say goodbye.
Unless he was being watched. And seeing her would put her in danger. He'd do anything to protect her.
He'd die to save his family.
The cab slowed to a gentle stop and Ainsley looked out the window at her home. The familiar door was once again blocked by bodies, reporters already hounding for a statement.
This was real.
Numbly, she paid the driver and stepped out, hand shaking on the door.
Had Gil even told Mom yet? Did she know?
One of the reporters saw her and turned, barking questions before she'd even closed the cab door. Others turned until they were all looking at her, faces obscured by lenses as cameras flashed and she wiped her tears away, frowning at the ground as she pushed her way through.
These people shouldn't even know to be here. Malcolm didn't want to be a Whitly anymore. Another thing Watkins stole from him. Or maybe that had been her interview.
"Ainsley, can you comment on the circumstances of your brother's death?
"Will you be doing an exposé?"
"Could your brother's suicide be construed as penance for your father's murders?"
"Ainsley, how does it feel to be an only child?"
She stopped dead. Turned to see a thin man with black hair and dark eyes smirking down at her. He had his phone extended to her, ready to record her answer.
"I am not an only child," she said coldly, throwing hate through her eyes.
The reporter grinned shamelessly, enjoying her reaction and she turned away, shoving people aside as she fought for the door.
Death couldn't take away a lifetime of having the best big brother she could've asked for. Couldn't erase the memories of building forts and playing Lego, of scrambling into his bed after a nightmare even though his were so much worse. Death couldn't make her forget all those times she'd come to him in tears over some break up and he'd held her and told her they were idiots, that she was worth so much more than how they treated her, that he'd beat them up if she wanted and that always made her laugh because he was the one who always came home with bruises. Death could not change her identity. She was a sister. She always would be. She wasn't about to stop loving Malcolm just because he was dead.
She would always have a brother.
She just couldn't hug him anymore.
Ainsley shoved the door open just as her composure broke. Ragged, violent sobs ripped through her, tears blinding her as she stumbled to the dining room. Pain like she had never known was burrowing inside her, turning her heart into a chasm of stolen calm, a foundation she'd never truly understood crumbling under the weight of the idea that she was alone now. There was no one else who knew what it was like to be the Surgeon's child. No one else to commiserate and celebrate with over having Jessica Whitly for a mother. No one who understood her so deeply words were only ever optional.
She only knew she was on her knees when the pain of contact with the hard floor registered through the haze of grief. A wail stretched itself out of her throat, twisting and keening and it didn't sound like her at all. If Malcolm heard her make a sound like that he'd be so worried.
Malcolm.
Please, I need you. Please don't leave me.
"Ainsley?"
She looked up, blinking for clarity and saw her mother, being held up by Gil. Her expression was a fresh shock of pain. She knew.
"Mom," she moaned, unwrapping a hand from around her middle to reach for her. "Malcolm!"
Jessica straightened, pushed herself away from Gil, and came to kneel by Ainsley, wrapping her in her arms and holding her almost as tightly as she needed to be held.
"I know, I know," she whispered, her voice rougher than usual but oddly steady. "I know my love. I know."
"He c-can't be –"
"I know."
"He's my brother!"
"Shh, darling. I'm here. I'll always be here."
Ainsley buried her face against her mother's neck, clinging to her like she had the night her father was taken away only now there was no youth to protect her. No confusion, no blind trust that it would be okay.
No Malcolm to protect her from the truth.
How could he do this to them? A fierce flame of hate seared through her and in its wake she felt more raw than she ever had. She could feel each death throe of her love as grief tore into it, mutating it into something dark and heavy.
She burrowed deeper into her mother's hold and cried.
oOo
Martin had always loved TV time. Best part of his day. More often than not he got to see his little girl and keeping up with New York made it easier to pretend he was still out there. Plus, when you knew what to look for, reports could hold insights into cases that might bring Malcolm by. Martin had a reputation to uphold at this stage. He was probably Major Crimes' most valuable informant, a consultant second only to his son and, come on, that was only because one of them was allowed to go to crime scenes.
It made for some entertaining thought experiments, fancying himself an asset to the cops, picking apart the killer's mistakes. It might go against his moral code, putting good, creative people behind bars, but, such were the sacrifices you made for your family.
The commercials ended and a little thrill swept through him as he recognised Malcolm's precinct. A spokesperson stepped up to the podium, his face as grey as his suit.
"Oh Mr David," he called, waving a hand. "Could you turn it up a smidge? It's my boy's work!"
Mr David obliged, clearly not sharing his enthusiasm. Martin ignored him, turning his attention to the screen. Ainsley would probably be on after, she usually had a segment on –
"– NYPD consultant Malcolm Bright took his own life this morning in an attempt –"
Martin blinked at the screen. Mr David rose from his chair, concern pinching his face. Martin could count on one hand how many times Mr David had let anything show so clearly on his face and this was – what had Grey Suit just said?
"Martin?"
"I, uh ..."
Malcolm Bright took his own life this morning.
His boy was dead?
Took his own life.
No. No, no. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't. They'd made a deal. Martin was to get bi-weekly visits, phone calls twice a week at least, that was the deal that's what he'd arranged.
No more murders, no more case consultations, no more visits breaking up the monotony.
Twenty years in a whole for nothing.
A deep throb in his chest matched his rising heartbeat, the weakened muscle warning him to calm down but he couldn't even feel the sharp stabs of air gusting past his teeth.
Ainsley's voice echoed in his mind, the words fanged and biting.
You claim to care about your son but what you did to him twenty years ago harmed him irreparably.
He wouldn't have killed himself, he loved his work, he wouldn't do that to –
He's has been diagnosed with complex PTSD, generalised anxiety disorder, night terrors.
But he handled all that, he was strong, he was – he was –
Doctor Whitly, do you know what happens to the human body when it withstands that must stress for that long a period of time? He was fired from the only job he was ever good at. He hasn't been in a stable relationship for years. And the ten years he went without seeing you were by far the happiest, healthiest of his life.
He'd seen him three times in the last month. Had that – did he not enjoy the visits? Deep down?
What can that say about you except that you were an absolutely terrible father?
He was a good father, he had been, he – he'd been good –
He just wanted to love you and you caused him so much pain.
What kind of a father does that?
Malcolm Bright took his own life this morning.
The air halted. Lungs worked futilely. Heart ached, throbbed with every beat. A new pain expanded in his chest, obliterating muscle and tissue and blood, consuming them with a blistering pressure that clawed at his throat, raked along his spine, searing through his mind. He didn't hear Mr David call out. Didn't see him rush to his bed. He didn't even hear his own raw scream.
All he knew was his boy was dead, and it was his fault.
Mercifully, that's when the blackness took him.
oOo
Eventually, Ainsley ran out of tears. When her breathing had eased into regularity, Gil pushed himself off the wall where he had been watching helplessly, pulled out two chairs by the table and helped her and Jessica off the floor to sit.
Ainsley took his offered tissue and dried her face. She sniffed. "Do you – do you know what happened?"
Gil cast a worried glance at Jessica. Her eyes were flat, dead, the spark of purpose that had blazed at the sight of her broken daughter already dimming.
She caught his look and rolled her eyes.
"I can take it, Gil. It's hardly going to make it worse, is it?"
Gil shifted uncomfortably but nodded.
"I was there," he said once he could trust his voice. "He'd, uh, left the precinct. Went to a building site downtown." He had to close his eyes against the memory, but he forced himself to say it. "I tried to stop him. He hit me, cuffed me to a radiator. I ... I was shouting to him, begging him not to do it, but he ... this case, he just ... he didn't want to risk any of us."
"How did he do it?" Ainsley asked, her voice so quiet and for a moment Gil only saw a sad five-year-old in her eyes.
He cleared his throat. Shifted to his other foot.
"Gunshot. Right temple."
Jessica let out a shaky sigh and put a hand to her forehead. She was so pale Gil moved closer, half-ready to catch her if she fell off the chair.
"My Malcolm," she whispered, eyes wide and staring at nothing. Ainsley reached for her other hand and squeezed.
"I'm – I'm sorry I couldn't stop him," Gil ground out, unable to look at either of them.
"It's not your fault, Gil," Ainsley said at once, turning those young eyes on him. "No one could've. Not if he ... not if he decided." She took a shaky breath. "It was the case, right?"
Gil swallowed. "The case was ... the trigger, yes. But I think ... I think this may have been coming. I just can't tell."
"He was struggling," Jessica said quietly. "He had nothing to keep him afloat. Just the other day we toasted to something happy and he couldn't think of a thing." She sighed. Looked up at Gil. "That job may have killed him but it was also the only thing keeping him alive. The only thing that gave him hope."
Gil took a moment to blink back the tears. He put a hand on Jessica's shoulder.
"We weren't the only thing, Jessica. He loved you – both of you – more than anything."
A very brittle silence fell between them.
"What's his name?" Ainsley asked, anger coiling in her tone. "The suspect who did this."
"Jason Quinley. We IDed him yesterday. Here." He stepped to the end of the table, where the file he'd given Malcolm to show Jessica still sat. He flipped it open and pulled out the DMV photo. "He's a technician in Brooklyn. Malcolm was instrumental in arresting his brother, who was killed in prison. Quinley blames him. Blamed," he corrected quietly.
Ainsley frowned at the photo. "You're sure this is him?"
"Of course. Why?"
"I've seen him."
"What?"
She rose, eyes alight with fury.
"He's right outside. I thought he was a reporter. Asked me what it was like to be an only child."
There was a moment of utter silence. Without a word, Gil turned, one hand reaching back for his handcuffs. Sharp clacking echoed behind him and Jessica brushed by, reaching the door ahead of him, ignoring his warning.
She flung the door open and stalked out, freezing for a moment as the reporters turned their flashes on her. Before Gil could catch up she was moving again, hands outstretched as she lunged for a thin man with a phone held high.
"YOU MURDERED MY SON!" she howled, grabbing Quinley around the neck and shoving him against the railing. "YOU TOOK HIM FROM ME!"
"Mom, stop! Stop!"
"Jessica!"
Gil skidded to her side, reporters pressing close for better shots. He put a hand on her shoulder, the other on her wrist, grip firm as she choked Quinley.
Who was smiling.
Ignoring his own rage, Gil forced his voice to be calm. Persuasive.
"Jessica, listen to me. You kill him you go to jail and we both know Malcolm wouldn't want that! You're already under investigation after Claremont – don't make things worse for yourself!"
"He killed my son," she growled, face contorted in pain and fury. She didn't look like herself. All trace of manners long gone, replaced by a simple, feral energy.
"I know. I know he did. And he'll pay. Believe me, he'll pay if it's the last thing I ever do. But your son gave his life to protect yours. Don't throw that away. Don't give up your freedom for something that won't change anything." He swallowed to stop his voice cracking, speaking more softly as hesitation flickered in her eyes. "Killing him won't bring Malcolm back."
"Listen to your boyfriend, Jessica," Quinley croaked, still grinning. Enjoying this.
"Mom. Please."
Jessica tore her gaze away from Quinley and looked to her daughter. Gil didn't take his eyes off her but saw the moment she chose Ainsley over herself. Her expression crumpled and she withdrew her hands from Quinley's throat, reaching out for Ainsley instead.
Gil wasted no time.
"Jason Quinley," he said, teeth gritted, "you're under arrest for homicide, assault and conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right –"
"Were you there when he did it, Arroyo? Did you see his brains splatter the wall? I wish I could've seen it. No more than that bastard deserved."
Gil shoved him into the gate, tightening the last cuff with a wrench. He leaned in, lips inches from Quinley's ear so the reporters wouldn't hear.
"You're lucky there're witnesses, Quinley. You killed one of our own. The NYPD doesn't take kindly to that. And accidents happen in precincts. I'd watch what I said if I were you."
Quinley snorted, unfazed. "I didn't kill anyone, Lieutenant. You've got no proof."
It was Gil's turn to laugh. "You think Malcolm would kill himself and leave even the slightest chance that you'd go free? He's been two steps ahead of you this whole time. We've got enough evidence tying you to Andi and Spencer to put you away for life. Never mind the bullet we pulled out of Detective Tarmel matches your own gun." He tutted, yanking Quinley back and spinning him around to the sidewalk as the reporters parted like ants. "Your case won't even go to trial."
Gil glanced back to Jessica. Ainsley had her arms around her and was guiding her back inside. They both looked ... hollow.
The uniforms Gil had placed to watch Jessica saw him coming and opened the back door for Quinley. Gil relished the moment he shoved his head into the car, slamming the window over his stoic face.
"Get him to the precinct," he told the officers. "Make sure Detectives Tarmel or Powell process him, alright? No one else."
"Yes sir."
"Our stake is done?"
Gil glanced from the officer to Jessica's closing door and back.
"Yeah, yeah it's done. I'll watch over them tonight."
Both cops nodded and Gil turned back to the house. The crowd of reporters had swelled, more clearly summoned by the drama of an arrest from their own midst. Gil ignored them as he pushed through, not even hearing their shouted questions.
It was a relief to close the door on the chaos. The house was quiet. Too quiet. As though it too were mourning. He stayed a moment in the hallway, just breathing.
They had Quinley. Any accomplices he'd engaged would soon follow.
All that left was the funeral. And then ... life. Without Malcolm.
Suddenly feeling unnaturally heavy, Gil trudged back to the living room where the women were holding each other on the couch. He'd left his phone on the floor where Jessica had collapsed and stooped to pick it up.
"I, em. I can leave, if you two want some ... some time. I'll keep an eye, outside, for a while. Just make sure Quinley didn't have any surprises planned."
Jessica was shaking her head before he'd finished talking.
"Stay, Gil. I ... just stay. He-he'd want you to."
He almost managed to smile at that, and quickly looked down at his phone as a wave of gratitude and grief washed over him. He unlocked the screen.
Seven missed calls from JT. Ten from Dani.
Shit.
"Gimme a minute," he muttered, turning away, already bringing the phone to his ear. The call connected as he stepped into the living room.
"Gil?"
"Dani – what's going on, I didn't have my phone, are you –"
"Bright's alive!"
Gil blinked.
"What did you say?"
"He's alive, Gil. He's alive. He's en route to the hospital, Edrisa's with him. They might be there by now. And we have Quinley's accomplice – we staged a press release to draw him out, we think he'll –"
"He came to the Whiltys' house," Gil stammered, "I got him. What – what were you saying about Bright?"
"Gil," Dani said slowly, over-enunciating each syllable. "Bright is alive. Malcolm's alive. Edrisa –"
Everything shattered. Hope exploded like an atomic bomb inside his chest, consuming him in an instant, overriding the pain gnawing at his soul with a bright, breathless purpose: get to Malcolm.
"What hospital?"
"Metro General, but Gil –"
"I'm on my way. You two deal with Quinley. I'll keep you posted on Bright."
"But Gil –"
"I know. I'm leaving now."
He hung up. The phone shook in his hand. Energy hurtled through him, zinging in his blood, making him lightheaded.
Malcolm was alive. He'd survived.
A flicker of horror caught in his chest and in seconds it was a fire. What had he done? He'd told Jessica her son was dead. He'd – he'd been there. He'd checked for a pulse and he'd fucked it up, had been too quick to believe Malcolm was gone, hadn't trusted – He'd need surgery. An injury like that, it could take hours. And after, there could be a coma.
Ice shivered down his spine.
There would be brain damage. He wouldn't be the same. Mightn't be able to talk. That sharp mind that Gil had always been so in awe of could already be lost. Everything that made Bright Bright might have been killed after all.
But that didn't matter. Malcolm was more than his intellect. He was strength and compassion and terrible jokes and enthusiasm. He'd recover. Gil would make sure of it. He'd take time off work if he had to, help Jessica get him back on his feet. Hell, he could teach him how to walk again if he had to. Go to every physical therapy session, every doctor's appointment. He could make flashcards with the alphabet. He would make up for his failure today. He would earn back his place in their lives.
Malcolm would be okay. Maybe not the same. But he was alive.
Nothing else mattered.
