Back at it again with another update cause I had to get this chapter down before it left my head. Honestly Em is a hero for giving me this idea bc I had stalled on the fic after Jessica's escape. But because of their help I actually know a lot more than I even knew in the LAST CHAPTER much less as a whole. Loving the comments so ofc keep them coming cause i need validation.
The process of healing is frustratingly slow and Jessica finds herself lost in the cycle of sleeping, being questioned by officers, seeing Ainsley and occasionally Malcolm, and sleeping again. It's a small comfort knowing that Malcolm, in all his determination is searching for the man behind all of this. Most of her though just wants him in the room with her, knowing he is safe.
The most frustrating, to her and investigators alike were her memories. She remembers the big picture. There was a wreck while she was traveling to a meeting for Eve's charity. With the woman gone Jessica had preserved her legacy the best she could. The crash was unexpected. She'd checked Alphonso from the back seat already knowing he was dead. Two paramedics pulled her out of the car, put some kind of oxygen mask on her and she was out. Next came where it blurred. She was held in the dark by two men and they asked her to pick between her life or a stranger's. No matter how many times she picked herself the other person would die. She was shot first, and then stabbed later.
She didn't remember other conversations. Colette Swanson was the one to report to her what they found at the construction site. They found the room she was held in, two chairs bolted to the floor facing each other. They found the trail of blood where she had escaped. They found a young man matching the surveillance footage of the paramedic they'd found the day of the wreck. He was beaten to death, likely by his partner though the FBI agent didn't expand on why.
She's not shocked. Part of her knew this already.
What tears at her was they found no trace of the other killer nor Freddy in the vicinity. Gil tells her that no trace of blood should be a good thing.
It doesn't feel like a good thing.
"Ms. Whitly." She picks her head up from the spot she was staring at, smiling kindly at the doctor.
"Dr. Garcia, I hope you're not planning to wheel me back for another surgery. Ainsley is getting off soon and she's bringing Vionelli's." The surgeon chuckles warmly shaking her head. In the week she's been stuck in the hospital Dr. Garcia had been a welcoming bright spot in her boring or traumatizing days. The day she chased away an officer who was getting a little too aggressive while questioning and insisting that she remembered. Waving a clipboard and getting in the face of an armed man, it was a sight that made her laugh no matter how much it hurt her side.
"Actually, I wanted to be the one to tell you that it's looking like you could go home today."
"Today?" She sits up a little, newfound energy overpowering the shot of pain that goes through her side at the movement.
"Your infection has cleared up and all of your baselines came through clear. Now you'll come back in a week to remove the stitches and I want you taking it easy when walking. We're going to send you home in a wheelchair." Jessica must have made a face because the doctor gets serious, "I expect you to use it Ms. Whitly. Your physical therapy will be easier if you don't push yourself too much. No alcohol or other supplements until you finish out your medication." Jessica hesitates but nods. Anything that can get her past this as soon as possible she'll agree to. "Well, in that case you might want to tell your daughter to bring a loose set of clothes and I'll tell the nurses to get the paperwork drawn up."
"Dr. Garcia?" Her question evades her as soon as she asks. Past conversations echo instead, The knife was two centimeters from nicking the femoral artery. The gunshot wound had been infected, but we caught it early. Your memory will return in time, it's expected with the combination of anesthesia and your head injury. Yet, not once had the woman made the claim other doctors had. The one that she told herself, you got lucky. "Thank you."
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After the text it's Ainsley, Malcolm, and Gil who come to escort her home. It feels like a bittersweet celebration. None of them will let her stay alone, despite her protests and the 3 details they set up along the house. All help is dismissed until further notice, and her home has already been searched five times for any possible cameras or bugs hidden. Gil tried to insist her stay with her but couldn't fight more when she pointed out that she'd get around easier in her own home than his small apartment.
They celebrate with Vionelli's, as promised, and sitting at her own table with her family surrounding her almost feels normal. She longs for a drink but her children made sure that all alcohol was removed from the home the second they were told she could come home. For a few split seconds she allows herself to believe this is a normal day. That she doesn't ache all over, that there aren't several patrols outside guarding each exit of her home, that she doesn't have the details of 3 days blurred as if she'd taken a few too many pills.
Despite her protests the three of them create a system. Malcolm will stay with her tonight, Gil's insistence as he hadn't slept much in 3 days. Gil will switch him tomorrow, Ainsley after that. Even though she tried to deny their pushes, she's secretly glad to have one of them with her. At least she can be assured one of them is safe at all times.
Much to her dread, Gil and Ainsley eventually leave. They linger longer than they should. None of them really tired enough to stave off their personal demons from the night. Gil gives in when Colette calls, Ainsley long after he is gone but her own detail looks tired and she shouldn't probably get home.
Jessica makes her way back to her own bedroom. The clothes Ainsley brought are comfortable enough that she can just slide right into bed. Her medicine is slowly dragging her under and she's grateful for the peace that the familiar setting brings.
"Goodnight mom," Malcolm smiles at her, the expression not quite matching the worry in his eyes.
"Love you Sunshine." She says as gently as she can, inordinately calm against the threat of sleep. Her nightmares are no stranger to her. The nickname helps as she watches him relax, even if only slightly.
"Love you too."
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Jessica wakes again with a gasp sitting up in bed, the pain that echoes through her abdomen making her regret the movement. The nightmare already faded from her as she settles back hissing through her teeth. She squints at her phone laying on her nightstand.
4:26 A.M.
She huffs covering her eyes. She can feel the beginnings of her medicine wearing off. She's surprised Malcolm hadn't woken her simply to take some. She peers through the dark spying her son curled in the chair in the corner of her room. He must have fallen asleep there after working on the case for most of the night.
Her chest aches remembering how after Martin she'd find him sleeping almost anywhere but his bed. That chair, specifically, was his favorite place to curl up. A flashlight and book lying abandoned on the floor by his feet.
She experimentally sits up again, slower this time. The pain is much more manageable in the slow, precise movements. As her eyes adjust to the dark she sees a cup sitting on her nightstand along with the bottles of medicine she's supposed to take. Lying by the glass is a small card, a note hastily written.
Just like you like.
Her chest warms looking over at Malcolm again. The glass is still hot, he couldn't have prepared it long ago. She tusks but slides the note in her drawer, standing. She suppresses the groan at the ache in her leg, not wanting to wake him when he'd clearly just managed to fall asleep. She grabs the spare blanket draped across the bottom of her bed and covers him. Even in his sleep he looks like he carries the whole world on his shoulders. Grabbing her tea and medicine she exits her bedroom.
She's not sure exactly where she intended on going. The restlessness is enough to make her wander through the home on a good night. This, this is something else. A sense of dread that can't seem to leave her chest.
She takes a sip of the tea enjoying the warmth that spreads across her. Her peace is only momentary though.
The tea doesn't taste like what she drinks.
The taste brings her back twenty years. To Christmas morning with two children bouncing onto her bed excitedly screaming about Santa. To a golden tray loaded up with her favorites. To breakfast in bed. To the tea Martin had prepared for her.
Malcolm didn't make this.
Panic fills her as she pushes herself through the home, steadying herself on the walls. She bursts into the dining room, looking for the bar cart.
She hears Malcolm screaming in her head.
Don't drop the cup, it could be evidence.
She needs a drink
You're not supposed to drink on your medication.
She doesn't care. Not when she can't get the taste out of her mouth.
Mother!
The cart is empty. Of course it is. Ainsley herself cleared it out. She has a stash in the kitchen. One she hadn't touched since Malcolm's months of silence. One only she knew about.
She grits her teeth using the table as a brace as her leg screams against the rush. She can't think. Not when the memories are too loud. The good times taste like poison under his gaze, his touch.
She flicks on the light stopping dead in her path at the sight of a figure seated at the island, facing her. The glass slips from her hands spilling across the tile and scattering shards everywhere.
Freddy stares emptily at her. His skin is all too pale. A sharp cut against his throat and blood spilled all over his clothes. They're the same clothes he'd been wearing when she saw him last. The eyes that had been so kind to her are frozen in choking horror. He probably couldn't even scream.
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Shattering glass startles Malcolm awake. He's up and aware in a matter of seconds. The bed his mother had fallen asleep in is empty, the medicine he'd left on her nightstand is gone too. He tries to rationalize with himself. She likely woke from a nightmare. Went to look for a drink. He doesn't need to jump to conclusions.
Her scream sends ice through his veins. He's taking off after that, ignoring the soreness in his joints from the position he'd slept in.
He never should have let himself fall asleep.
He was supposed to be guarding her.
Now she's-
"Mom!" He calls out to her. Her screams seem to echo off the walls. He suddenly feels too small, a child searching helplessly for his mother in a crowd of ghosts. "Mom!" He's closer. She's still screaming.
He rounds the kitchen to a sight that turns his stomach. His investigative sense tells him to preserve the scene, call 911. But his mother is backed up against the wall, eyes glued to the body meant just for her. He doesn't give a damn about the glass the cuts his feet to get to her. He lifts her by the elbows pulling her back into the dining room.
"Freddy. It's Freddy." She sobs before collapsing on his shoulder.
In that moment, Malcolm freezes. Twenty years, not once did she cry for Martin. Not once did she cry for her family that had been burned up and destroyed. She didn't cry when he moved away, not when he woke up after being taken by the Junkyard Killer, not when Ainsley confessed to her that she killed Endicott. But she's clinging to him like her life depends on it, and she's crying.
All he can do is hold onto her and text Gil.