A/N: Super quick author's note because I have to run out the door in a second. Just wanted to say thanks for the reviews of CH 27, and I'm sorry if I freaked anyone out by posting late on Monday. Oh, also the comment from CH 26 about whether Dr. Al in that chapter was the same one who's Billie's father on the show. Yep, one and the same. And still a ginormous creep either way. Okay, on to chapter 28. Happy reading!


CHAPTER 28: For the Night Is Dark

. . .

Sneaking home at 2:30 AM, after a night of boozing, bruising, and raising Cain, was far less enjoyable at forty than it had been at seventeen. Back then, she only need worry about waking up her little sister—Mama was out like a light with one mint julep, the green sprig foundering in a watery grave of melted ice at the bottom of her highball glass, sometimes still clutched in her sleeping hand; Daddy usually didn't return from his carousing until well past 3 AM (sometimes they ran into each other, tiptoeing towards their respective bedrooms, giggly as a pair of schoolgirls)—and Kimmie slept like the dead.

Back then, she didn't have anyone counting on her to be anything other than a screw-up. That Dean Rollins' girl is somethin' else. A few of her daddy's friends, the ones who watched her a little too closely when they hung around mooching beers and shooting the shit, took to calling her Deanie at that age. She'd taken to flipping them off and strutting away with the neck of a Bud Light bottle between her knuckles, filched from the cooler sweating on the front porch. "Aw, come back, Deanie. You used to sit in our laps all the time."

"Fuckin'—" Amanda meant to conclude with "pervs," but the front door came ajar under her clumsy plying of the deadbolt and twisting of the knob. She stumbled forward, her weight still resting against the door and throwing it wide, the keys jingling like sleigh bells in the lock. Luckily, she caught herself—and the door—before any loud crashes could disturb the quiet apartment.

(No, not luck. She had to stop relying on that. It was just her quick reflexes, that's all.)

She wasn't drunk anymore. At least not very. Getting clocked in the face by someone fifty or sixty pounds heavier than you had a sobering effect, it turned out. Doctors didn't hit nearly as hard as bookies or undercover cops, though; probably didn't want to mess up his hand. Hers, however, was almost as mangled as her face, throbbing like a son of a bitch, the knuckles red and bloated. With so much liquid sloshing around on the inside and so much puffiness on the outside, she felt vaguely pregnant.

The coffee helped some, too. It had scorched the roof of her mouth ("Sweet Mother, who made this: Satan?" Daphne wheezed, fanning her tongue after the first sip), tasted like hot rubber and potting soil, and swirled in a shape and color that reminded her of cow patties. She'd drunk three full cups and peed in the diner bathroom before hopping the second cab.

Between the knuckle sandwich, the bad coffee, the arctic winds, and Daphne's lively, incessant chatter, Amanda was practically a new woman. Well, a less tipsy one, anyway. The ache in old Amanda's head and gut was ten times worse than when she'd left the casino. But somehow it was better that way. She knew what to do for physical pain.

I'm in, she texted to Daphne from the dark entrance. Her friend had made her promise to message the very instant she set foot safely inside the apartment. She'd more or less complied—maybe a step or two off. Before she could fumble on the dining room light switch, her phone buzzed twice.

Good, read Daphne's reply. If I die in this cab, tell Liv it was me who got you home in one piece.

And a second later:

Also, that I was madly in love with her.

A garland of red hearts and kissy face emojis followed, and Amanda stifled an exasperated chuckle, switched off the blindingly bright screen, and stowed the phone back in her pocket. She immediately nicked her knee on the corner of the credenza and swore under her breath. Yet another aching body part to go along with the rest. Story of her night.

Rubbing at the assaulted kneecap, she flicked on the light and got the door shut and bolted behind her. Olivia was always after her to lock up right away so she didn't get distracted and forget, but the chances of that happening were slim. True, deadbolts were practically nonexistent in Loganville in the eighties and well into the nineties, but she'd learned to secure her doors—right quick, as they say—in Atlanta. And no way would she overlook such an important detail with her children and fiancée in the apartment. Their safety was her top priority.

Just as she was thinking it, she glanced around the room and realized something was wrong. For one thing, Frannie hadn't trotted up to greet her, and while she didn't usually come home this late, it felt strange not having fifty pounds of excited pit bull to wade through on her way to the living room. For another, the room smelled different. Someone had been here while she was gone—someone who wore expensive perfume, the kind a department store clerk had to produce from inside a display counter, the kind that lingered on the neck and inner wrists of the wearer for days. And in people's living rooms.

Amanda had only ever worn the cheap brands you could buy straight off the shelf, endorsed by pop stars and pseudo-celebrities, squat little bottles in improbable colors and shapes. She preferred the lighter, summery scents of body mists, truth be told. Olivia would be the more likely candidate for the aroma Amanda was picking up on, but the captain seldom wore perfume at all, save for the most special occasions. If she tried, Amanda could still conjure up the subtle, spicy fragrance that had emanated from Olivia's lovely bronze skin on their first date—and the first time they had sex. She loved that smell.

This one belonged to someone else entirely.

In the kitchen, the evidence of
(an intruder)
a visitor became even more apparent and troubling. The shattered globe of a wine glass lay in fanglike shards at the bottom of the sink, briefly reminding Amanda of the creepy clown's teeth from the movie It.

We all float down here, Mandy, she thought, and shuddered. We float and scratch Crazy 8's. When you're down here, you'll scratch too.

Forcing away the image and the demonic Pennywise voice, she concentrated on making sense of the wreckage in the sink. Olivia rarely left messes sitting out overnight, and never ones that could pose a danger to curious, adventuresome children. The jagged stem of the glass stood erect in the basin, practically begging for an eye to gouge out or a throat to puncture.

A second glass, intact and coated by a hazy red film, loitered at the sink ledge as if it hadn't yet summoned the courage to dive in after its companion. There was lipstick on the brim—also not Olivia's shade. Too crimson.

Amanda caught herself wondering how much wine her fiancée and Alexandra Cabot had consumed (and what occurred after, her mind supplied, unbidden), but she tamped down on the jealousy and carefully gathered a handful of lethal-looking glass into her palm. She didn't know for certain that Alex was the mystery guest—although, the perfume and the lipstick were undeniably Cabotlike, so feminine and fine—and even if she had been, that didn't mean anything happened. And if it did, Amanda had brought it on herself. She deserved whatever punishment Olivia saw fit to give.

Still, when she capsized the broken crystal into the bin under the sink, she was alarmed by the presence of two empty wine bottles, cushioned on a bed of crumpled paper towels and takeout containers. The Merlot she understood; that bottle had maybe three or four (albeit very large) servings left when she'd stormed out of the apartment earlier. But the Nero d'Avola had been untouched, recumbent on the scalloped rack above the fridge and waiting for a special occasion—emergency?—like those lifeboats that lined the deck of the Titanic. Iceberg straight ahead, Captain. SOS.

Two women polishing off a whole bottle of wine (and part of another) between them wasn't unheard of. Olivia and Amanda had done it in the past. They also got quite soused in the process, and neither of them were on antidepressants at the time. Worrying felt hypocritical, considering Amanda had spent the evening mixing whiskey and painkillers, but it was different for Olivia. She was more susceptible, more fragile in some ways. Amanda had never been force-fed pills and alcohol for days on end, nor had she been given an almost lethal dose of GHB. And shitty childhood or not, she'd never watched her mother drink away every ounce of the love she so desperately craved.

Those experiences seemed to have altered Olivia's alcohol and drug tolerance, and not in a good way. Whereas drinking made Amanda rowdy and loose, it made Olivia somber and quiet. More often than not it put her to sleep, and combined with the Zoloft, it had a near sedative effect. That night on the couch when Amanda couldn't rouse her without shaking her roughly by the shoulders and practically shouting her name was, for lack of a better term, a wake-up call for both of them. Or so Amanda had believed, until gazing down at the pair of empty bottles.

She blamed herself for that, too. If she'd been at home where she belonged, instead of out throwing away her sobriety for a few hundred dollars—three-fifty, to be exact—Olivia probably wouldn't have imbibed as heavily.

Twisting the other glass beneath the running faucet, Amanda quickly rinsed out the bowl and upended it in the dishwasher, noting two more wine glasses on the top rack. Had those been there before, or had Olivia thrown a party after she left? She couldn't remember about the glasses, and she doubted the validity of the latter option. Either way, she hurried through hosing any remaining splinters down the drain, then headed for the hallway.

Her heartbeat kicked up a notch when she saw the red sweater. Pooled on the beige carpet between bed and bath, it resembled a small, red lagoon between sandy shores—or a puddle of blood. She went to it instinctively, snatched it up, took a sharp whiff. She recognized it by sight and touch alone, but a familiar scent clung to the inside-out knit, especially around the long, wilted collar: Olivia.

You can wear a turtleneck, Amanda had told her. Your tits look amazing in those stretchy ones.

God, she'd been callous. She knew Olivia wasn't fond of turtlenecks anymore, that the collars always ended up stretched out from the constant plucking, tugging, and flapping, but she had only been concerned with her own desires in the moment. And Olivia had submitted to them, or at least tried to. The sweater smelled strongly of sweat and red wine.

It was a bouquet Amanda associated with sex. Salty-sweet and carnal. Sins of the flesh, she thought inexplicably, unable to recall where she'd heard such a thing. Biblical, if she wasn't mistaken; although it might just as easily have been the title of a porno. Introducing Maggie Bends and Lexi Cavort in Sins of the Flesh: Mandy's Coming.

Before her imagination could run away with her even more than it already had, she steepled her fingers against the bedroom door and pushed. Normally, Olivia liked it closed all the way—Amanda suspected the sliver of darkness, of unknown, beyond the cracked door was to blame. Tonight it sighed open at just a touch, the hall light slicing through the pitch-black bedroom with razor precision. From inside, a gentle, questioning woof alerted Amanda to Frannie's presence and would have made her laugh any other time. It sounded like a human imitating a dog.

She did allow herself a relieved chuckle when she peered around the corner and saw that her soon-to-be wife was indeed in bed with a long-haired blonde: Gigi the golden retriever rested alongside Olivia, occupying the spot usually reserved for Amanda. The service dog was finally getting to live out her dream of having Favorite Mom all to herself, without Other Mom in the way. She lifted her head from the pillow and rested it on Olivia's shoulder, vigilant as ever as she watched Amanda tiptoe over to the bedside lamp. The ceiling fixture would be too bright, and while Amanda hoped to accidentally wake Olivia on purpose, she wanted to do it carefully, tenderly. Sleep was a vulnerable and volatile place for her captain.

She clicked on the dim little lamp, which gave off more of a tepid glow than actual light, and quietly shed her coat and boots beside the bed, Olivia's sweater on top. Frannie stopped by for a sniff and a pat on the rump on her way out of the room, presumably to get a drink from the bowl in the kitchen (hopefully not the one in the bathroom). Well. Amanda sure felt loved.

For a moment, she considered stripping down fully and sliding in behind Olivia. Conversation would keep until morning and they could both do with some rest. But she doubted her ability to sleep right then, no matter how hard she tried. She was too sore and exhausted, too buzzed from her extracurriculars and the revelations Daphne inspired, to rest comfortably. There were things she needed to get off her chest before she came down from her pink cloud, the cumulus formed by coffee, Jim Beam, and a renewed determination never to gamble again.

With slow, measured movements, she took a seat next to Olivia on the edge of the mattress. The captain was curled onto her side in a defensive posture, as if she'd just been kicked in the stomach, her face obscured by an ink spill of dark hair. She had mashed the covers down around her ankles at some point, probably overheated beneath the layers—although not of clothing. Her only attire was a black bra and the leggings she wouldn't wear unless the shirt (or sweater) reached the top of her thighs. She hated the little paunch accentuated by tight waistbands, but Amanda thought it was adorable.

Unusual for Olivia to be sleeping in leggings, though. Even more unusual for her to go to bed in a bra. Frowning, Amanda brushed the hair back from Olivia's face and gasped at what she found. Inches below the jawline on that side, a smear of bruises, like dirty fingerprints clouding a windowpane, wrapped around the woman's neck, disappearing into the crevice between her chin and the opposite shoulder. It looked as though she'd been jerked up short by a noose, or maybe just a choke collar for disobedient dogs.

The realization that she was responsible for those marks settled over Amanda, heavy as death by pressing, that ancient form of torture used on supposed witches and other sinners (of the flesh). She clamped a hand to her mouth, covering the strangled noise she made low in her throat. She hadn't sobbed in so long, she'd forgotten what it felt like, how pitiful it sounded, how much she hated doing it.

"Oh, Liv baby, I'm so sorry," she said wetly, voice clogged by the tears and her palm. The latter she moved aside, leaning down to nuzzle into Olivia's hair and press a warm, apologetic kiss to her cheek. She expected the captain to stir then—Olivia usually woke at the slightest shift of air in the room, the slightest squeak of a floorboard or a bed frame—to enfold her in a strong, forgiving embrace, but it never came.

For the second time since arriving home, Amanda felt something was wrong. All at once, she noticed that Olivia's hair, soft and flowery when they
(hatefucked)
had sex earlier that evening, now was coarse and briny. It got that way after especially intense workouts or night terrors, both of which left Olivia drenched in perspiration. But neither activity accounted for the smell of vomit that also lingered among the dark strands, charcoal-colored in the frail lamplight.

Amanda drew back abruptly, more startled than disgusted. She liked the scent of Olivia's sweat—got turned on by it, even—and she hadn't been grossed out by puke since college, when she'd done her fair share of it and had to analyze someone else's for a forensic toxicology midterm. But Olivia was fastidious about her hygiene and seldom went to bed smelling anything less than fresh. Just like she didn't sleep in a bra or leggings.

Something was very wrong. As if confirming that deduction, Amanda spotted Olivia's iPhone across the room, facedown on the carpet like a fallen soldier, its plastic and silicone armor split asunder. A gouge in the otherwise spotless moulding told Amanda everything she needed to know. Like the complimentary pretzels and not-so-complimentary booze she'd hurled in college, she'd thrown her fair share of cell phones as well. She thought of Olivia tossing the earrings to her during their argument, and that lightning bolt of anger when she wanted to throw them back.

Her gaze flickered over to the dresser, at its feet a blotch of wine on the carpet like a blood clot. (Once it hit your arteries, you could kiss your sorry ass goodbye.) Rebounding frantically, her eyes fell upon the nightstand by the bed, where Olivia's journal lay open, an ink pen in the gutter between pages. A single word was written at the top of the paper, a name cried out to the canyon of blank lines below:

Amanda,

On her forearm, Amanda's name blazed as if the tattoo were being re-etched into her skin. Probably the hot surge of adrenaline, she thought, unaware that she was thinking at all. Time had slowed to a crawl, and she saw the whole room thrown into bas-relief around her, each detail intricately carved, significant: the wine stain she'd caused by pinning Olivia against the dresser, loosing the deadly clot that had turned into a full-blown embolism; the phone whose vital signs weren't looking too promising either, and the little chip in the baseboard like a cleft lip; Gigi, sitting up fully on the bed now, gazing anxiously from one human to the other; Olivia's engagement ring, still on her finger, that bastard watch not far below (A little pretty for my city girl); Amanda's own name, written in Olivia's hand, but unsteadily, with nothing after it—an interrupted thought, an accusation. (A goodbye?)

She thought about the glass in the sink, which she hadn't broken; the sleeping woman before her, which she had. How much wine did Olivia consume to be so drunk she broke a glass and threw a phone? Amanda couldn't stop glancing around the room, until she finally realized she was searching not for answers but for a pill bottle. Capless, empty, dropped somewhere among the bedding or off the edge of the mattress.

She could've taken them in the bathroom, Amanda reasoned, not finding what she was looking for. That would be like Olivia—putting the bottle back into the medicine cabinet, not wanting to chance the dogs or the kids getting a hold of any stray pills. Thinking of others, even when she was about to . . .

Pills or not, the unfinished note scared Amanda the most. She could barely pry her eyes off it—that name, angled at her like a finger pointing blame—as she barked out, "Liv?" And again, louder, when she got no reply, not even a grumpy groan or a twitching eyelid: "Liv, wake up."

Not a sigh, nor that feeble sound she made sometimes, like a mewing kitten. (It would embarrass her to know she did that. Occasionally Amanda felt guilty for being so fond of it. What was it Olivia had said? Sometimes I think you like me a little broken.) The captain hadn't moved a muscle since Amanda sat down beside her. Gigi was whining.

"Liv. 'Livia." Amanda clambered to her knees on the mattress and rolled Olivia onto her back, throwing an arm out to block Gigi as the dog tried to nose between them. "Get," she said in the sternest tone she'd ever had to use on the golden. When Gigi persisted, she shoved the dog back and braced on hands and knees above Olivia's lifeless form.

"Don't do this to me, Liv," she heard herself say, and for a moment she couldn't tell if it was out loud or just a memory. But then, definitely out loud and definitely in the present: "Not again."

She felt for a pulse, found it quickly—good, strong. The breathing was harder to detect in such low light, with Gigi panting and pawing at the comforter. If Olivia's chest had moved at all in the past few minutes, Amanda didn't remember seeing it. She dipped in closer, turning a cheek to Olivia's faintly parted lips, hovering there like a dragonfly over still waters (He leadeth me beside—) thirsting, praying.

"Come on, baby, take a breath. Please."

And she did. Shallow and stunted, but a breath nonetheless.

Upon release, it grazed Amanda's cheek so lightly, she wasn't sure she'd actually felt it. She did smell it. More wine and vomit. But it was better than the alternative, and Amanda let out a choked breath of her own, unaware she had even been holding it in.

"Oh God, oh shit," she gasped, sitting back on her heels, needing something solid beneath her, because it felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the whole goddamn world. "Oh, thank God." Olivia's eyes were struggling open, lids gummy with sleep. They rolled around uselessly behind her fluttering lashes, showing glimpses of stark white that reminded Amanda of movies about demon possession. She didn't care if Olivia suddenly sat up, projectile vomited pea soup, and levitated above the bed—as long as she was alive.

But Olivia could barely pry herself from sleep, let alone levitate. She looked like she was slogging through a waist-high swamp just to reach consciousness, and she had started to sink under, the wet muck of dreams sucking her back down. Amanda took her by the shoulders for a tentative shake. "Liv, wake up."

Another, more insistent. "Hey. Come on. Up and at 'em."

And when that didn't work, Amanda bent forward and shook hard, lolling her fiancée's dark head on the pillow. "Olivia, you're scaring me, darlin'. Can you—"

Without warning, Olivia's eyes shot wide, her body whiplashing against the mattress when she saw Amanda looming above, hands clamped on her shoulders. "No! Get off me," she cried in a weak, sandpaper voice, as if she'd already been screaming for hours. Then, to Amanda's horror, the bold, fearless woman she loved so desperately crumpled into a ball on her side, weeping and hiding behind her hands. "Hurts. No more, please."

"Liv, it's me. It's 'Manda." And though she knew better, knew that it was best to give the captain space when she relived one of her traumas (Was this Lewis? He had hurt her the most, been with her the longest. That "no more" would haunt Amanda for the rest of—), her instincts to comfort and protect Olivia were stronger.

"He's not here, baby. C'mere and let me hold—"

As she tried to gather Olivia to her, something hard and tapered—an elbow, she realized too late—flew square into her face. No, her lower lip, more precisely. She felt the lip split against her bottom teeth, pain blooming there, blood blooming in her mouth. "Aw, fuggin' hell," she groaned, pressing her tongue to the gash on the inside, fingertips to the out. She was going to look like a punching bag tomorrow; she was going to look like her mother.

Somehow that thought bolstered her more than any other, and she went on soothing Olivia with renewed tenderness as she waited for the nightmare to pass.

. . .