trigger warning for this chapter: there is a mention of implied/referenced sexual assault.
Quick and Painful
All he had to do was fill her with the right amount of liquor and get her home. Then it was a simple case of having sex, pretending to care about all her mindless drivel, and suffering through the appropriate amount of pillow talk.
Finally, he could ask the questions that really mattered. And she barely noticed—the drunk slut was too intoxicated, too high on passion and good dick, too ready to pour her heart out. All he had to do was ask the right questions and pose them as peeks of his own underlying insecurity.
Bitches loved that shit, he knew. Being vulnerable. Acting damaged.
If this cunt had any actual idea…
He didn't need too many details. She told him just enough: the cabin out in the middle of nowhere, the vintage black motorcycle, the "really good Speed." How her career was on the line and she'd been resorting to lower and lower levels, the deep regret she felt because blah, blah, fucking blah.
So he'd been right in the first place. Which meant he needed to start planning. He needed to start preparing for his next move.
Yeah. All he had to do was plan, and be patient.
And maybe keep this bitch on the backburner. Just in case he could use her weaknesses to his advantage at some point.
Just in case she knew more than she was letting on…
Killing Merle wasn't nearly as satisfying as he thought it'd be. He was still left penniless, and he was no closer to that goddamn stash.
Somehow, Will Dixon was outsmarting him from beyond the grave. And that really fucking pissed him off.
He couldn't seem to find Daryl. Which was some shit, because in such a small town, he thought it would be easy. Yet that asshole had barely left any traces of his presence. And Merle was certainly no help—lying out of his ass, no doubt.
Daryl was alive. He was somewhere. Probably within Georgia state lines. Probably drowning in stacks of cash.
He wanted to kill Daryl, just like he'd killed Merle. He wanted to watch the light leave his eyes. He wanted to be the one to single-handedly end the Dixon bloodline, once and for all.
Just to spite that motherfucking Will. Double-crossing son of a bitch…
He'd found something interesting on Merle's phone, though: a few nude photos from months before. The tits looked familiar, and then he saw a corner of the face in one of the pictures.
Andrea.
He was glad he'd kept her on the backburner. All he had to do was call her up and invite her on a "real date" to get the answers he needed.
Surely, she knew more. The bitch was hiding something. He reckoned he could seduce it out of her.
Or maybe he'd have to scare it out of her.
He tried the seduction route first. Took her on a proper date, did all the necessary things to make himself seem like a real gentleman. He even went as far as to "invite" her to the upcoming Halloween party. It was a good show—acting interested, pretending to enjoy her company, making future plans that he had no real intention of going through with. Giving tiny snippets of truth here and there, just to reel her in. Like he actually gave a shit about her, or was interested in any sort of relationship. Like he actually intended on keeping her around any longer than was necessary.
She fell for it, of course. She was lonely and damaged, so he knew she would be an easy target.
But as it turned out, she was even more useless than he'd thought. She knew nothing about Merle's life, or his siblings, or where he might've hidden a large sum of money.
So he resorted to scaring the truth out of her. Yet even under intense scrutiny, she stuck to the same story.
Even under the threat of his fist, while he held her by the throat over the edge of her bed with his dick shoved between her clenched thighs—even at her most vulnerable, at a point where she had no choice but to tell the truth—all she did was sob and beg him to forgive her for not having the answers he was looking for.
He knew she wasn't lying. No woman would dare lie to him in that condition.
Pathetic, he thought. She was pathetic. And worse than that, she was useless.
He wasn't afraid that she would report him for anything. She was already in hot water, and by the time he left, he could tell she felt ashamed for ever letting him into her home to begin with. Besides, she didn't even know his real name. Who would she call? Who would take her seriously?
She'd keep this secret. He wouldn't have to kill her… though he kind of wished he had a reason to.
So this meant that he had two options left: Merle's dumbass drug dealer, and Merle's brother.
It was just a process of elimination.
The blackness seemed to spit Beth back out just as quickly as it had consumed her.
She hadn't even blinked. Her fingers were still wrapped around the matchbook. A shiver ran through her body, and her mind was reeling, trying to register all the new information it had just been bombarded with.
But she was still well aware of her surroundings, and her body continued to move as though it had never been interrupted. She turned and handed the matchbook to Daryl, and when he took it, their eyes met.
It was brief, but just long enough for his expression to show concern. She gave him a look that she hoped could be interpreted as, I just saw some shit.
He gave a curt nod of understanding, disguised as a nod of gratitude, before sparking a match and lighting up his cigarette. He gazed down at the matchbook thoughtfully.
Rick noticed the exchange, but Andrea's head was lowered—she'd pulled out her phone to check a notification. The sheriff cleared his throat to get her attention. She tucked her phone away and met his gaze.
"So," he drawled. "Ya think we should look around fer Freemason organizations—y'got no clue which one he might be in, though? He didn't mention any sorta details?"
Andrea was getting frustrated with the interrogation. She sighed and shook her head. "No. I'm sorry, Rick, but I don't have anything else that could help you. If I did, I'd happily tell you."
Daryl grunted, and Rick merely nodded in defeat.
Then she drained the last few sips of her beer and stood up. "Those shots went right through me. I'll be right back. Wanna order another round?"
"Sure," Rick agreed, though he was still nursing his first beer and hadn't touched his second tequila shot.
And then she was off towards the restroom.
As soon as Andrea was out of earshot, Beth leaned in towards Rick and Daryl.
"She's lying," she whispered.
Rick furrowed his brow. "You already saw somethin'?"
"But what from?" Daryl asked.
Beth gestured towards the matchbook. "From that. Philip gave it to her when he met her—and he got it from the cabin. He picked it up from the crime scene of Will's murder. I think Merle dropped it and the police missed it." Her eyes flicked towards the restroom door, and she spoke a little faster, "But he didn't know for sure that Merle was livin' out there till Andrea confirmed it. They hooked up before he killed Merle, but they didn't go on a real date until after. She's bein' real misleading about the timeline… Philip stalked the bar and got lucky by runnin' into the one woman Merle had been with, but then he found a picture of her in Merle's phone and came back to drill her for more information, 'cause he thought she knew something about Daryl or the money that she wasn't tellin' him."
"Shit," Rick breathed out in disbelief.
"What the fuck," Daryl muttered.
"Yeah," she agreed. "I think she's lying 'cause she feels bad. I think Philip… hurt her. Pretty bad."
"So here's yer chance," Daryl said.
She looked at him quizzically, but Rick seemed to be on the same wavelength.
"He's right," the sheriff urged. "Go in there an' corner her—try ta get the truth out of 'er."
"What—how?" Beth stammered.
"Yer a woman, she's a woman," Daryl said simply. "Jus' relate to her or whatever. Ain't it easier fer y'all ta become friends when yer in bar bathrooms?"
Rick nodded with enthusiastic agreement.
She sighed, but didn't argue. They had a point. If anyone was going to connect to Andrea on a human level and ease her into the place necessary to get more answers, it would be Beth.
She stood from her seat and began to walk away, but Daryl whispered loudly after her, "If that don't work—jus' touch her."
Beth stiffened and nodded back before walking on.
She had a feeling that using her Gift was the only chance left. Andrea might open up a bit more, but Beth didn't think the older woman could actively remember anything useful—she'd probably shoved all those details away somewhere that she didn't have to think about them, in all honesty. And that's where Beth's abilities would come in handy.
Well, she thought, approaching the door of the women's restroom and slowly pushing it open. I got some answers from the matchbook, and I did it on purpose. Not to mention, Papa Legba hasn't tried to trick me since I was inside Dale's head. And that must mean I'm not wandering too far. So maybe I can peek inside Andrea's memories without a hitch, too. I hope.
Then, stepping into the restroom and letting the door fall shut behind her, she thought, Okay, Andrea Harrison. Show me everything you know. Help me find The Governor. Let's make this as quick and painless as possible.
A second later, the toilet flushed. There was no one else inside the small, two-stall restroom. Beth hurried to the sink and turned on the water, pretending to check her makeup and then wash her hands.
Andrea emerged from the stall and paused, giving Beth an odd look before approaching the sink beside her.
"Sorry about Rick," Beth said, trying to sound casual and sympathetic. "He gets a little too determined sometimes."
Andrea scoffed and looked into the mirror, glaring at Beth through the reflection. "What is this—Good Cop, Bad Cop?" She shook her head and shut off the water, stepping over to pull out paper towels from a dispenser on the wall. "No offense, Beth, but I've been working with law enforcement for twenty years. I know all the little tricks."
Beth felt her face going red and quickly shut off the water in her own sink, stepping over to the other paper towel dispenser. "I'm not acop—I'm just stuck in Daryl's mess. I'm not tryin' to play tricks. It's not like I wanna be here."
Andrea's eyes flashed with intrigue, though her mouth was still set in a thin line. She tossed her used paper towels into the trash and paused. "Then why are you here?" She asked. "What're you, twenty-one? Maybe?"
Beth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I'm twenty-four. And I told you, I'm here as moral support for Daryl. We're friends."
Andrea quirked a brow. "Friends, huh?" She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head knowingly. "Hell, why would I expect any less from Merle's brother…"
"First of all, it's not like that—Daryl is nothin' like Merle," Beth insisted. "And second of all, Merle's part of the reason I'm here, too. I know you agree with Rick that he didn't deserve to be murdered. He might've been a piece of shit, but he never hurt anybody the way Philip hurts people."
Andrea appeared to already be preparing a response, but at Beth's last words, it promptly disappeared. Her face fell and she hugged herself a little tighter. Her tone grew defensive. "And what would you know about that, exactly?"
Beth softened. "A lot more than I ever wanted to."
Andrea's lips parted, and she was looking Beth up and down with a whole new expression of question and concern.
Beth really, really hoped that Andrea wouldn't ask how or why. Because she couldn't lie at this moment. She wasn't going to pretend to be a victim of The Governor. However, if Andrea decided to make that assumption on her own, without speaking it…
If that's what it took to get inside the judge's head, then Beth would let her think whatever she wanted.
"Well, I wasn't lying," Andrea said. Her voice was much softer, and her eyes were watery. "I told you guys everything I can remember. All the other details… have nothing to do with Merle. But everything to do with me."
Beth nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry… for whatever he did to you. Fer what it's worth."
Andrea shrugged indifferently and straightened her back. "Live and learn, right?"
Beth frowned. She had nothing to say.
"From one woman to another, though?" Andrea lowered her voice and looked at Beth very seriously. "Don't go getting yourself involved with a Dixon. It's true what they say—the whole family is bad news. Nothing but trouble."
Beth stiffened and nearly snapped back, but she stopped herself. She put on a forced smile and said, "Daryl's really not so bad, but—"
"You may not think that right now," Andrea interrupted. "But trust me, sweetheart. When you get to be my age, you can spot trouble from a mile away."
Beth chuckled awkwardly, biting her tongue. "You're not even that old."
Andrea laughed and turned towards the door. "Cute, but you don't have to lie to me."
Beth quickly moved to follow, reminding herself that this was her last chance. It was now or never.
"Oh, wait—there's somethin' on the back of your shirt."
Andrea stopped and craned her head around. "What? There is? Where?"
Beth stepped forward and reached out—inside her head, she was repeatedly asking the same questions from before, as well as reminding herself IntentPurposeControl—and lied, "I think it's dust. Here, I'll brush it off."
Then she placed her palm flat upon Andrea's right shoulder blade.
First, she felt the warmth of the other woman's skin through her shirt. But that quickly faded, replaced with the sensation of… absolutely nothing.
Show me what you know. Intent. Purpose. Control.
The women's restroom inside the bar disappeared, immediately replaced with blackness.
Beth eagerly let it consume her.
When she opened her eyes, she was exactly where she wanted to be: inside Andrea's memories.
There was no elevator, no cliff's edge to leap from, no deep dark woods. Nothing except the moment she'd been thrust into, watching from a third-person perspective, and listening to Andrea's inner thoughts. All while a tugging sensation tingled within her core.
She thought to herself, Yes. Show me why, and how, and give me the details—but not too many. I don't need your darkest secrets, I just need everything you know about Philip Blake.
Then Beth stood in silence and watched it all play out before her.
Andrea was sitting at her desk inside her office, sorting through a pile of paperwork and scribbling signatures here and there. The analog clock on the wall read 3:33. The phone sitting on the corner of her desk crackled, and a voice emitted from the speaker.
"Ma'am, your mother's on line one. She sounds pretty distraught—she says it's an emergency."
Andrea dropped all the papers in her hand and snapped, "Well put her through, what're you waiting for?"
A second later, the phone rang, and she snatched it up. She put the handpiece to her ear, but she barely had the chance to say, "Mom?"
Her mother's voice was frantic and screeching, choked by sobs, gasping for breath between words. "Andrea! Terry and Amy—they're… oh, God, Andrea! They're-they're gone! Oh, Andrea, they're gone!"
Andrea's face went pale. "What? Mom, what are you saying?!"
"They're DEAD, Andrea! They're dead! They-they went fishin' this morning, and—oh, Jesus Christ! I-I can't… they got in a car accident, baby. On their way back. A-a semi truck—sweet mother of God, I-I just… They were dead on arrival. Oh, my fucking God! Get down here, Andrea! Please! We're at the hospital, I can't…"
The rest of her words turned to static. Andrea could no longer comprehend anything. The phone fell from her hand and landed on the desk with a clatter.
She thought she might pass out, or throw up, or both. She—
Before it could go any further, Beth forced herself to take a step back.
No, she thought. No, no, no. This isn't relevant. I don't need to see this. I won't stay here and watch this. I can't.
She slammed her eyes shut and chanted the mantra wordlessly: Intent. Purpose. Control. Intent. Purpose…
When she opened her eyes, the scene before her was changing. And then everything around her was flashing by. She was briefly reminded of one of the old toys her daddy had given her when she was little: the View-Master. She could slide in little reels of photographs and put her eyes against the viewer, like she was peering through binoculars, and see a dozen different images as she clicked through the reel.
That's what this was like—like she was looking through a View-Master and clicking the button as fast as she could, until all the images and colors blurred together and raced past her eyes.
It stopped randomly. Or so it seemed. Beth tried to grab the reins, tried to navigate her way through Andrea's memories without actually moving. She knew the tentacle-vines were writhing somewhere in her core, but she paid them no mind.
She caught glimpses of certain memories as they flashed by; heard snippets of conversations and inner thoughts.
She knew that Andrea had nearly drowned in her own grief after the loss of her father and only sibling. She knew that Andrea's mother attempted suicide at least once, and had subsequently been sent to stay at an Assisted Living center. She knew that Andrea had started relying on the pills her psychiatrist and doctor had prescribed, and then that reliance had turned into full-blown abuse and addiction. She knew that Andrea tried to bury herself in work, but it didn't make anything better. She knew that Andrea had begun frequenting the bar, drinking herself blind nearly every night, snorting and smoking whatever drugs she could get her hands on, and sleeping with more men over a span of nine months than she had in the last nine years—and still, none of it lessened her suffering.
She knew that Andrea was still in the throes of addiction and bad decisions, and that she was searching for an escape at every turn. She knew that Andrea felt completely and utterly alone.
And then "Brian" came along.
This time, when the memory began to flash by, Beth willed it to stop. And it did.
She listened closely, watching even closer.
Intent. Purpose. Control.
Andrea was halfway through her arugula salad and her first glass of wine. Philip—or Brian—sat across from her, and he had the same wine and salad set before him, but he'd barely touched either. His attention was completely focused on her, enthralled with their conversation.
"So you really believe in that kinda stuff?" She asked.
Brian chuckled. "The Masonic Lodge is made up of highly-esteemed individuals. What is there ta not believe in?"
She shrugged, a smirk on her lips. "I mean, no offense, but it's the Freemasons. They've got some—er, odd traditions. A rich history, if you will."
He chuckled again, shaking his head. "I can assure you, not everything you've heard is true."
"That's fair," she admitted. "But if you ask me, when it comes down to it, they're nothing more than a bunch of rich snobs."
At that, he laughed. "Well," he said, grinning across the table at her. "If I were ever as rich as some'a them, I'd probably be a snob, too."
She couldn't help but blush. The way he looked at her, the pearly-white flash of his smile, the drawl of his soothing southern accent… She wanted to melt in her seat.
Clearly, he was ambitious. And she liked that. She really liked it.
"Okay," she conceded, her smirk turning into a full-fledged smile. "When's the party? You said costumes are required?"
Brian nodded and set down his fork to reach into one of the inside pockets of his blazer. "Ya got a costume?" He drawled as he extracted a folded-up flier. "Maybe somethin' a little risqué…?"
Andrea chuckled. "Yeah, I think I can come up with something." She tried not to visibly squirm in her seat.
He unfolded the flier and handed it across the table. Andrea took it and gazed down at the photocopied image and the Microsoft Word lettering:
'You are cordially invited to attend the
Buckhead Masonic Lodge Annual Halloween Bash
at 7pm on Friday the 25th of October.
Located at The Wiltshire Estate.
Masquerade Attire Required For Entry.'
At the very bottom of the flier, in tiny print and what appeared to be nothing more than a watermark, it read:
'albatross'
She gave the flier one last glance before handing it back to Brian. He folded it up and tucked it back inside his blazer.
"You said costume, but you didn't specify masquerade," she said. "That's an entirely different level." She took a sip of wine and eyed him with playful flirtation.
He winked and took a sip from his nearly-full wine glass. Then he drawled, "The rich snob's version of a costume party, wouldn'tcha say?"
She laughed. "And what kind of organization is this, Brian? The kind that requires its members to wear masks to its gatherings? Seems a little mysterious—a little odd."
Brian shrugged, still smiling. "What's life without a little odd every now an' then, darlin'? Lord only knows what ya could learn from folks like that." Then he deepened his gaze and leaned forward just the slightest bit, lowering his voice. "But we can plot out our future later. Plenty'a time fer that. First, let's get back ta talkin' about you—where were we? I think you were tellin' me about those fishing trips with your dad."
Everything about him made Andrea believe he was genuine.
Brian Blake was different. And that's exactly what she needed.
Beth didn't allow herself to linger for the rest of Andrea's memory of the date with "Brian."
She'd already heard more than enough about it from his inner thoughts. She had no desire to see the grisly details.
As the memory flashed by, she closed her eyes. Just in case.
And she only opened them once his voice was completely absent. Once the tugging within her core grew a little stronger, and the sound of Andrea's thoughts became a little louder.
And she watched, listening closely.
The clock in Andrea's office read 4:34, and the tear-away calendar atop her desk said Tuesday, October 1st.
She was sitting at her desk, going over a stack of paperwork. Beneath her pants suit was a series of bruises that were still healing and tender to the touch. Luckily, the finger impressions around her throat had faded within a day.
Unfortunately, the memory of that night would never fade from her memory.
She should've drank more. Maybe if she'd been more drunk, she wouldn't remember so much. Maybe she would've had the correct answers, or been sly enough to distract him.
No use in the what if's, though. She knew that better than anyone. She was a very busy woman, so it wasn't difficult to keep her mind off it. She blocked his number, cleansed herself of any remnants of his presence, and moved on. It was nothing difficult. She had plenty of reasons to move on without a second thought. She'd done it before, with all kinds of men.
Yet she'd kept trying. And where had that gotten her?
No more, she decided. She'd never be put in that position again.
Now, she had more reasons than ever to stay away from men. The only good man she'd ever known was dead—her father. She would never trust a member of the male species again. Of that much, she was certain.
Brain Blake had cemented that lesson into her head very well.
Yet she couldn't stop thinking about him, wondering how it could've gone differently, asking herself if she'd done something wrong…
Nonetheless, she'd never speak of him to anyone. She was too ashamed. She'd made enough bad decisions since losing her dad and Amy, she didn't need to rack this one up as well. It would just be another red mark on her otherwise clean record. Besides, who would listen? Considering her recent indiscretions, her blatantly obvious addiction problems, and the career guillotine hovering threateningly over her head?
Andrea was certain that no one would believe her anyway.
Her phone rang. She stopped and set her pen down, glancing at the phone warily. Then she picked it up.
"Judge Harrison," she greeted.
"Yes, this is Officer Carrolson," a male voice responded.
"Oh, hello Officer Carrolson," Andrea said. A face began to form in her head as she tried to remember which officer she was speaking to—oh, that's right. Carrolson with the Atlanta PD. The one in charge of Merle's case. "What can I do for you? Did Merle get arrested before his court date again?"
Carrolson made a sound of hesitation, then he said, "Um, kinda the opposite… actually…"
Andrea frowned to herself. "How so?"
"Merle Dixon is deceased, ma'am. I was just callin' ta let you know to shelf his case. 'S no more'an paperwork now."
Normally, she would've taken this news in stride. It wasn't the first time she'd had a defendant, or plaintiff, pass away before they could attend her courtroom. But hearing that Merle Dixon was dead made her heart drop down to the pit of her stomach. It sent cold chills through her body.
It filled her with a sense of utter dread.
Was it because she'd gotten physically involved with him? No, actually. It had nothing to do with that. It was…
Fuck.
She cleared her throat and tried to maintain a steady and professional tone of voice. "Thank you for informing me, Officer Carrolson. Um, may I ask… how he passed?"
Carrolson replied indifferently, "Suicide. The report I got claims they found him hangin' from his bedroom ceiling about five days ago. Homemade noose an' what-have-ya."
A knot formed in Andrea's throat, but she swallowed past it. "How tragic."
"Eh, if you say so," Carrolson remarked. "I mean, between you an' me—he's one less problem ta worry about. I reckon that was the most peaceful way somebody like him could've gone out."
"Did he leave a note? And how long had he been there before they found him?" She asked. She tried to make it sound professional, like it was no more than a sense of curiosity. It wasn't like discussing these types of things were out of the ordinary for people within her and Officer Carrolson's professions.
He 'hmm'ed softly. Then he said, "Nah, there wasn't any suicide note ta be found. An' I'm not sure how long he was actually hangin' there. From the looks of the report, I'd say maybe a few days. But y'know how it is… sometimes it takes weeks fer anybody ta go checkin' on folks like that. I didn't get sent no autopsy reports though, so I really can't say."
"Right," Andrea said. "Okay, well—I'll get those papers taken care of. Thank you for the call, Officer Carrolson."
"Sure thing," Carrolson said. "I'm sure I'll be talkin' to ya again soon, Miss Harrison."
"I don't doubt it. Bye now," Andrea said, and quickly hung up the phone.
As soon as she'd set the receiver back into its cradle, she turned to her computer. The first thing she did was click on the Calendar.
She viewed the last two weeks. She clicked the marked day where she'd set an appointment that read: '7pm Date.' And then she counted the days between Merle's alleged date of demise.
If Officer Carrolson was correct, then Merle had been killed… less than two days before Andrea's date with Brian.
Her stomach churned. Acid was rising in her esophagus, slowly finding its way up to her throat. A thousand wretched thoughts were racing through her mind, and all of them told her she'd opened her legs for a murderer.
Jesus Christ. How low had she stooped? And she'd thought the bruises round her neck were bad. But this? This was something awful on an entirely different level.
Was Brian the killer? Was he drilling her for information about Merle because he knew something? Because he knew about her connection to Dixon? Because he thought she'd give him whatever he'd been looking for from Merle?
How close had she come to being murdered, as well?
She'd thought he was different. He'd been so kind. So welcoming. He'd listened to everything she said—really listened. He'd comforted her while she recalled the loss of half her family, and he'd reassured her while she spoke regretfully about her mother. He'd told her things about himself, and tried to relate to her emotions when he could. He'd made every guy she'd been on a date with in the last five years look like complete idiots. He'd done everything right.
She'd thought he was nice, polite, chivalrous, warm…
Until he wasn't. Until he was holding her by the throat over the edge of her bed and—
She'd been wrong. Obviously. She just hadn't imagined that she'd been this wrong.
A killer? Him?
And why? What was he looking for that only Merle Dixon had? What the hell kind of motive could he have had?
She opened an internet browser and began to search the name Brian Blake. She searched on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and every other social media or networking site she could possibly think of. She even did a general Google search. Yet all she found were dead-end results. A dead guy, another dead guy, some Instagram model, a YouTube musician… But none of them were the Brian Blake she'd gone on a date with. The Brian Blake who claimed to be from Alabama, the Brian Blake who claimed to be part of a Masonic Lodge, the Brian Blake who made future plans with her and told her she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.
The Brian Blake who'd mentally, emotionally, and physically assaulted her inside her own home.
She closed out of all the windows on her computer and shoved herself back from the desk, then she stood up, breathing heavily. She wasn't sure why, but she felt panicked. She felt… she felt…
She felt like an accomplice to murder.
Had she helped "Brian Blake" track Merle Dixon down and murder him? The Honorable Judge Andrea Harrison? Had she contributed to a (mostly) innocent man's death?
She walked over to the large window in her office, pulled the shades back, and gazed out at the skyline. She peered through the glass at the people strolling down the sidewalks. And she thought about Merle. She thought about Brian.
But most of all, she thought of what had brought her to this point: Amy. Their dad. The horrific accident that had ripped them away from her. The pain that had burrowed its way in—like some kind of parasite—and settled deep within her lungs.
Every breath she took was painful. Every beat of her heart felt wrong; it felt undeserved, it felt stolen.
She stood silently and gazed blankly out at the city before her. She remembered what her therapist had told her several months ago:
"The pain doesn't go away. You just make room for it."
She'd tried. But she couldn't help wondering… in the process, had she unintentionally made room for someone like Brian Blake?
Had she taken part in his mortal sins just because she'd been too swallowed up in her own grief?
Did Merle Dixon really deserve to die? Whether it was murder or suicide?
Andrea didn't think so. But then again… she couldn't trust her own instincts anymore.
She decided to keep it to herself. For now.
What were the chances that Brian would go on to hurt others like he'd hurt her? And even if he did, how was that her problem? He obviously hadn't left any evidence behind. What were the odds that anyone would suspect Merle's death as anything other than what it had been reported? He'd left no note, and not a single soul knew about their little tryst. And as awful as it was to think, it was true that he had a reputation, and suicide was nothing less than expected of someone like him. Why would anyone ever go looking further?
They wouldn't. She was sure. Brian was a bad memory that she was going to shove away and forget about.
Although, she was the type to always have a back-up plan of some sort. She was always prepared for the worst-case scenario. No matter how unlikely it may be.
If things got too bad, too dark, too deep—if someone traced all this back to her, if they tried to slander her name, strip away her title, and demolish all the hard work she'd done over the last twenty years… well, then she'd lie.
She'd lie her fucking ass off. She'd use the good old, tried-and-true fashion of deny, deny, deny.
And if that didn't work, she'd be left with nothing. Her career—her title, the respect she'd earned in the courtroom—was literally all she had left. So if that was taken away, it would mean only one thing.
She'd have to go. She'd have to leave this world, and finally join her sister and father. Maybe she'd take her mom along with her. Spend a nice day at the beach and just walk out into the ocean together as the sun began to set. Who knew.
Either way… she'd never admit to anyone what part she took in Merle Dixon's murder, or "Brian Blake's" existence. Never. She refused to partake in the ruin of her own reputation.
She refused to partake in the ruin of her own conscience.
She'd rather die first.
to be continued…
