Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy, Fox and anyone else who holds rights to the show.
The note was short. It read:
I'm sorry but the world would be better off without me.
"So what do you think?" Detective Noah Puckerman asked, squinting up at his partner to shield his eyes from the scorching sun. It was mid-July, the pinnacle of summer, and he hated the freaking weather. At least while he was here at work.
Summer weekends, Puck thought, were best spent on the beach. That was where you would find the biggest congregation of hot girls in their lovely bikinis, their long toned bodies stretched out on the sand, their bosom peeking out from behind their swimwear. If not, they would be strutting along the sea or playing beach volleyball with their horde of girlfriends. But that was not the point. The point was that at the beach, there would be eye candy. Lots of eye candy. Not to mention, there would be beer. Lots of beer. And food. Finn, the resident glutton, always made sure there was enough for everyone.
He sighed. Here at work, all these thoughts were but mere dreams. Faraway dreams. Currently, Puck's summer Saturday wasn't looking so good. He didn't exactly have the best company, definitely not the company that he had planned on having. Instead of goggling at pretty girls with his best pals as previously planned, he was stuck at work, crouched down next to a corpse.
Sure, Kitty Wilde had been pretty once, but he doubted anything, or anyone, could still stay pretty after falling off a 19-storey building. He grimaced, both at the bloody mess of brains and bones in front of him and at the insensitive thought he had planted in his mind.
"I think the killer is extremely inexperienced and stupid if he or she thinks that we would fall for that shit and conclude that this is suicide. I'm not sure if I should be insulted," Detective Santana Lopez sniffed, her gaze unwavering as she stared down at the mess on the sidewalk that had already sent one newbie scampering off to throw up his breakfast.
Puck grinned up at his partner. Now, here was a sight more pleasing to the eye. With smooth caramel skin, sultry eyes, slashing cheekbones, a high nose and full lips, Santana was the poster girl for "sexy Latina".
Although his partner was dressed in a white, practical, buttoned-down shirt paired with black pants and sneakers, there was nothing about her that oozed masculinity. In fact, Puck knew that underneath that white shirt lay a very magnificent bosom and some very lady-like curves.
Unfortunately, he thought with a shake of his head, he had seen too many guys get their asses kicked for thinking that his partner was nothing more than a pretty face and a hot body. That girl had a hell of an attitude, something which he loved but sometimes wanted to strangle her for, depending on the situation. That, and Santana didn't generally like guys, not in that way at least. You see, Santana Lopez was a lady-lover. A big, big lady-lover, which was in his opinion, a great pity for all the guys out there.
But oh well, that was life. Life was unfair, which explained why he was stuck here with a battered corpse instead of being out on the beach where he should be.
"We detectives have to learn to be more magnanimous at heart. No point feeling insulted," he turned back to the body and sulked, "Though I can't be as big-hearted about giving up my Saturday."
Santana laughed and kicked him lightly in the rear, "Oh yeah, someone was supposed to have a babe-ogling thing at the beach today yeah? I almost forgot that, a miracle considering how absurdly unforgettable the idea is."
Puck spun around to shoot her a look of pity, "You just don't know how to have fun. At least I go out and have fun with my friends. Oh wait, you don't have friends," he scoffed.
She kicked him again, this time hard enough for him to yelp, "Ha ha very funny. Come on, let's get started. The faster we finish this, the faster we end."
"And then what?" Puck stretched and yawned, "We get another case and my Saturday is gone again."
"Still not giving up on the Saturday," Santana smacked him on the back of his head and crouched down to his level.
They had been friends since their Academy days and she dared say she knew him well. While Puck could have a big mouth, he had a bigger heart. He also had passion for his job. Sometimes, he complained when he was tired but he always, always did his job and she knew he would not rest until justice was sought for the dead. He was also someone she knew could cover her back during a mission. That was why she liked him - for his guts, his loyalty and his sense of justice.
She sighed, knowing what she was about to do and hoping she would not regret it later on when she had to break the bad news to the victim's parents. Puck had always been the people person of the duo. He always knew the right words to say, the right thing to do to calm someone down and make them feel better.
"You know what, this case is easy-peasy. I can handle this myself. You can go hang out with your pals at the beach, which for your information, is going to be hot as hell. But go ahead, burn yourself black, I don't care."
She saw his eyes light up in surprise and hope, and sniggered to herself, making sure she blocked her smile with her hand. When he made to speak, she stopped him before he could get a word out, "Before you say anything, I just want to warn you that I'm a fickle-minded person. So if you pretend you don't want to go and..."
He shut his mouth immediately, mimed zipping his lips and pulled her in for a quick, hard but casual kiss on the lips, his mouth already curved up into a wide grin, "Hell I want to go. I do! I owe you babe! I'm going! I'm gone! I'm already ogling at the girls! Call me if you need anything!" he added as he retreated quickly backwards to his car before she could hit him for the kiss.
She watched as he flounced off, snorted when he tripped over his own feet, then felt her smile fade when she turned back towards the body.
"Kitty Wilde, 21 years old. Student in NYADA. Rich kid," she added to herself as she flipped through the deceased's Prada wallet for information, "Now, why would a rich kid like you want to take your own life? You looked happy."
She tapped her chin as she studied the unfortunate girl before her. Branded clothes of the girly sort. Shoes from Alexander McQueen. Bag from Chanel.
She pushed open the bag with a gloved finger and frowned, "Now, why would you have brought your textbooks along with if you had wanted to commit suicide? Hell, why would anyone even carry books in a Chanel handbag?"
She shook her head in disgust and pity as she pushed herself up. "Brett!" she called out to the cop who had thrown up at the grisly sight.
She walked towards the uniform, dumping and sealing the stained gloves in a Ziploc before thrashing it. She was careful to keep a safe distance from Brett. He still looked green and clammy, and she sure as hell did not want any puke on her shirt.
"First jumper?" she nodded curtly to him.
"First death," he croaked out as he wiped his face with a wet towel Santana had been kind enough to pass to him. She remembered how she had felt when she had seen her first death.
"Ah that explains it. Well doesn't matter. The more gruesome it is, the faster you get used to it," she patted the young man's shoulder, noted that he had started trembling and concluded that he would not make it to the homicide department anytime soon. Or at all.
"I want you to go back to the office, find out who the girl's close friends are and interview them. Find out who her enemies are, whether she has any ex-boyfriends, the usual. Get Spencer and Myer to help you. Anything jumps out, call me. I'll meet you guys after I speak to the parents. Can you do that?"
She watched as he walked away somewhat halfheartedly. Looked like this one wouldn't be staying with the police for long.
"As for you," she glanced at the uniform's nametag and read it out slowly, "Ryder Lynn, you're with me," he immediately snapped to attention at her approach.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered lad, rather handsome and fit looking. She approved and was glad to note that this one didn't look green or shaken. She didn't think she could handle another officer throwing up. Furthermore, she had just cleaned her sedan the week before.
"Where are we going Detective," a bright-eyed Ryder asked as he yanked on his seatbelt.
And of course, he was that kind of rookie. The happy, sunshine type that would exhaust her before half the day was even over.
Santana sighed as she set off. She never quite knew how to handle over-excited people, which was ironic considering how excitable her two best friends were, "We're going to break the news to the deceased's parents."
The light went out of the boy's eyes, but only slightly.
"Yep. Unfortunately, there's a lot more to police work then just nabbing the murderers. Catching them is the easy part."
"Easy? Wow! If you think it's easy, then what they say about you must be true! You must be one of the best the department has ever enlisted!"
She frowned, "That wasn't what I meant." Was there such talk? She had never heard of it. She just wanted to do her job. "What I meant was that... Never mind. You'll understand later."
She horned impatiently at a cab that suddenly swerved into her lane, sped up as she neared an amber light and beat it just before the light turned red. When she saw Ryder clutching at his seatbelt like a lifeline, she smirked, "Is there also talk that I'm a reckless driver?"
"Oh no, no. There wasn't anything bad. We weren't talking behind your back. We were just asking around, you know? Asking our officers which detectives would be good to work under and your name just came up. It was nothing bad at all. Honest! Many of the officers think you're really pretty!" he blushed bright red when he realised what he had just blurted out and turned quickly to face the front.
Hmmm. Interesting. She hid her smile when he extracted a piece of tissue to swipe at the sweat that had gathered at his brow, "Ryder, am I making you nervous?" she let her voice go low and husky, then barked out a laugh when he gulped nervously. Men were so easy.
She turned on the radio and started whistling. Maybe the day wouldn't be such a depressing one after all.
"What do you mean you need her for another 3 months?" Quinn blasted into the phone, her usually calm manner replaced by a rare icy storm many of her friends did not know she was capable of, "I told you specifically that you can only have her for 3! Now you want 6?"
She listened impatiently as the caller rambled on about shoot delays, problems on set, things she was basically not interested in hearing, "Artie, Artie, hold up. I don't care what your problems are. A contract is a contract. We agreed specifically on three months. I was worried about the schedule but you assured me that your team would be able to finish the drama in that short span of time."
"Second," she cut in quickly when Artie made a sound, "I told you, again specifically, that my girl has a line of upcoming jobs in the next few months after shooting of the drama ends in July – her return to Broadway, adverts, promotions, magazine shoots. Those have been planned ages ago. I can't possibly push them away now!" she rubbed the bridge of her nose in frustration. This was ridiculous. How irresponsible could the producer be.
She huffed as the producer explained things desperately to her, then threw herself back down onto her chair. Wearing out the carpet with her constant pacing definitely would not help in picking her day up.
"Fine, fine. I don't see that we have any other choice. Asking Rachel to ditch this job midway would be unfair to her after all," she sighed, "But you can only have her after," she paused to flip the calendar on the table, "After the 11th of August."
As expected, that information had Artie flipping out. She pulled her mobile phone away from her ear for a moment, rolled her eyes, took a deep calming breath and brought it back to her ear, "I don't have to remind you, Artie, that I'm already doing you a favour. Most of Rachel's jobs should end by then. After which, I'll give you her schedule for the following months."
She sighed as she studied her star's schedule, "I'm going to work her to death. She's going to give me hell on this one. You owe me Artie," she grumbled, before ending the call.
When she did, she could only stare into space. She needed a time-off. There was so much work to be done. Taking over her father's company was definitely more work than she had originally thought it would be but she would see it through. It was the only way she could prove herself to her father and to all the people around her.
She pushed herself upright and looked grimly at her star's schedule. Photo and magazine shoots, advertisements, endorsements, promotions, autograph sessions, not to mention preparations for her return to Broadway. How the hell was she supposed to fit it into 2 short months. More importantly, how the hell was Rachel Berry supposed to manage all that. She sighed and flopped back against her chair. On second thoughts, she would take that five-minute rest.
It wasn't that she was lazy. Contrary to that, anyone who had worked with Quinn Fabray would argue that the businesswoman was a hardworking professional with grit. Some would even term her a workaholic. She was responsible, capable and efficient. What she was not was a pushover and someone who tolerated incompetency.
She had not been brought up that way. Russell Fabray expected perfection and would tolerate nothing less. With her father, there was no such thing as exceeding expectations. There was only meeting or failing expectations.
People had talked of course. People always did. They had talked when she had first taken over the company two years ago, and they continued to talk now, two years later, even after she had shown them results.
It hurt, always being seen as a rich man's daughter with connections but she would be damned if she let it get to her. So she pushed down the hurt, clamped down the bubbling resentment and worked her butt off. She would prove to her father, the unbelievers, the haters that she could be more than just Russell Fabray's daughter. She would be known as Quinn Fabray, her own person.
"Rachel, my office please."
She leaned back against the soft leather of the chair, closed her eyes and swiveled about as she waited for the singer/actress to arrive. Rachel wasn't the type to complain. Usually. She was the type who would heap everything on her back and finish the marathon without any gripe. That was one of the reasons Quinn had handpicked Rachel to bring to the top. But this period wasn't usual for her, not when her... A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she said as she pushed himself upright and rested her chin on her clasped hands, "Good morning Rachel. You look tired," Quinn noted with concern as she eyed the pretty lass before her. Her step was missing its usual skip and her eyes were shadowed. Worse, she looked worried and a little sad, "You okay?"
Rachel smiled weakly at her as she slumped into her seat, "I was up all night at the hospital. My dad had a bad night. He's better now though," she added quickly when she saw Quinn's look of concern. Apart from being her boss, Quinn was a friend. A longtime friend in fact, since they had both attended the same High School.
"So what's up?"
Seeing that Rachel clearly didn't want to talk about her dad's health, Quinn let it slide. Work was always a comfortable topic for the both of them. "Artie called. They need you for another three months for -"
Rachel's eyes widened and she sat upright, "3 months?! Quinn! I've projects lined up all the way till the end of September!"
Quinn raised up both her hands, palms out to calm the petite girl down, "Yes Rachel. I'm aware and I've told Artie that. But we'll be able to work around your schedule. The moment I update that, I'll email it to you."
"Quinn, I know what that means," colour had returned to Rachel's cheeks but the red tinge was caused by temper, "I'm going to be worked to death!"
Quinn nodded and looked at her friend with sympathy, "Yes and so would I."
"You don't have a sick father to tend to!" Rachel shot back, "How am I going to visit him daily if I'm swamped with work?"
This was the tricky part. Quinn could empathise with Rachel. She honestly could but she had a company to manage and a reputation to maintain. Not just hers, but Rachel's as well and she knew exactly how hard Rachel had worked to get to where she was today.
"Put yourself in my shoe, just for a second. Try, for me. Please," she added when Rachel's eyes flashed. The brunette glared at her for a while then closed her eyes. She was calming down. The storm had passed, "Your father will understand. He knows you care."
Rachel sighed and slumped back against her chair, "Yes I know he is aware I care but I want to spend more time with him," she bit her lip and looked down, "I don't think he has much time left."
Quinn blinked, got up, went over to her friend and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry to hear that."
She watched Rachel carefully as the singer struggled with herself and with her feelings.
Finally, Rachel nodded and reached over to place a manicured hand over hers, "Thanks Quinn. Okay, I'm okay. I'm sorry I yelled at you. You're a good friend and a good boss. You're just doing your job. I should do mine too."
"I'll do my best with the schedule. Your dad will love the drama. You're a real brat in there," Quinn grinned.
As expected, Rachel laughed, "Yes. He loves comedies. I'm sure it'll make him laugh."
I only hope that he'll still be around to watch the broadcast.
That was left unsaid.
After Rachel had left, Quinn buried herself in the mountain of work that was piled up on her desk. There were contracts to be written up, sent out, production schedules to be done up, call sheets and budgets to be planned, sponsors to be found etc. It was already giving her a headache.
When her mobile rang, she didn't bother giving it a glance before picking it up with a distracted, "Yeah?"
But when Quinn heard her aunt's devastated voice, her head snapped up and her eyes widened with shock and grief.
Her cousin was dead.
Santana heard the screaming even before she had reached the third floor, and she lived on the fifth storey.
She had been half asleep then but at the piercing sound, her eyes sprung open. Her hand reached automatically for the police-issued pistol at her hip as she sprinted up the last two flights of stairs. When she reached the top, she blinked for a few moments and removed her hand from the barrel of the gun.
"Shit," she recognised those voices. And where they were coming from.
Her brain registered words like "slut", "whore", "bitch" as she dashed over the corridor and skidded to a halt when she came to her apartment. There, she kicked off her boots and left them haphazardly on the floor outside. She didn't even have to open the main door; it was already wide open.
The once plush living room was strewn with tossed cushions, broken glassware, shoved magazines and newspapers. She closed the door behind her to shut out the noise and figured the only reason why the neighbours weren't peering from outside the door was because they thought the screams were probably made from fighting cats. She rushed over to her housemate's room where the fight was taking place, and there, could only goggle at what was happening before her.
"Fuck me," she mumbled as she simply stared.
Brittany and her sister, Ashley, were engaged in war. They looked like they were about to tear each other's throats out. In fact, one of them was in the process of doing just that.
Ashley had her hands squeezed over her sister's slender neck while the latter had one fist plunged into the younger's stomach. The other hand was fisted over Ashley's hair. When that hand tugged brutally, Santana winced. Catfights were always mean and painful. She would know; she had been involved in enough of them to last her a lifetime.
"Okay, that's enough," Santana shouted when Brittany pulled again, "Break it up already!"
She ran over to pull the two women apart and for the kind gesture, received an elbow to the chin and a backhand across the eye, "CUT IT OUT! What the fuck is wrong with the both of you," she yelled angrily as she pulled a kicking and scratching Ashley away from her sister.
"You ask that whore!" Ashley spat at Brittany as she struggled against Santana's vice- like grip.
Brittany gave a wrangled cry at the insult and flew towards Ashley, her claws stretched out. But Santana moved between the both of them with a simple sidestep, "I will hit you if you scratch and disfigure me with those nails. Even if it's an accident."
Brittany immediately stopped in her tracks and glared at Santana, then her sister, "I let you call me that once but you watch your tongue. And your face if you want to keep your looks!"
Ashley glared right back, her face twisted into an angry snarl as she spat the word out again, "Whore!"
At that expected provocation, Brittany resumed her charge, ignoring Santana's sputtering protests and threats. Seeing no other way out, the detective dragged a screaming Ashley out of the room, bodily threw her out, then slammed and locked the bedroom door shut before the younger girl could push her way back in.
"TIME OUT!" she yelled through the wooden door as she shoved back her long hair. She blew out a big breath and sat herself down on the floor, ignoring the vigorous hammers and pounds on the door.
"You too," she told her best friend when Brittany made to stomp towards the door. Even if Brittany wanted to, her friend would have to get pass her, she thought as the door shuddered violently behind her.
Now that she had both hands free and was no longer under siege, she had time to look, actually look at her best friend. The dancer's usually immaculate appearance was marred. Her blonde tresses were tangled, her make up devastated by angry tears, her clothes rumpled and torn at one shoulder. Scratches marked that bare shoulder, while an angry red patch imprinted on Brittany's right cheek was proof that slaps had been exchanged.
A gurgle of laughter bubbled up Santana's throat and she swallowed deliberately to keep it down, "I can't help but say this Britt but you look like crap."
Brittany opened her mouth to retort but was interrupted by an especially hard kick to the door that had Santana jerking up from her position, "I HATE YOU! BOTH YOU AND HIM! FUCK YOU BOTH FOR PLAYING ME!"
The slam of the front door was heard shortly, marking the departure of one angry sister.
Santana brows flew up, "Do I want to know what happened?"
Brittany threw her hands up in the air, spun her back towards Santana and flung herself across her king-sized bed. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!' she screamed into a fat pillow and pounded her frustration into it. The tears came in a torrent and it came quickly, dyeing the red satin cover a blood-red hue.
Santana sighed and fished out her phone. Someone had to ensure that Ashley would get home safely. Angry young people tended to do stupid things.
Once she was certain her other best friend, Mercedes Jones, had received her text, she went over to her miserable friend and wrapped her arms around her, rocking and shushing her like a baby.
As confused and befuddled as she was, this was not the time to ask for details.
After the tears had depleted themselves and left Brittany staring bleakly out from tears-ravaged eyes, Santana tucked her friend in like a child and sat by her until she fell asleep. She didn't have to wait long. Emotionally drained and physically tired from a day's work at the studio, Brittany entered her dream world seconds after her head had touched the pillow.
Santana sighed, staring down at her friend. What the hell had happened that would have the two usually close sisters tearing each other's hair out. She would not get her answer today.
Shaking her head, she stood up to give her body a long, hard stretch. It had been a long day, and more work awaited her tomorrow. As expected, Kitty's family had met the news of their daughter with shock and grief. She had waited till the tears had subsided before she started questioning them. It hadn't been easy, both for the family and her. It never was. But she had managed to dig out some information that might be helpful to her case.
Kitty had been exceptionally happy for the past month, at least according to her parents. For the past one month, she had been out early and back late, and when she was home, she spent most of her time chatting happily over the phone or seated before the computer, Skyping.
"I think she got herself a boyfriend," Mrs. Wilde had blown noisily into a piece of drenched tissue, blinking away a new bout of tears, "I didn't want to ask her about it because she doesn't like us probing into her personal life."
Now, why would anyone who had been riding on cloud nine suddenly commit suicide. It made no sense, which meant that they could definitely rule out suicide on this one.
"What did you do? Who did you offend?" Santana muttered to herself as she mulled over the case.
When she stepped out into the living room, all thoughts temporarily dissipated, "You've got to be fucking kidding me," she scowled as she took in the ravaged room, running her fingers through her hair in frustration.
The mess would not be easy to clear. And since Brittany didn't look like she was going to be in the mood for house cleaning anytime soon, nor would the mess clear up by itself, she might as well get started.
She grumbled under her breath as she swept up and threw away broken glass, picked up fallen cushions, wiped up spilt drinks and rearranged things that had been thrown out of place.
The consolation was that she could still think while she worked.
She had asked Mrs. Wilde for the names of some of Kitty's close friends. Girls would often SHARE their deepest secrets with their besties, or did they, she thought as she threw a dirty look at the closed bedroom door behind her. Why then did she feel like she should have at least some inkling about what had just triggered the fight between Brittany and Ashley? Maybe Mercedes would know. But even as she reached for the mobile phone she had stuck in her back pocket, it started ringing.
"Hey 'Cedes," she stuck the phone in the crook of her neck as she continued mopping, "Did you get Ashley home?"
"Yes I did. But more importantly, why did I even have to be the one sending her home? Couldn't you have done it? Did you see how that girl looked? What happened?"
Santana sighed dramatically into the phone, "Yes I did. She had the exact same expression as the one living in my house."
She could imagine Mercedes's eyes widening comically, "What happened? They fought? Brittany and Ashley?" she repeated.
"Uh huh," Santana tutted her tongue sympathetically.
"Oh hell to the no."
"Tell me about it."
"Do you want me to come over?"
Santana blew away a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes and shifted the phone to a more comfortable position, "If you want to help me clean up my house, yes. Feel free to come over. They've practically destroyed this place in the process of trying to cut each other's faces up. Fuck."
"What happened?" Mercedes asked for the third time, "If I have to ask you again, I'm going to come over just to kick your ass!"
Santana scoffed, "You can definitely try, but like hell you'll even be able to touch my hot ass."
"Santana," Mercedes warned.
"Don't ask me!" Santana snapped defensively, "I wasn't the one with my claws out!"
"You're the one living with Britt, aren't you? Surely, you know more about this than me!"
Santana huffed as she wiped up the last of the juice and brought the dirty cloth over to the sink, "All I know is that they were trying to kill each other. I got home from work, I heard them screaming at each other, I saw them fighting. That's about it. You know, I see enough of this at work, I don't need to come home to this kind of drama," she finished rinsing the cloth and proceeded to the bathroom to wash her feet, "Brittany's asleep now. I'll ask her about it tomorrow. Well, If I see her," she added.
It was Mercedes's turn to sigh, "You two live together but you guys barely see each other."
Santana shrugged, "Can't be helped. We both work irregular hours. Whenever I'm home, she's at the studio or at rehearsing for some show. And whenever she's home..."
'You're out trying to get yourself killed," Mercedes finished the sentence for her.
Santana laughed, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You were never supportive of my job," she smiled as she wiped her wet feet on the toilet rug, "Don't worry about it though Wheezy, Britt and I still love each other. But we still have a little left in us to spare you some love," she added with a smirk, "We could always do a threesome if ever you decide to leave Trouty Mouth."
Mercedes gave a loud, frolicking guffaw and played along, "Us three eh? Sounds promising. I'll consider it. Maybe I'll come over at night if Sam has to work late."
"Go over where?" Santana heard Sam's voice in the background, "Who are you talking to honey?"
"My lover. Go away, I need to whisper sweet nothings to him," she heard Mercedes say to Sam and smiled in content.
Those two were always teasing each other, even after marriage. But she had to admit, they were good together, even if they were an unlikely pair. Who would have imagined Aretha and White Chocolate actually beating all the odds and making it to marriage?
"Sorry love. I don't think we can do that threesome. My husband caught me," Mercedes said then squealed as Sam stuck a finger into her rib.
"No problem 'Cedes. On second thoughts, you're not my type anyway and I doubt you're any good in bed."
Mercedes scoffed at the insult, "My husband can vouch for me. Sam, am I good in bed? Santana's asking," she blurted the question much to Santana's chagrin.
"Mercedes!" Santana protested only to have Sam's cheerful voice answer her.
"Hello Santana. To answer your question, yes my wife has the most amazing booty. She has..."
Santana heard a slight scuffle when Mercedes snatched back the phone, "That's enough Sam! Santana doesn't need too much information or she'll get jealous!"
At which, the detective couldn't help but scoff again, "As if I'll ever get jealous of you two. I get enough action as it is."
"Yeah yeah. You're a regular Casanova. Anyway," Mercedes continued in a serious tone, "I'll drop by tomorrow morning, just to check in on Britt. Maybe, we could have a few drinks and do some catching up? I haven't seen you in a while."
"Actually, I just met you two weeks ago," Santana corrected wryly, "But fine, whatever, I understand if you can't get enough of me."
Ignoring the obscene noises Mercedes was making in the speaker, she continued, "I may not be around though. Have to work on a case. But hopefully, I'll be back in the early evening and we can talk about it. If you could keep Britt company in the day, that'll be great. That is if you can tear yourself away from your hubby."
She heard Mercedes give a snort of disapproval, "Working on a Sunday. Seriously Santana, you have no life. You should really consider..."
"Try to make some children with Sam tonight. Maybe then, you could find someone else to nag at," Santana interrupted, then ended the call abruptly before Mercedes could try to talk her out of being a cop. Again.
Ha take that. She snickered as she imagined the things Mercedes would be complaining to Sam about. Hell to the no! That girl did not just put down on me! Cue finger snap and diva wave.
Even after her imagination had died down, she was still smiling, a small curve of the lips that showed her content - a rare feeling that she experienced these days.
She ruthlessly pushed away certain thoughts that had started creeping in at the edge of her mind; thoughts that would have her wallowing in self-pity. Instead, she shook them off, and walked stoically to her room to get her towel and a set of clothes. She would not think of Darcy. She would not allow herself to.
Fuck, she missed her.
Angry with herself for that thought, she snatched a fluffy white towel from the drawer and swore when she slammed the drawer against her fingers. Even thinking about Darcy brought her bad luck.
She brought her fingers to her lips and gently blew at them, then cursed again. Before Darcy had taught her that, she would never have blown at her fingers like that. What a wussy move. She simply rubbed them against her body hard and allowed herself the pleasure of swearing generously. So that was what she did.
"Fucking shit piece of drawer. You fuck face wood," she almost kicked the cabinet for good measure but retained the good mind to remember that if she did, she would have to start the whole ritual again.
Instead, she settled for stomping childishly to the bathroom for her shower, allowing the water to wash away the day's worth of pain and sorrow. She would seek the justice that Kitty deserved.
Dressed in a grey tank top and shorts, she trouped over to Brittany's room to check on her best friend before proceeding to her own room. There, she wheeled out the whiteboard that was a permanent placement in her room. She used that as her murder board. Drawing out mind maps and looking at them helped her to find links and connections that she might otherwise have missed out.
She towelled her hair while looking down at the open black book on her table. Written on it was a list of people that she would have to interview. As of now, she had about 20 names she could like to strike off her list by tomorrow.
If her gut feeling wasn't wrong, and it rarely was, the murderer could be Kitty's love rival at school, probably female. She also probably wouldn't be turning up at school anytime soon, she thought as switched off the lights.
Love, she rolled her eyes, as she snuggled into the cozy arms of her blanket, sometimes made people do stupid things they would live to regret. She would know.