"I don't think she did it."
She was right. Gilliam didn't even give her a chance to sit down with her cup of coffee—a much-needed double-shot cappuccino she picked up on her way to the station—because just as she was pulling her desk chair out, she heard someone call out her name from across the squad room, turning around only to see the agent—in a fresh suit not unlike the set he wore the previous day, though without a tie this morning—lingering near the entrance, neck stretching out as his eyes found hers, his voice somewhat echoing through the near-empty squad room.
She sighed, picked up her coffee cup, and headed back towards the building's exit to join him in his car.
They hadn't spoken a word since yesterday. She entered the passenger's seat, pulled the door shut, and slotted her coffee into the cup holder. As she strapped the seatbelt in, she made quick notice of how much more luxurious his car was compared to hers—it was a black sedan, not a sports car or anything, but its seats were leather and its interior was polished, like it was brand new, unlike her secondhand Corolla.
They still had yet to speak a single word as he pulled from the station's driveway, turned the car around and started driving down the road.
She only spoke because it was about the one thing that kept her awake the entire night, and dawn, up until she decided it was time to leave for work—her actual work, in the hours she was supposed to be working, and the ones she was paid for.
"Hmm?" Gilliam offered her a brief glance, before turning his attention back to the road as Bishop told him to take a left. She should be the one at the wheel, she thought. She was the one who knew these streets better than most people in town, and no doubt more than Gilliam ever did for the incredibly limited time he had been here.
"I don't think she did it," she repeated. There was no annoyance in her voice—just persistence. "Skyler Sullivan. I don't think she could've done it."
His voice, too, showed no hint of malice, nor irritation—rather, it was laced with genuine curiosity. "And what makes you say that?"
"It just doesn't make sense." She told him to turn right, and again at the next intersection, which would put them on the main street. "She's twenty-two. No criminal record, not even a minor infraction whatsoever—the only bad thing about her so far is the fact that her old boss thought she was stealing from him, and then she supposedly burgled the clinic after he fired her."
"Nothing suspicious from her file?" She immediately noticed the change in his tone—the curious questioning pitch in his voice that melted into an implicating suggestion.
She turned and glared at him. His face did not move a single muscle.
"Well, no," she forced herself to respond, swallowing hard and turning her focus back on the road. "The earliest record we could find about her was when she moved into town about a year ago. She lives together with two brothers—I think—but that's it. We don't know where she comes from, what her life was like before she moved here—nothing. It's like she never existed at all before last year."
"Don't just think, detective." The car began to slow down as soon as they approached the town center—some light traffic had accumulated down the road ahead of them, which was always an expected sight at this early hour. "Know."
"Well, I can't know unless I dig into civilian records beyond what we have on hand, agent." With a soft groan, she ran her fingers through her hair and forced out a heavy sigh. Her frustration was quite uncalled for, she thought in retrospect—she quickly blamed it on her evidently severe lack of sleep. She snatched her coffee from the cup holder and took a long sip. "We don't have the kind of resources you do. We don't even have the manpower to do that overnight."
"Well, it almost seemed like you did."
"One of the junior officers owed me one," she murmured as she moved to take another sip, clouding eyes gazing distantly out the window. "He often stayed after hours a lot, anyway. Thought I might as well give him something to do than just digitizing old records into the system." She tried to blink away the exhaustion from her eyes, but was well-aware she was very much in the losing faction in this one-sided battle against her own exhaustion. "Anyway, I hate to admit it, but the more I look at it, the more it's likely we're going after two people instead of just one. And even if it is the latter, I don't think someone like Sullivan can do it."
"Two people?" She gave a short wave out the window when one of the pedestrians—an old man running a thirty-year-old general store right near the end of the street—recognized her through the glass and tipped his hat at her. "Any specific two people in mind?"
"You're still thinking it's Woods and Nichols, aren't you?" She grabbed her bag from the second row, where she threw it into as soon as she entered the car, and quickly fished out the two manila folders she brought from home—the same ones that he brought with him, and showed to her, just yesterday noon. "I reviewed those reports again when I got home last night."
"And?" Curiosity again—at least, she thought it was. She could see his side profile but not his entire face. He was solely focused on the road, though the clear interest in her gradual deductions, regardless of how exhaustion-fueled they were, indicated he was investing quite a bit of his attention to this.
"I'm struggling to accept the fact that these people exist," she admitted with a small, almost faint voice. "People don't just go on killing sprees, not get caught by the police, or federal agents, at that. People also don't just get their eyes ripped out of their heads, and go on killing sprees, and still live to tell the tale."
"I am well aware of that, yes."
She was still waiting for him to tell her it was all a lie—a prank, all designed to keep her on her toes or something of the sort. She wouldn't put it past her co-workers to do such a thing, or even the chief for that matter. But when the silence started to settle between them as they emerged out of the main street and headed out in the direction of the suburbs, she found herself leaning back against the leather, eyelids growing heavier by the minute, exhaling her breath awfully slowly as he continued to drive.
"Did you get any sleep last night, detective?"
He almost surprised her with his sudden inquiry, and it took her several seconds before she replied him. "Not so much, no," she confessed, sighing in resignation. "Something about the case just…" She trailed off, her voice beginning to lose its coherence. "It bothers me. Something's off about it, and I don't know what."
"The chief spoke very highly of you, Abigail."
Her brain briefly woke up at the mention of her first name. She blinked away the tiredness, turning her head against the leather to stare at him. "Don't call me that." Not you, anyway. "And yes, I know he did. I don't know why, though. I don't think I've given him any reason to. And I certainly don't think it's because I've pulled a lot of all-nighters when cases like this gets into my head a bit more than it should."
"Well, it must've been something you've done." The commercial buildings became infrequent as suburban houses began to blend into view, white picket fences and green backyards and all, and less vehicles and pedestrians scattered around them. An elementary school was just down the road—the only building around evidently bustling with life at the moment. "So, who do you think is the prime suspect of our case right now?"
"I thought you said I should know, not think."
"Well, I'm asking for an opinion, not so much the ultimate truth behind the murders. We wouldn't be here if we already knew that, now would we?"
"I don't think it's Sullivan," she sighed, fidgeting in her seat as she leaned her head against the corner of the door. "But she's our best lead right now—plus, there's the whole 'ambiguous background' ordeal we need to clear up before we can entirely dismiss her from having any involvement with the case." And at least they had a lead. It was certainly better than nothing, she thought grimly. "And if Woods and Nichols are somehow still out there, I don't think it's them, either. We have no direct evidence against them—everything we have is circumstantial. For all we know, it can still be some copycat killer—killers, sorry."
She could see him nodding from her peripherals. "Do we have the lab results from Forensics yet?"
"It's eight-thirty in the morning, Gilliam," she groaned, closing her eyes and rubbing them with a single feeble hand. "If they've found something, they'll call us later this noon, or afternoon, maybe."
He nodded again and, thankfully, didn't press any further. Her eyelids fluttered shut. He was an impatient man, but he was also respectful.
Her head throbbed only slightly. She held it in her hand, and when her eyelids flew open again, she found them driving down a familiar road, with familiar sights of a chain-link fence to her right, a pale blue-painted Cape Cod house with a peach terrace to her left, and a semi-detached family home with a treehouse, for sale, just around the corner.
"Turn left up ahead," she murmured, peering out the window to squint at the house numbers. A little further past the intersection, she remembered, and they would be heading back in the direction of the crime scene.
Had he checked them out, she wondered? He was with her almost all day yesterday—attached to her like a benign tumor too dangerous to carve out with a simple surgical procedure. Maybe they should come back, after they were done with Sullivan—review and revise what they knew now, answering questions that still needed answers. With any luck, she thought, they would hear back from Forensics by then, and have something to compare their findings to, and hopefully produce some sort of new lead, in case this one—perhaps inevitably, as she thought to herself—drove them to a dead end.
She stared out the windshield as the car turned around the corner, and the sight ahead of them shifted into more unfamiliar territory. It was almost frightening how much these locations were in close proximity to each other. It would provide an easy escape, she realized, if Sullivan was indeed behind the murders. But she always hated the thought of homicidal neighbors. It didn't make the whole 'moving out of the family home to your own place' element of the past few months any easier than it should be.
She told him to pull over when they arrived at the address in question—the address that the clinic had on record, anyway—and stared up at the building before them with great puzzlement and equally-as-great concern. It was a modular home, single story, almost identical to the houses adjacent to it, save for the pale green exterior, reflected orientation and weathered white beams barely supporting the structure altogether, not to mention the few patches of missing roof tiles glaringly obvious even from their angle of perspective. There was a small porch area in front of the main entrance, occupied by a withering potted plant and what looked to be an old wicker chair. The single porch light was still on, and the interior as seen through the half-curtained windows was still dark.
The Sullivans were paying mortgage for this building. Bishop could easily think of much better real estate elsewhere in town.
This part of the neighborhood was eerily silent compared to the Smiths and Walkers' area of the district. As soon as she exited the car, Bishop couldn't resist glancing at their surroundings, taking quick note of the lack of lively noises commonly associated with these areas. The exterior of the crime scenes was quick to fill up with curious, and horrified, passersby and housewives just itching to take a peek at their neighbors' grim fates.
There was barely a single soul around here that Bishop could inquire about the Sullivans' presence here.
The two glanced at each other before walking up, through the bare front yard and up the porch steps, the wood groaning from their combined weight, creaking even underneath a singular foot.
As Gilliam raised a closed fist to the door to knock, Bishop raised her palm to pause, eyes darting back and forth between him and the door.
The TV was on, she tried to tell him. The noise was faint—static mixed with the familiar but near-unrecognizable voice of a TV advertisement for a brand of kitchen appliances—but it was there.
She lowered her hand, and, with a nod of confirmation, he made three, firm knocks against the white wooden door.
The noise disappeared.
"Skyler Sullivan," the detective called out, voice almost cracking in the beginning but ringing loud and clear with the second word, gaze quickly meeting her partner's. "New Haven Police Department."
Something fell inside the house—it wasn't a loud crash, but it sounded like a book hitting the ground after toppling over the edge of a shelf—followed with a low groan—a couch or a chair being moved a mere inch from its original position.
"Coming!"
The voice was undoubtedly female. The two investigators shared another look before turning back to the door, moving back just a small step as soon as they heard footsteps practically rushing up to the door, followed with a rather harsh series of coughs, and various clicks and the familiar jangling of keys echoing from the other side of the door.
"She could still be an accomplice," Gilliam murmured almost inaudibly beside her, but didn't give her a chance to respond when the wooden door gave a louder click and creaked open, revealing a small, and rather pale face peeking from behind the door frame.
The young woman's near-doe-like brown eyes stared wide between the two of them, and a small frown formed across her lips.
A metal door chain kept the door from opening all the way.
"Yeah?" she asked in a fainter, very apparently honest voice, gaze still glancing back and forth between the two of them as any average civilian would be—she stopped very briefly at Gilliam, likely because of his suit, a stark contrast to Bishop's more casual coat, blouse and trousers. The detective watched the curiosity in the young woman's wide eyes slowly transitioning into a look of worry.
This did not look like the 'crazy little bitch' that her former employer spoke about just last night.
Bishop fished her badge out of her pocket and held it up for the young woman to see. "Miss Sullivan, my name is Detective Bishop. I'm from the local PD—" She tilted her head in her partner's direction, as the agent did the similar standard action. "—and this is Special Agent Gilliam from the FBI. Sorry to disturb you this morning, but we're here to ask you a couple questions, if you don't mind?"
The younger woman's eyes, understandably, grew wider at the detective's words. "The FBI?" she repeated, blinking rapidly. "What does the FBI want from me?"
Bishop took a deep breath as she returned her badge to its home. Beside her, Gilliam was silent and stiff as stone. "Do you mind if we come in, Miss Sullivan?"
The question didn't sit well with the young woman—her forehead furrowed, and Bishop could see her physically leaning away from the doorway, almost avoiding a temptation to look over her shoulder before she turned her whole attention back at the two strangers standing on her porch.
"Uh, I don't think this is a good time right now," she answered instead, voice straining briefly as she paused with hesitation. She held back a cough, forcibly clearing her throat instead.
Bishop frowned, but Gilliam beat her to a response. "Please, Miss Sullivan," he said, his voice laced with almost the same amount of amity he initially offered the clinic receptionist from last night, but with a certain amount of strain that was just enough for Bishop to notice a few seconds later. "It would be best if we discuss this matter in private."
Bishop had thought the ambiguous urgency in his words did nothing to help them; to Gilliam's credit, however, it seemed to strike her right where he wanted to. To the detective's initial panic, the young woman suddenly retreated back to the shadowed confines of her home for a brief moment, door moving to reduce the size of the crack that she had opened up, only to halt right before it closed entirely. A loud click and sound of sliding metal later, the door reopened, wider than it did before, allowing the sunlight to cast long shadows on three of them and into the darkened entryway of the house.
Bishop quickly came to realize it was dark, not because the Sullivans hadn't turned the lights on yet, but rather because the lights inside were so dim, with almost all the curtains drawn, to the point that any sunlight that leaked through into the house was like an industrial flashlight in comparison.
Skyler Sullivan stood by the door, shoulder-length brown hair unkempt like she had just woken up before the two law enforcement figures showed up at her door, dressed in a brown sweatshirt and grey cargo pants.
"Come in, I guess," she muttered, holding the door for her two guests to enter. Unlike Gilliam, Bishop thanked her for her cooperation and hospitality, carefully stepping into the household, lagging just slightly behind the agent.
The detective would be lying to herself if she did not expect the house to still have a CRT television or something of the sort. But there was a flat-screen television in the living room, sitting atop a wooden television stand, albeit rather small for a household of at least three. In front of it was a simple wooden coffee table and a weathered beige L-shaped couch that looked like it was bought from a neighborhood garage sale, mismatched with the lime green sofa chair sitting right beside it. Behind the living room was the small, combined dining-kitchen area with a breakfast bar—for ease of convenience, Bishop thought, for such a small space. Two short hallways branched out from the open concept living room, leading to what she could presume were bedrooms for the residents of this space.
When she turned back to face Sullivan—Skyler—the younger woman was opening the curtains of the outside-facing windows, allowing natural sunlight to illuminate the living space in place of the ceiling lights.
"Coffee, or tea?" she asked, moving to the kitchen to pick up a kettle and pour its contents into a mug she retrieved from one of the cabinets.
Bishop politely shook her head, and Gilliam followed suit. "That's fine, thank you."
The young woman hummed in acknowledgement, but continued with whatever drink she was making regardless, before making her way back to the center of the living room to speak face-to-face with her guests. At her gesture, the two women moved to sit down on the couch and sofa chair each, while Gilliam insisted he stood up, instead beginning to pace slowly around the room, seemingly still in the middle of taking in their surroundings.
"We wanted to talk to you about the burglary at the, uh, North Valley Medical Clinic—your former workplace?" the detective began, watching as the younger woman set two mugs of dark liquid—presumably coffee—down on the coffee table before taking a seat, posture noticeably stiff.
At the mention of the clinic, however, her expression soured.
"Oh, is that what this is about?" The detective didn't miss the hint of annoyance in the young woman's voice. "I didn't think the bastard had the balls to call the cops on me, or anything like that. Didn't think he'd get the feds involved, too. I thought he hated you guys."
"That's—" In a moment of hesitation, Bishop looked over the couch at Gilliam, only to find his back was turned to them, as if he had tuned out of their conversation. She sighed and turned back to the brunette. "Well, that's not really why we're here."
The younger woman quirked an eyebrow, staring back at the detective in confusion. "You just said you came here to talk to me about that."
"Yeah, well…" Bishop looked down at her hands. Still no word—not even a single sound—from Gilliam. She took it as a sign to proceed. "We're currently investigating a homicide case. We have reason to believe it has something to do with the burglary at the clinic last month."
The younger woman's eyes went wide. "Homicide?" Bishop gave her several seconds to process her words, watching as the brunette started shaking her head. "Did that sonofabitch dig out his own grave or something?"
Bishop shook her head. "The victims were two families who lived about a couple of blocks from here. Seven people, all murdered in one night."
The younger woman's eyes immediately met with Bishop's, wide with unmistakable horror, shoulders dropping in an instant. The detective had witnessed countless of reactions like this over the years on the job—reactions to the big murder reveal. She had little doubt that Skyler Sullivan's was genuine.
"Oh my god." She leaned back, dazed eyes blinking in disbelief. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
Bishop moistened her lips, realizing she was leaning forward herself, sighing as her posture slouched. "We believe the murder weapon is among the items that were stolen during the burglary last month."
"Oh—oh." She bowed her head down, hand reaching up to scratch the back of her ear. Her eyes darted away again. "Look, I don't know what to tell you, detective, but I didn't do it."
Bishop glared questioningly at her. "You didn't?"
Brown eyes flickered back to the detective as the younger woman shook her head again. "I don't know what that bastard told you guys," she said, briefly glancing in Gilliam's direction, then back at Bishop, "but I didn't rob that place. I haven't been back there since the day he fired me for stealing from him."
"But it's true, then?" Bishop asked again. "You were stealing from the clinic?"
The younger woman didn't respond at first—couldn't, as her eyes blinked, stunned, then looked away again, presumably in embarrassment. Her hand lingered on the back of her neck, jaw muscles flexing as she swallowed hard in confession.
"My brother needs the medicine," she murmured, only occasionally glancing at the detective. She took a brief moment of pause to clear her throat again. "I barely make enough to pay for utilities, and groceries, and the mortgage. We can't afford the medication he needs, and he needs it bad. I didn't know what else to do."
Bishop nodded slowly. So, she's not lying about the medicine. "Your former boss also said you were stealing medical supplies—equipment, and things like that."
"Oh." The brunette wasn't even looking back at the detective now. "Yeah, I thought I could sell that stuff off somewhere—make some extra cash while I'm at it. It's only whenever we're really short on finances—it's mostly just the medicine." A brief pause, as she flexed her elbow and coughed into her sleeve. "Sorry. I'm, uh—I'm going to get arrested for this, aren't I?"
"Well, you've been completely honest to me so far." Once again, Bishop tried to look to Gilliam for guidance. He was slowly but gradually making his way around the room, eyes staring at the furniture, the picture frames on the wall, at the kitchen—almost everything except the two other people in the room. She couldn't resist another sigh. "And I understand where you're coming from, Skye." She took a deep breath. "How sick is your brother?"
"He's…" Her voice started off with bright optimism at first, but it didn't even take a heartbeat for her tone to falter, ending with a sigh of resignation. "He's been better. It's a rare disease. I don't know if there's a cure, but I do know there are some things he can take to make it better—prescription drugs, so not the ones they sell over the counter."
"Don't you have—" Bishop snapped her head around the room, eyes searching for Gilliam, who was now standing in the middle of the kitchen area, peering out the window into the backyard, his back still turned to them. "—Another relative, of some sorts? The one you signed the mortgage with—Timothy Sullivan, was it?"
The younger woman's expression was blank for a brief moment. Several seconds later, she blinked, and it was as if her mental focus had just arrived back in the present. "Oh, yeah—uh, Tim." Her voice was still distant as ever. "He, uh—he moved out earlier this year." She nodded, though it almost seemed like she was nodding to herself more than to the detective. She cleared her throat again. "I'm the only one left around here who can actually pay the bills."
Bishop mimicked her nod, eyes still paying attention at every little movement the brunette made. She had been avoiding eye contact for longer gaps now, even as she reached over to pick up one of the mugs on the table to take a sip of what Bishop could definitely identify as coffee.
"Is he also your brother?" Bishop asked, eyes glancing at her own apparent mug, or at least the one placed on the coffee table directly in front of her.
"Yeah—yeah, he is." There was a noticeable lack of warmth in her voice, sending an odd chill down Bishop's spine. "He was."
Bishop's eyebrow quirked up. "Was?"
"Yeah." The brunette took a deep breath, eyes only glancing towards Bishop for a split second. "I mean, after he left and all, things just aren't…" She trailed off, lips breaking into a smile—a pained one, if Bishop knew any better. "Things aren't the same anymore, you know?"
"That shed in the backyard, over there." The sudden voice speaking up behind them almost scared both women, as Bishop's head immediately shot towards where Gilliam was standing. His body was half-turned in their direction, his eyes briefly glancing towards them before he nodded back towards the window he was peering through earlier, at a contrasting shade of dark brown that soon caught the detective's eye. "What's that for?"
"Hmm?" The brunette straightened her posture and looked toward where Gilliam had indicated. "The shed? Oh, just use that space to store old junk—stuff we don't need inside the house. Oh, and the lawnmower, too."
"Old junk?" Gilliam turned back to them, frowning. "I thought you just moved here a year ago."
"Yeah." Skye cleared her throat again. "It's, uh, stuff from our old place. We can't find anywhere else to put them, so we just stash it all back there. We're actually thinking of having a yard sale soon—get rid of all that junk we don't need."
"From your old place, huh?" Gilliam was bobbing his head absentmindedly, but his frown lingered. Bishop stared at him, expression blank as a canvas. "That actually reminds me about something we've been meaning to ask you—" the agent added, tearing his gaze away from the wooden shed in the backyard, and instead towards the detective for only a few seconds, then back again at the younger woman, "—since we first started looking into your background. Where exactly did you move from, Miss Sullivan?"
Skye's frown deepened. "I'm sorry?"
Unlike last time, Bishop noticed Gilliam's lack of response—as well as the brief knowing glance he shot in her direction a few seconds into the silence—and turned back towards the brunette. "We looked into your records—IDs, documents, everything," she started, pulling the young woman's attention back to the detective. "We didn't really find anything on you prior to last year, when you first moved in here."
The silence settled again, for much longer this time. Never once did Bishop tear her gaze away from the brunette—not even when Gilliam started approaching the two women, only noticing his movements from the peripherals of her vision. She studied the younger woman's expression, watching as it slowly evolved from confusion, to clear cognizance, and finally to apprehension.
"Look." The younger woman took a deep breath, shoulders lifting and deflating with her slow exhale. "My brothers and I—we had a rough past," she started, voice noticeably lower and quieter than before. She glanced between the agent and the detective, the tension of her jaw varying with each second. "We moved out here, from our hometown, for a new start—a fresh start, if you will. And I know it looks like I'm hiding something from you—which would be stupid, considering you guys are cops and all—but it's not because I want to be secretive, all right? I just—" She took another deep breath, leaning back slightly, arms wrapped tight around herself. "We don't like talking about it. We just wanted to start somewhere new. That's all."
Start somewhere new—a speech that was far too familiar in Bishop's ears. It was as though Jane's words were being parroted back through the lips of this young woman before her.
Instead of unease and exasperation, however, these same words struck a different chord within her.
Bishop had lived here, in this old town of New Haven, for her entire life. Never once, in her entire life, had she ever heard someone seeking for a fresh start here, of all places.
There's always a first for everything, the detective wanted to think, to herself, staring almost distantly at the figure of the mysterious young woman before her. She wanted to think this woman was innocent—she seemed to be truthful the entire time, and indeed, she still did not look like the type to murder seven people in one night.
Abigail still remembered what her father told her years ago, back on her first day at the police academy. Always trust your gut, which seemed like a phrase almost stereotypical to cops on TV and in the movies she's seen, but it was good advice, and one that had brought her this far into her career—one that she knew would still carry her through this job for years to come.
And now, her gut was telling her there was something else—a missing piece of the puzzle, or perhaps a couple, or even several. Something was missing here. She just didn't know what it was yet.
"You said you had a lawnmower back there?"
The brunette blinked. "What?"
Bishop almost repeated the same word when she shot a look at Gilliam, who was, much to her growing irritation, staring back out the window—at that same wooden shed out in the backyard.
"A lawnmower," Gilliam repeated, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit jacket, his head craning back towards the two women. "You said you had a lawnmower in the shed, but then I noticed that little patch of grass over there." He took one hand out of his pocket, pointing his index finger out the window. "That one patch in the corner—where the grass is taller than the rest of the lawn? The rest of the yard seems fine, all except that one little patch in the corner over there. Why is that?"
The frown returned on the young woman's face. "I don't see how my lawn maintenance should be of much importance, sir."
The detective didn't miss the slight change in the woman's pitch with that last word; she turned her attention back at the younger woman, eyes observing her with careful attention.
"You're right—of course not," Gilliam chuckled, very coldly, smoothing his hand down one side of the jacket. "I'm just curious how you have that big of a shed, and a perfectly mowed lawn, with the notable exception of that one patch in the corner, is all."
The brunette looked back towards Bishop, then back at the agent in his suit, as a different light crossed her eyes. "Look, is that all you want to ask me about?" she questioned, voice no longer distant—no, she was very much grounded back to the present now, her eyes almost glaring at the two investigators with what Bishop could've sworn was a hint of apprehension, or even hostility, for that matter. "The burglary—which, again, I have absolutely nothing to do with," she reminded—at least, reminded Bishop, who blinked several times as she realized the younger woman had a point. "You thought I had something to do with these murders because that bastard accused me for robbing his damned clinic, right? Well, it can't be me—I have an alibi for that night."
"Which is?"
Skye glared at Gilliam, eyes lacking any signs of unease she had in them before. "I was working," she stated matter-of-factly. "At my new job—the convenience store down by Cooper at Harvey. A job that I'll actually be running late to, if I don't leave in—" She glanced over to the clock above the television. "About five more minutes or so. And I really don't want to lose this job, so—"
She was standing up now, brushing her hands against her jeans before turning back to the two investigators. "If the burglary is all you wanted to ask me about, then I'm sorry to say, I can't help you, ma'am." She shot one last glare at Gilliam, but it faltered at the last seconds—her eyelids fluttered, eyes once again averting away from either people. "Sir."
Bishop was already standing up—she didn't want to leave, not yet, but Gilliam was already starting to deviate their conversation towards directions that even she had yet to know about. And clearly, she couldn't ask about him right here, right now. She could, however, ask him about it outside, and possibly get a search warrant in the meantime, in the case that they needed one, before they could return and ask more questions about the Sullivans. It was something that her gut was telling her to do, if she wanted to get to the bottom of this case as soon as possible—or, at least, to find out why Skyler Sullivan was still being so cagey about her past.
Of course, Gilliam started to open his big mouth again—the damn thing that just couldn't stop asking the strangest questions, or the wrong ones, or maybe even the right ones, for that matter. "It's barely midday," he said.
"And I'm taking double shifts—triple, sometimes." And that was it—Bishop heard the bare inklings of annoyance in Skyler's voice, pursuing her lips as she resisted the urge to move in between them. "I don't know how much the government pays you FBI agents, but I'm sure it's more than enough to support your family, and then some." The younger woman turned her exasperated glare at Bishop, and though the detective knew it wasn't entirely directed towards her, she felt herself take a deep intake of breath. "I have a high school diploma—that's it," the younger woman continued. "I have that, and I have a really sick brother who needs help that we cannot afford. So, unless you're going to charge me for trying to do whatever I can to help him—" She turned back to the agent. "I think it's best that you leave."
Bishop had questions—many of them. Some for Skyler, others for Gilliam. Because now, she realized, it would be a miracle if the two were allowed back inside this house with as much warmth and hospitality as they did the first time they passed through that front door. Maybe the search warrant would come in handy, after all, if Gilliam's strange observations were indeed pointing towards something he wanted Bishop to know about as well—something that they could hopefully use for the case.
"We're really sorry for disturbing you, Skyler." Bishop almost nudged Gilliam ahead of her as both began walking back towards the front entrance, and the brunette, being the ever-polite host as she seemed to be at first, followed suit, lagging just a few steps behind, ensuring she saw the two investigators out. "We just want to get to the bottom of this case—that's all."
"Yeah." To the detective's slight chagrin, the resident of the house reached over to open the door herself, allowing fresh air to flood back in and replace the perceived warmth of the house that Bishop knew no longer welcomed them. "And, uh, it's just Skye—Skyler's a real mouthful sometimes. And, uh, I wish you the best of luck with that case, detective. I really do."
Gilliam went down the porch steps and headed back to the car without missing a beat, though managed to throw one last glance at the house, at Skye, and over her shoulder towards the kitchen—through the window to the backyard—before he gestured to Bishop that he was heading back to the car ahead of her. The detective nodded, twisting around to face the younger woman once more. At least she was trying to seem regretful for having to kick the two investigators out of her house, addressing the blonde woman with a small, almost apologetic smile.
"Take care, Skye." Bishop offered her a sympathetic look, because even if Skye was still hiding something from them—something that might link her back to the case, or otherwise—she could tell that Skye Sullivan was in trouble. As a decent human being, Bishop thought, she could offer them some kind words. "Both you and your brother."
"We will." Bishop almost wanted to ignore the emptiness in Skye's voice. She tried to, even later when she headed back to the car, and even when she and Gilliam were back on the streets, making their way back to the station. Instead, she thought of the sincere smile the younger woman offered back to her, and the sorrow written all over her face that lingered even after she disappeared back into her house. "Thank you."