Chapter Thirty-Two

II

No more hiding. No more being the prey. No more lack of control. He would do it right this time, live it right. His time now.

Alan stepped into the light, feeling a moment of triumph as the CSIs took him in. Neither of them seemed surprised was the first thing he noticed. Catherine just stared at him, hate in her eyes and he bit back a desire to erase it, burn it away. He had to be composed, had to do this right. They would understand. They would.

The brunette was eyeing him with calm and he could not read her eyes. He never could read Cecilie's eyes. Bright and dark and enticing him, but never telling him anything, never revealing.

"Don't try to shoot me," he warned. "I have my friend with me, he will shoot you both in the back if you try anything and he's sent away your little officer. Now, ease your guns down on the floor and kick them here."

They both slowly looked over their shoulder, probably making out the shape of Frank before doing as Alan had asked, and he was glad neither tried anything. He didn't want to kill. Not yet, not before they understood.

"Now, we're going to go into the living room," he went on, kneeling carefully to pocket both guns without losing the grip on his. "You're both going to sit down and then we're going to talk."

The two exchanged a glance before doing as he said, taking a seat on the sunken couch he indicated. He tried not to beam or look gleeful. It had worked. It was all going to work, everything he had planned. Life would be as he'd dreamed it.

"What are we going to talk about, Alan?" the brunette asked, meeting his gaze. "Anna?"

He stared at her, sensing the familiarity of how she pronounced the name, a name most tripped over slightly. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sara Sidle. I investigated your daughter's murder. It's me you want, not Catherine."

"Sara!" Catherine looked sharply at her, clearly not pleased. "I would never leave you with..."

"You have Lindsey," Sara said simply and something passed between them that he couldn't quite make out and it angered him. He was in control. His game, not theirs.

"Anna," he corrected and they both stared at him. "She's gonna be Anna."

All over again, his life and this time as it should be, Anna at his side, listening to him read under an open sky, laughing with him, loving him, being his daughter. He would watch her grow up, grow old, give him grandchildren.

"I'm not giving you my daughter just because you lost yours," Catherine said empathically, holding up her hands. "Kill me, I don't care. You're not having her."

He just smiled patiently. Did they not understand yet? "I'll find her. I always do. I looked for you and found her."

He'd thought he could have Anna's rebirth in Catherine, but then he had seen her daughter and known. Anna, young still and his to shape.

"You've been trying to find her for a long time, haven't you?" Sara said softly. "Even before you knew she existed. Looking for that one to love you without restraint, without fear. The only thing you ever wanted."

Maybe one of them did understand after all. "Yes. My daughter could have saved me. But she died, was taken from me. Killed."

"So you kill?"

"I live. I kill, I live. All humans have a right to fight for their life. I'm fighting for mine, fighting for her."

He would win this time, for all the times he had lost owed him that. It was only fair.

"You want to punish her killer," Sara went on, smiling sadly at something. "You can't."

Rage was hot and warm and hit her before he could think, the sound almost like a gunshot. He pulled away immediately before Catherine could even think about pouncing on him, and she was close to, judging by her murderous glare. Flexing his fingers, he could feel pain sting his knuckles. It always came back to this after all. Fists and control. He'd been taught that early on.

He thought he'd let that go.

"This is what Cecilie was afraid of," Sara said quietly, lifting her head again to look at him, her nose bleeding. "Your anger."

He shook his head wildly. "No. No. Cecilie was not afraid of me. No."

She hadn't been. She'd loved him, as Anna would have loved him, as Anna would love him.

"Right," Catherine muttered, wiping away the blood from Sara's face with her shirt. He clenched his jaw, then unclenched it. Calm. Calm. Control.

"I never hit her," he said softly. "I'm sorry, I... I shouldn't have hit you. I'm sorry."

"Anna's killer is already being punished more than you can imagine, Alan," Sara replied. She looked straight at him, no lies in her eyes or face. "Living with the kill... That's hard."

The blood, always the blood. The smell, burrowing into his bones and lingering with him always. The sight, repeating itself over and over in his mind. Hard to sleep. Guilt and pain and darkness. But then...

"Only the first," he said, nodding to himself. "And then blood covered blood and it became life."

'And I became death,' he thought, and it was a chilling, seducing thought, filling his mind, driving his mind.

"And your friend, he's okay with all this?" Catherine asked, lifting her eyes to the door where Frank stood, gun pointed at her, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "Okay with being an accomplice to several murders, facing a possible death penalty?"

"He's got enough money to live happily in a country of his choice for the rest of his life. Haven't you, Frank?"

"You're an asshole, Alan," Frank replied, leaning against the doorway, shaking his head. Never happy, aging Frank, but blood was a bond not broken and they both knew it.

"I know you," Catherine said, giving him a look that almost killed. "You've worked with Brass sometimes. Oh, he's gonna come after you so hard you'll actually wish for the death penalty."

Frank looked pained for a moment, then just sighed. "I'm leaving now. Whatever the hell you want to do, Alan, you're on your own. Enough of roping me into your madness. I don't owe you this. I've given you back enough."

"No, not yet," Alan replied calmly and shot.

Frank paused, staring in disbelief at the blood soaking his shirt where the bullet had impacted. For a moment, he just stood there, a frozen moment of life leaving. Then he slumped down, body just skin and bones and no direction any more. It was always strange, that pass between life and just life's abandoned shell. One moment, something was within, the next only the shell remained, soon to rot.

Farewell to Frank. Once a friend, then a reluctant accomplice, then a burden, then a corpse.

Only Alan now.

"There, I gave him the death penalty for you," he said calmly, smiling at Catherine. She just looked at him, as if he were insane, a beast, something less than human. As if she would not kill for her child, would not tear through flesh and bones to make her daughter live again.

"You're not the judge and executioner, Alan," Sara interrupted. Her nose had turned red and he winced at the sight. He hadn't meant to hit her, hadn't meant to hurt her, only to kill her.

"All humans are," he said simply. His father. His brother. His mother. Cecilie. Him.

"Anna wouldn't want this judge for a father," Sara pressed on, pushing him and he had to fight the urge to hit her again. Control. Calm. No rage. She was not speaking for Anna. She was not.

"Anna would want to live," he protested. All humans did, even at the edge of despair. He had wanted to live even when he'd desired death.

"Not like this. She wouldn't want to have a killer for a parent. No child does."

He shook his head. "You wouldn't know."

"Actually, I would," she replied and he stared at her, her dark hair slightly unkempt, slight traces of blood on her face. For a moment, he saw Anna mirrored within her eyes and he wanted to scream, to rage, to kill, to live.

"Anna," he whispered. All he ever wanted. A little love and a little life. He was owed that. He was.

"Put the gun down," Sara urged, pity in her eyes, herself again, the moment passed. Gone again. Dead again.

He screamed, a soundless roar from his bones, burrowing his fingers into Sara's flesh, shaking her. "Come back to me! Come back!"

She whimpered slightly in pain, fighting to get out of his grasp, but he held on. He'd let go of Cecilie and lost her. He'd let go of his dream for a little while and never regained his hold. He'd let go of Lindsey's hand and she'd vanished from him again. No more.

His heartbeats seemed to fill him, every beat a lifeline to life itself. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on and all would be as it should, as he'd dreamed it, as he'd earned, as was fair. Love and life and his daughter.

Hold on.