thank you to all the reviewers who haven't given up on me - although you probably ought to of by now - and i'd like to especially thank bookbindersdaughter whom is the most consistant person i've ever met. i wish i could give you a great big hug sweetie, you've always been so kind. more than i deserve.

i swear that someday i'll update my American Outlaws story once i figure out what the hell i'm going to do with it (if anyone has any suggestions feel free to e-mail me! you'll get credit for it, i'll make sure of that!)

and speaking of, in any of you would like to screw around with any of my unfinished stories, go right ahead - but remember to tell me! thanks. bye.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX – THE PAPERS

She clicked.

Two wedding bands came up on the screen. Entwined. Before they broke apart. And the little cartoon. Man and wife. Frowned. And broke apart with them.

The flash opening. To a divorce site.

She typed in a name. Clicked. And waited.

Four seconds later. Divorce papers were cooling on the printer shelf. The ink drying.

She turned away from it. And looked to another paper.

The one she'd dug out of the trashcan. On their walk back.

The sound chip in the newspaper. Had run out. In the trash. There was motion. But no sound.

It flashed a picture of Danny Witwer. His face. Before doing a 360 around him. And then flashing his corpse.

The face was mangled. Barely a face.

It showed a shaky interview. With a large woman. With a hook. For an arm.

She looked angry.

And she shoved her hook into the camera lense.

The screen fizzled.

Then a message blared. Big white words.

MISSING

It didn't matter though.

The search had stopped. Two weeks after.

No one missed his corpse.

Then the video restarted.

Catcher looked too much like the corpse.

But she'd always known that.

Too much like Danny.

Somehow she'd always known too. That Catcher was Danny.

But a different Danny.

One that didn't know.

What he'd been.

Who he'd been.

She glanced back at the divorce papers. That empty line that begged her name.

The line that begged John's.

And she looked at the pen. Sitting by her splayed hand.

Then to the newspaper video.

She heard a heavy sigh.

And she tipped her chair back.

Seeing John lying there. Curled on the couch. Wrapped in a blanket. Breathing softly. He almost looked pleasant.

Until he shifted. And the blanket came down. Revealing his neck. Blackened. And bruised. Dark. And blue.

And she turned away. Sickened.

Her eyes meeting that line.

Begging.

She picked up the pen.

Pleading.

Touched its tip to the paper.

Praying.

And signed.

When finished. She looked at the messy curls. Slippery letters. Cold. But smiling.

The pen slid from her fingers.

She pressed her eyes. Into the heels of her hands.

Before dropping her head. Fairly hard. Onto the table.

She laid there for a long while.

Thinking.

Hard.

She dozed. For a moment.

Her upright arm. Falling against her ear. Brushing past her hair. Red. And waking her. She breathed in. And rose from the table top. Rubbing at her face.

Rising. Gathering the divorce paper. She walked slowly out of the kitchen. Towards John. Watching him sleep. Watching his neck. Wishing. In vain. That it was someone else's.

Like his eyes.

Something he could give back.

She draped the paper on him. And put the pen beside him. Before kneeling down in front of him. And looking. Doing nothing else. But breathing.

Intentionally. Not with his.

That's when she heard Agatha.

Screaming.