Thanks to everyone who pointed out my misspelling of STILINSKI... this chapter would have been awkward if I hadn't read your comments and corrected it LOL

TEN

The next morning I walked up to the doors of the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Station for the first time… in at least 10 years. I used to frequent the place. Hell, that long bench against the wall should probably have a plaque with my name engraved on the front. I felt like a teenager again as I stepped upon the dirty brown tiles, making my way towards Stilinski's office.

Mom wasn't with me. I asked her not to come. I insisted actually. This had to be me. Just me. Besides, I was afraid that he'd ask questions that I'd rather mom not hear the answers to.

Just as I rounded the corner, Sheriff Stilinski was opening his door. A young man walked out, a rather frustrated look on his handsome face. I recognized him from school, but couldn't remember his name. He was on the lacrosse team with Scott. John? James?

"Jackson," Stilinski called the boy to a halt before he got too far. "Call me if you think of anything else." The boy gave a curt nod and practically ran out of the station. The sheriff looked over at me, and the lack of surprise in his eyes told me that mom had called to let him know I'd be coming.

"Sheriff." I mustered up a small smile, which he returned.

"Your mom called a little while ago." He confirmed what I already knew as he led me into his office. It smelled like worn leather in the room, which I assume was thanks to the two old brown leather chairs sitting across from his desk. I wouldn't complain. The smell was oddly comforting. "Tell me what's going on."

I filled my lungs with a deep breath. On the drive over, I had practiced my story a hundred times. Short and sweet. Only the important details. Over and over again, I ran through what I would say, keeping all emotion at bay. When I finally looked up at the man in front of me, I was reminded of all the other times I'd been in this position over the past two years. How many times had I been to the police? How many times had I cried while telling my story to a man who ultimately couldn't or wouldn't help?

"This was a bad idea." I said, standing up from the chair in which I had just sat down.

"Sit down." he said without moving from his own seat. His voice wasn't harsh or demanding, but I felt inclined to listen. "One piece at a time. What happened yesterday?" he asked calmly.

"Someone called the school looking for me." I shook my head as I spoke, realizing how ridiculous it sounded to someone who didn't understand the full story. "The only people who would call for me are mom and Scott. But it wasn't them. No one else knows I work there. No one else would call the school…" I trailed off when I got a glimpse at his confused expression.

"Your dad?" he asked and I surprised both of us with a laugh.

"Yeah, Raff McCall, calling to check up on his disappointment of a daughter. Did you also hear that Hell froze over?" I rolled my eyes and filled my tone with sarcasm.

"Fair enough." He nodded. "So, who do you think it was?"

"My ex." Another shaky inhale. "I broke it off a little over two years ago. But.. he just doesn't stop." I felt the emotions start to slide their way into my voice, into my veins and blood cells, being carried to every part of my body. "He won't fucking stop." I dug around in my bag, suddenly remembering about the folded up piece of paper that was supposed to protect me. The protection order that he's been violating since day one.

Stilinski picked it up after I tossed it onto his desk. He read the front page carefully, his eyes coming up to meet mine over the paper.

"Okay." he took a deep breath. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"A few months ago. The night I," I paused, the words getting stuck in my throat. "the night I came home."

"Were the police called?" his tone didn't hold any of the judgement I was so used to hearing. Did you call the police? Why didn't you report that? All you had to do was dial 3 numbers.

"Yes." my eyes scanned over his office, focusing on anything but his face as I continued. "A witness called the police, but by time they got there, he was gone."

"Did they put a warrant out for him?"

"No." A long silence followed my answer, and I knew he was giving me the chance to collect my thoughts and continue. So I did. "There was nothing they could do. He had his hood up, so no witnesses could ID him. The diner has no cameras in the parking lot, so they couldn't prove it was him." My words began to come faster and louder. "No one was around to record it, and apparently MY word isn't good enough. He left nothing behind. No hair. No prints. No DNA. He even wore a fucking condom."

The words were out before I could stop them. Embarrassed, I hung my head to avoid seeing the look of shock on his face. My hands rubbed over my eyes, as if I could force the tears back to where they came from.

A tense silence hung in the air. I felt as though I had just let go of a hand grenade and we were waiting for the inevitable blast that I'd caused. I couldn't look up from the ground. I couldn't force my gaze to meet the older man's. So I stayed completely still, desperately wishing I had remained home.

The soft thud of something being placed on the desk and the clank of glass is what finally brought my eyes upward, after God knows how long. In front of him now sat a half empty bottle of whiskey and two lowballs. I glanced from the alcohol to the Sheriff as he poured a shot worth into each glass and pushed one forward.

"I don't know about you," he said, taking a short sip of his drink and sitting back in his chair. "but I sure as Hell could use a drink right now." I mimicked his actions, glad to have a distraction from the horrors I had just divulged. Though I hadn't said much, I knew he understood what happened that night in the parking lot. There was no need for me to elaborate.

"Yeah." I whispered, finishing the drink with another swift gulp. Stilinski nodded to the bottle and I took it as my que to pour us both a bit more.

"So, he knows you're in Beacon Hills." The fact that he didn't pose it as a question felt strange to me. "Which department took the last report?

"Staties. There was a barracks in my town back in Jersey." Relief flooded through me, and I couldn't pinpoint why.

"We'll get the report from them." He wrote a note on a nearby pad. "Parish!" he called, the sudden change in volume causing me to jump. "Sorry." he mumbled just before a young deputy stuck his head in the door.

"Sir?" the young man asked. His face was handsome and his eyes filled with the eagerness of someone who hasn't been tainted by the world yet.

"Call the school and ask them for phone records from yesterday around…" Stalinski looked at me.

"Um, seventh period." I thought aloud. "So, maybe 11:45?"

"Do 11:30 to 12." he told Parish, who nodded and started to head back to his own desk in the main area. "And Parish, if they give you a hard time, call Judge Hughes for a warrant."

My jaw hung slack, eyes glued to the sheriff. This was the same man who used to toss me in the back of his cruiser with a slew of curses and threaten jail time at least once a week. In two years, not one person had so readily believed me. Not one had offered to bother the judge for a warrant to obtain information. Not one had been willing to look any further than my own damn statement, calling it all a "wild goose chase".

"Now," His attention was back on me. "I can't promise anything will come of this. But I can promise that I'm going to do everything in my power to put him behind bars." Tears stung my eyes while a wave of emotion crashed over me. My mind grappled for words, but nothing came out when my lips parted. Stilinski took my silence as the end of our conversation and he rose from his desk. I followed, vacating the worn leather chair, but turned towards him before we reached the door.

"Thank you." My voice shook, but not enough to be noticed.

"You call me," he nodded "the second you feel like something's off."

Now I was the one nodding in agreement. For the first time in too long, someone had heard me.

The next day I felt high as a kite, despite not smoking an ounce of weed in years. The term "runner's high" came to mind. Athletes would often describe experiencing extreme euphoria after a long run. Something to do with adrenaline and endorphins and all that jazz. Personally, the thought of running even a quarter mile made my want to hurl, but maybe the same concept could be applied when someone so hopeless finally felt a shred of hope.

Ever since my conversation with Stilinski, I felt unstoppable. There was some type of power that came along with telling someone about the worst night of your life. Well, really it was just the fact that he'd believed me. I had told the police back in Jersey after they had found me in the parking lot. But they hadn't been the right people.

The genuine concern I saw reflected in his light eyes had sent my body on fire with hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this is where it could all end.

Or maybe I was setting myself up for disappointment.

The final period bell blared, pulling me back to the reality in front of me. The class of 20 something students bolted from their seats and rushed the door. I couldn't blame them. It was Friday after all.

Unlike the teens, I didn't hurry to pack my bag. The teacher I was in for was in charge of the debate team, and of course, debate nerds would have their meetings on Fridays. Because what teenager wouldn't want to stay after school on a Friday instead of going to a party?

I took my time heading to the library, the debate team's natural habitat. When I pushed open the double door, six heads snapped my way.

"Scott?" I practically choked on my own spit. I had to be in the wrong place. No way in Hell was my brother on the debate team. Stiles, who occupied the seat next to him, maybe. But Scott? Absolutely not.

"Did Argent send you?" A voice pulled my attention to the Librarian's desk, where a lanky teacher stood zipping up his bag. I had nearly forgotten that Allison's grandfather was the new principal.

"Um…" I hesitated, unsure of what was happening.

"I told him I needed coverage for half of detention. I'm assuming that's you." he slung his bag over his shoulder. I recognized him as one of the chemistry teachers, although I didn't know his name. Lucky for me, or maybe for him, he wasn't a teacher when I was in school.

I slid my eyes to Scott, who gave a slight nod. It was a silent call for help that went unnoticed by everyone else besides Stiles.

"Yup, that's me." I turned back to the man and gave him a toothy grin, hoping to seem innocent. Debate team would have to figure their shit out on their own. Besides, I didn't see anyone else in the large open room, so maybe the teacher had cancelled.

"Good. You're late." he didn't return my smile. "The offenders can leave after they restock the shelves. Every book on the carts needs to go away." He patted a book that lay on top of a nearby pile. "Do you understand?"

I raised my eyebrows at his condescending tone. What a fucking dick.

"Books," I pointed to the pile and then made a large sweeping motion towards the book cases that surrounded us "go on shelves." I flashed him another smile, this one more of a mocking expression. "I think my little lady brain can handle that." I pushed my way by him and leaned against the giant desk. I couldn't see his expression from where I stood, but he seemed to take an extra moment to collect himself before heading for the door.

"I think I love you." Stiles breathed as soon as the teacher was gone.

"Shut it Stilinski." I rolled my eyes at his sarcasm. "What the hell did you do to land in detention?"

"Well," Scott scratched the back of his neck and glanced over his shoulder at Allison's table.

"And you," I nodded to Jackson. "didn't I just see you at the police station yesterday? Sure the Sheriff would be thrilled to know that you're here... And you." I gave a pointed stare to Stiles and paused. "You guys are unreal."

"Why are you here?" Scott asked.

"I was supposed to be here for the debate team's practice." I held up the keycard I'd been given by the office. "I'm Mr. Robins today."

"That's wonderful." Jackson said smugly. "I'm leaving." he stood up and looped his arm through the strap of his backpack.

"Uh, no, you're not." I rushed to get in front of him, blocking his way to the door. "You," I picked up one of the books off the cart and thrust it into his chest. "are going to stock shelves." His eyes grew dark, sinister, as his brows knitted together. There was a small part of me that wanted to back away, but I was still riding the empowered high from my conversation with the Sheriff. So I stood my ground. He took the book and stomped off towards the shelves.

I turned my galre to Scott and the rest of the Breakfast Club. They responded by quickly collecting handfuls of books and following Jackson to the rows of bookshelves. I started to understand why power was so addictive to some. Having people do what you want with a single look? God, that felt good. I'd felt powerless for so long that watching the kids scurry off to return the books to their rightful place only increased my already intoxicated mindset.

I took up the other teachers perch at the desk and flipped through a Good Housekeeping magazine that was poking out from under the computer keyboard. Librarians must get bored from time to time, and I'd gladly reaped the benefits of that boredom by thumbing the pages of their guilty pleasure magazine.

Halfway through the 15 Life Changing Ways to Organize Your Kitchen article, a crash from the far end of the library caused me to jump to my feet, the rolling chair flinging behind me. Sparks rained down from an exploded ceiling light above the shelves.

"Scott!" I called as I ran towards the destruction. I heard my brother's voice yell out for Erica and an ear piercing roar followed. It occurred to me that I was getting way too comfortable with the ideas of werewolves, because the roar didn't stop or slow my sprint one bit. Ceiling tiles fell and crashed to the floor while several more glass lights popped and sparked. Stiles and Allison were huddled together in the first aisle I came to. Panic flooded their faces and I followed Stiles' gaze upwards just in time to see something swing from one light to the next.

"Get down!" Stiles yelled, but I wasn't quick enough to dodge the falling scrap of tile that fell on my shoulders. It knocked me to the floor with an audible umph. I saw Stiles inch forward and I threw my hand out to stop him.

"No! Stay there." I called over the clatter surrounding us. Picking myself up into a crouch and ignoring the sharp pains shooting through my back and shoulder, I kept moving down the aisles. Like all cheap ceiling tiles, the material was more like a heavy cardboard than a hard tile. So while it hurt like a bitch, I considered myself lucky. Erica stood with her back to me, facing a monster that was...half Jackson. My eyes couldn't make sense of the scene. It was Jackson, that much was obvious. But he also wasn't human. He didn't look like Scott when he wolfed out. He looked like a snake.

A long thick tail whipped around his body and the tip sliced across the back of Erica's neck. I ran to catch her as her body fell limply to the ground. Jackson was gone before I even reached her, but I knew he didn't get far. I inched my way closer to the open space at the end of the aisle where I could see Scott, Stiles and Allison. Jackson stood in front of them, his arm moving like a poorly oiled machine as he wrote on the chalkboard. His eyes were lifeless, as if he were in some sort of trance. It was terrifying to witness.

Before I had the chance to read what he wrote, Erica's arm banged against my thigh. Her whole body was rocked by tremors that continued to overcome her in waves. She was seizing.

"Scott!" I cried as I held her head steady in my lap. I was afraid that she would knock herself out if she hit it against one of the shelves or the floor. Stiles was beside me in an instant, helping to keep her body somewhat controlled.

"She's having a seizure." He looked up to his friend. "We have to get her to the hospital."

"Derek." Erica breathed through her clenched teeth. "Only Derek."

Scott and I exchanged looks. I knew what he was thinking, and I also knew that no matter how much I fought him on it, I would lose. His kind didn't belong in the hospital. Doctors would have no idea how to help them.

Neither did I.