Author's Note: At last.
The night was long. Neither Rick nor Michonne could sleep for more than an hour. Michonne lay awake thinking of Andre, trying to convince herself that being with Mike was at least the safest option.
Meanwhile, Rick couldn't close his eyes without Leon's lifeless ones staring back at him. 'I'm starting to wish that it was you who had died,' Lori's last words echoed in his mind. He glanced to the other half of the bed; Michonne's back was to him. Rick wanted to reach out to touch her shoulder but thought better of it knowing how restless she had been through the night.
Rick breathed deeply, inhaling lightly lavender-scented air into his lungs, and then slowly breathed out. He did it a few more times, with each exhale he tried to force the events that led to Leon's shooting out of his mind, his arguments with Lori and Shane, and why he lived two lives.
"Are you okay?" Michonne turned to her other side, the comforter pushed down to her feet, and her tired eyes focused on Rick.
"Yeah, just trying to clear my head for the day."
Michonne sat up. "Were you able to sleep?"
Rick shook his head. First rays of light trickled through the windows with each minute passing, brightening up the room more.
"I didn't think so." Michonne tucked her knees under her chin and hugged her legs. She yawned and rocked back and forth. "I feel lost."
Rick sighed, rolling his shoulders back. "Same."
They sat in silence for a moment. Neither wanting to speak or move or even think. Now, the birds were awake, chirping away and starting their day with a goal in mind. Those birds weren't lost, they knew what needed to be done to survive another day.
Rick made the first move. Tugging on Michonne's leg while sitting back against the headboard, he unfolded her and guided her to lie on his chest. Michonne gently pressed her body against his, relaxing in his arms. With her locs piled up in a bun and tied up, it made a soft cushion for Rick's chin.
"Let's find a way out," he said.
"What do you mean?" Michonne's fingers brushed against Rick's pec sending tingles down his abs. He hugged her harder in response.
"We're lost in this web of confusion and we need to find the exit. Where do we start?"
"Leaving breadcrumbs? If we get lost again, we can retrace our steps and try again."
Rick nodded, "I think we've already left breadcrumbs."
"Yeah, well I can't see them," Michonne replied with a sarcastic bite.
"I can take a stab that they lead to Negan. We just have to find and gather each breadcrumb that gets us to him."
Michonne sighed heavily, "I don't want to even think about him." The barely contained impatience was heard in her voice. "Thinking about him means I have to think about Merle and his dead brother, and my worst performance in the ten-plus years of being a lawyer."
"I know. I know," Rick rubbed his hands down Michonne's arms.
"It's hard to focus on those things when Andre is not with me." Michonne wiggled out of Rick's embrace and sat up on her knees. She looked around the room, her eyes focusing on the empty crib. "What if Mike wants to take me to court over Andre? What if—," her voice cracked as her eyes blinked rapidly. "What if I lose him… again?"
"Michonne…," Rick reached out to her, but she backed away from his grasp. Getting out of bed, Michonne went to the big tall windows looking out to the Atlanta skyline. "You're not going to lose Andre. As soon as we can bring Negan to justice–."
"Stop saying his name!" Michonne said, her voice rising several octaves loud enough that they were both sure Christie heard from her bedroom.
Rick hesitated, not certain what to say next that wouldn't set her off.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. She left the window and opened up a drawer, pulling out leggings and a sports bra. Michonne dressed as Rick watched. "I'm going to go for a run."
They eyed each other, Rick saw defeat written all over Michonne's body. That look made him uneasy. "I can come with you?" He asked knowing very well Michonne wanted to be alone.
She confirmed with a shake of her head. "No. I'll be back in an hour." She strode toward the door, stopped, turned, and stepped to Rick. Placing a hand under his chin, Michonne gave Rick a soft peck on the cheek and smiled.
"See you then," Rick said. Letting Michonne go knowing that her smile couldn't cover up the sadness in her eyes.
Cool, crisp windy air aided Michonne's run in the early morning hour. Her legs sprinted down the pavement and into the grass, cutting across the park. The classical sounds of a string orchestra and piano hummed in her ear as she passed other runners and walkers. All of them were in their own world with their thoughts and plans for the day.
A knot in Michonne's belly sat nagging her for being too dismissive of Rick. He was trying to get them focused on the big goal, but it was Andre at the forefront of her mind. A familiar emptiness grew in her heart and it scared her.
She picked up her speed. Trying in vain to outrun her thoughts, outrun dark memories creeping behind her eye. Racing through the park to a destination only her subconscious knew. Ten minutes into her run and Michonne's lungs were on fire, she violently sucked in air and exhaled, sweat poured down her face, and its salt stung her eyes. She burst out of the park, crossing streets not yet busy.
She ran, never stopping until she reached her condo's building. Michonne bent down, stretching her back and rubbing her legs which felt like jelly. Standing up she took out her phone and texted Mike.
I'm here. I need to see him.
Michonne clutched her phone to her heart, the classical music still strumming in her ear as she took the elevator to her floor.
By the time she entered her condo, Mike hadn't responded. The condo was dark and the central air was the only thing welcoming Michonne home. She thought twice about announcing herself and went directly to Andre's room.
Mike said he was taking their son to his mom's house, but Michonne knew that Mike would drag his feet. He never wanted to visit his mom and siblings unless he had to, Michonne hoped as she twisted the knob on Andre's door that she was right.
A lullaby quietly played on Andre's little radio and the room was illuminated with neon blue stars and green planets circling the area. Michonne crept over the carpeted rug and she slowly smiled.
Andre in his crib slept soundlessly on his back. Michonne looked upward to an unknown power and spoke a silent thank you as she touched her son's cheek. She wanted to drink this moment forever.
"You shouldn't be here." Mike spoke quietly.
Michonne spun around, "I live here… and I don't want to fight with you." She folded her arms, her fingers caressing her elbows. "I wanted him to see me when he woke up."
Mike leaned on Andre's door, he wore gray sweatpants and a black tee that hugged his torso. His large biceps flexed as he too crossed his arms as well.
"You can stay until we leave for my mom's."
Michonne wanted to challenge his statement; this was her home and that didn't give Mike the authority to just kick her out, but the ache in her limbs and Andre turning in his crib dampened her desire to argue. Instead, she rolled her eyes and walked past Mike her arm brushing against his.
"You know I couldn't sleep last night," Mike confessed. "I dreamed that Andre was crying out in pain, but I couldn't find him. It was like my mind was in a haze, I could barely keep my eyes open, and I felt like I was walking through quicksand. No matter how hard I tried to move forward I couldn't reach my crying son."
Michonne stared at the floor, remembering her frightful memory of Andre's death. Mike pushed himself off the door to stand straight and sighed. "I haven't been able to sleep since," he said.
Michonne nodded, shifting away from Mike. "I could make you some tea," she said. "It'll calm you enough to get a few more hours of sleep."
"I'm up. I should start packing." Mike started to walk past but Michonne placed her hand on his chest to stop him. They looked at each other, surprise and confusion on their faces at how close to each other they were.
"Your mom's place is a five-hour drive from here. You're going to be exhausted." Mike shook his head in protest, but Michonne continued, "I'll make tea. I need to go through my office, maybe box up files from my last case, so I'll take care of Andre while you get a few more hours of sleep." Michonne patted his chest and Mike saw that as an opportunity to grab her hand, holding it against him.
"I… I'm so confused Michonne. What is happening?" Mike tilted his head, softly shaking it in disbelief. There was a pregnant pause between them. Michonne contemplated the wisdom of repeating the story she told him last night.
"I don't know," she said. She kept her hand on his chest, feeling the warmth of his hand and the beating of his heart. "I'm sorry I'm breaking your heart. I'm sorry I can't give you answers," she said, taken aback by tears sliding down his cheeks. "If I'd never remembered—." Her voice broke, realizing the implications of her next words but wanting to speak them anyway. "This wouldn't have happened."
That only further confused Mike, his mouth dropped with a follow-up question on his lips. Michonne shook her head and dropped her hand. "I'll go make that tea," she said with a sad smile.
Michonne brewed up an herbal tea mix with honey. Mike dutifully drank his cup and went back to the bedroom they once shared. Michonne made herself hot chai, checked on her baby again, and then settled in her office.
Boxes, some half-opened were on her sofa and chair. A pile of papers and folders lay on top of her laptop. Clearing a path to her desk and a space on it, she sat and opened the laptop, and clicked on her email inbox.
The first item her eyes caught was a subject heading that read:
Work Performance — Merle Dixon case.
A heavy anchor of dread dropped to the bottom of her stomach. The email came from Mr. Champlain; the founding member of her firm and Christie's father. He freed her from that 72-hr hold and Michonne knew how her boss operated. Nothing he did came for free.
She clicked on the email. A meeting scheduled for next week Monday was set and a repeat of the offer Spencer told her. Take the case again, turn it around in your favor when the defense begins their argument then all will be forgotten.
Take the case again.
Michonne pondered those words with an unfocused gaze. She wished she was woken earlier than that day at the courthouse. Maybe on that day, she made the ill decision to represent Merle Dixon.
How did I know he was innocent to risk representing a losing case?
Michonne scrolled through her emails, stopping to read whatever caught her interest going back to last year. One was from her boss asking her to meet with him over dinner to discuss the murder trial. The next couple of emails after were links and attachments being forwarded to her by Luisa Evans. The attachments were digital copies of witness statements, the coroner's report, Merle's testimony, and other files related to the case.
Michonne knew Luisa worked in the public defender's office. She then scrolled further back through her emails and saw several email exchanges between herself and Luisa. All of them brief and all of them about transferring Merle's representation from Luisa to Michonne.
Michonne clicked on a missed instant message from her secretary from June 13th of that year.
Ms. Cassel, there's a man here who insists on speaking with you.
Michonne frowned, picking up her cell she dialed her office number.
"Janine, it's Michonne. I have a question. I know it's been a little over a year, but by off chance do you remember anyone urgently wanting to meet with me in June of last year?"
Janine laughed, "Ms. Cassel that was a long time ago, but luckily I know exactly what you're talking about cause that man had a face you wouldn't forget. He came in several times and refused to leave until you met him. Had to call security and everything, you don't remember this?"
"No… some things have slipped my mind." Literally.
"Oh, I understand. This happened before you took that murder case."
"Right. You said he had a face you wouldn't forget, what do you mean?"
"That man had these scars on the sides of his mouth. Like the Joker in that Batman movie. And—." Michonne heard typing on the other line giving her a moment to think. "Frank!" Janine shouted. "I have it right here on your schedule from last year. He only gave me his first name. Oh! I also remember he had an accent, kinda Irish sounding. Yep. I typed it all down on the calendar. He came in a few times, and one of those times I called security, but you came down to defuse the situation like you tend to do at times and then you told me to schedule a meeting with him the next day, but I don't remember him coming back."
"Janine. Thank you. This is helpful. Schedule a meeting for 8 am, Monday and send invites to Christie and Spencer. And add to that day another meeting with the boss at 10 am."
"Sure thing, Ms. Cassel. Are you feeling better?"
"Yes. Much better," the lie rolled off Michonne's tongue easily as she took another sip of her chai. "I'll see you on Monday Janine."
"Have a good day."
"You as well."
Michonne gnawled her bottom lip. Janine didn't tell her much, but if Michonne met with Frank then she would have notes.
She opened her desk drawer and a container that held her extended hard drive and several USBs. Grabbing a USB, she connected it to the laptop and entered her password to gain access to her protected notes.
The USB contained her meeting minutes and client files. The minutes were organized into dated folders, she clicked on a folder dated June of last year. Within were more folders and then she saw one labeled 'Frank - June 14th'. Michonne clicked on the folder and her screen demanded a password.
"Okay, that's weird," she said quietly. Frowning, the extra precaution her past self had taken made her worry. She leaned back against her chair and finished drinking the rest of her chai. She entered the same password for her USB only for the prompt to shake indicating it was wrong. Too easy. She tried various passwords she's used before with no results. Michonne chuckled, "Why the hell did I make this harder on myself." Whatever Frank told me, I didn't want anyone to know even if they had gotten this far, so what would my password be?
Michonne's eyes glazed over to her Manga collection sitting on her bookshelf. Memories swarm to meeting Carl in King County where he held an Akira manga tight to his chest. Michonne sat up straight, smiled wildly, and entered 'Shotoro Kaneda' which opened the folder.
"Still a nerd."
The folder contained a document labeled 'Minutes' and another folder labeled 'photos'. Michonne opened her minutes which accompanied a recording. She pressed play and sat back.
"Can you state your name for the record?" The sound quality of the recording wasn't great, so Michonne had to up the volume to hear.
"You don't need to know my name. It's not important." A man with a thick Irish accent responded.
"Okay, Frank. That's the name you gave my receptionist."
There was a pause. And shuffling could be heard in the background.
"Listen, lass. I'm going to be direct with ya. Do ya remember the double murders that happened two months ago?"
"It's Atlanta. There's a murder every day. So no."
"A couple got their heads smashed in. Police found their guy the very next day and now that guy is facing death."
"Let me guess, you're a relative of the suspect? Looking to see if I will represent him?"
"You're half right." The man sighed. "I knew the couple. Dwight and Sherry. Dwight is—was my cousin. Technically, a second cousin twice removed, or is it three times on my mother's side? Some bullshit, but family nonetheless."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Yeah, well. Shit happens and life is shit." Frank grunted and more shuffling of–more than likely–a chair in her office. "And yes I want ya to represent the guy they charged." Another pause. "I came to ya cause I was told to find ya?"
"Someone's recommendation?"
The present Michonne wrapped her arms tight around her body to stop her shaky limbs. That familiar sense of dread made itself known that it never left.
"Something like that…"
Michonne on the recording sighed, "You're not being very direct Frank."
"I work for the real killer."
"Why are you telling me and not the police?" Michonne could hear the panic in her voice.
"Cause they're in his pockets or at least the ones that matter. I want you to be that innocent guy's lawyer. Get him off those charges."
There was a long pause in the audio where only soft breathing was heard. Michonne knew that past her was thinking of whether or not it would be wise to ask…
"Why me?" Present Michonne sucked in a deep breath. "If there were a list of attorneys in Atlanta that have won high-profile criminal cases, my name would not be on it," she continued. "Why are you here?"
"Our time's almost up," he said. "Take the case."
"No! If you have pertinent information about a crime then I suggest you find another attorney to help you. I'm—."
"You either take the case or die."
Present Michonne's heartbeat pounded in her ears, she leaned forward gripping the desk.
"Wh-what? Ge-get out. GET OUT!" Michonne's voice boomed through the laptop's speakers.
"Listen to me. Listen." Frank's tone sounded soft, almost pleading. It made Michonne shake her head, her brows pulling in at the tone shift. "I'll give ya a day to calm down and then I'll contact ya again. I Don't. Want. To. Hurt you. Believe me. Here."
Michonne heard more background sounds of someone moving around.
"Ms. Cassell? Is everything all right?" Security?
"Read through it. At least the first couple of pages. It might help."
"Ms. Cassell!"
"He's leaving!" Michonne's voice was clear but wavered. In the background, footsteps and a door opening and closing could be heard.
"A journal." Her past self sighed and then the audio ended.
Like most things from the past year, she could not remember that encounter or whether or not this Frank did contact her again. But she couldn't think of any good reason as to why that encounter would have made her defend Merle even after hearing that threat. Michonne minimized the document and clicked on the folder with photos.
The first one was of Michonne inside a courtroom unaware of the camera. The second was of her with Christie sitting outside a restaurant. A chill ran down Michonne's spine as she clicked on each photo of her either running errands, meeting with someone, or alone with no clue she was being stalked. She stopped at a photo of her cradling an infant Andre in the midst of kissing Mike right outside their home.
Michonne balled her shaky hands into a fist trying to regain some sense of control. She
reached her limit. Her chest tightened as she thought about numerous reasons–one direr than the next–as to why those photos existed. She stood and paced around her office. So many questions. No answers. Restless, she lay down on the floor and began sit-ups.
What is going on? One.
Who is Frank? Two.
How much does he know? Three. Is he still following me? Mike? Rick? Four. Five. Six.
How did I even get my hands on these photos?
She stopped. Her chest heaved up and down. Has he tried to contact me since?
Merle's case was falling apart the moment Michonne woke up in that courtroom. Could Frank know that? This wasn't a trial that held a massive amount of public attention. So the chances of the drama occurring behind the scenes weren't known to more than a handful of people.
He's watched you. Followed you. Where there's a will, there's a way.
Or maybe he sent those photos to prove to Michonne that he was serious about his threat. Or maybe…
"Or maybe this is all bullshit!" Michonne said, her voice strained and choked with emotion.
Michonne went to her laptop again and reopened her minutes. She re-listened to the audio.
Frank gave her a journal. Now, where was it? Michonne pushed back her seat and opened her desk drawers. There were notebooks, folders, and office supplies, but no journal. She then went through the rest of her office, by the time she heard Anthony's voice from his room, her search was fruitless.
Stepping out of her office, Michonne came face to face with Mike. Both of them with the same mission; see after their son.
"He's awake," she said, her eyes not wanting to meet with Mike, but like a magnate, they felt drawn to his face. Mike smiled and nodded.
"I heard him talking to himself over the baby monitor."
"Oh!" She smiled and brushed past Mike as he took a step back and allowed her to open Andre's door. "Hey, baby boy. It's mama!"
Andre Anthony greeted his mother with bright eyes and a shining smile. Of the three individuals in the room, he was the only one who had gotten a good night's rest. Michonne held him in his arms and cradled him close to her chest. She would never get enough of his scent.
"I'll make breakfast. Although it's almost noon. You want anything?" Mike asked.
Michonne started to speak but hesitated when she left Christie's apartment, she didn't plan to be gone for longer than an hour. Rick knew she needed space, but Michonne knew he was worried that he hadn't heard from her.
Michonne raised her eyebrows and made silly faces with Andre. "You wanna help daddy with breakfast?" Andre exclaimed a garbled 'yes' and Michonne handed him over to Mike. "I have to make a few calls, but if it's alright I'll stay for brunch."
Mike shrugged but he had a smile that he couldn't contain, "It's cool." With Andre in his arms, he turned to leave.
"Hey! Umm… have you seen a journal around here. It has to do with my case and I can't find it in my office?"
"There's one inside the nightstand on your side of the bed. You were reading from it practically every night for a long ass time," said Mike.
Michonne nodded her thanks and waved as Mike and Andre headed for the kitchen.
The journal was where Mike said. Thick and mint green with a simple leaf drawing on the front, Michonne flipped through the journal. The journal was mostly filled, but the handwriting was not hers.
She took a deep breath in and sighed. Sitting on the bed, she opened the first page and began to read.
I bought a journal. After chemo, I had the nurse take me to Target and while feeling like a normal person for once, I had the sudden inspiration to be an 18th-century girl sitting by her window, writing in a diary about her mundane life. Fast forward, I've sat here for ten minutes not knowing if I should write the one topic my subconscious is yelling for me to write. I could just share with you how I'm feeling. Like shit. The end. Telling you how I feel will get old and like this journal's predecessors, I will probably keep up with it for a few days and never write in it again. But I could write about THAT THING. That thing that's been bugging me for a year now. Eating at me faster than the chemicals pumped into my body. But if I write about THAT THING then this journal starts to feel a lot like my last will and testament.
FUCK IT! Let's do this! I have to let this shit go. And writing in this journal is my best option. My only option. So… FUCK IT!
One morning he scared me half the death, I woke up to him screaming. Screaming at me! Bloody fucking murder. He kept blabbing about me being dead and then he attacked me. Held me down and started choking me.
Negan hurt me in a lot of ways but he had never put his hands on me up until that morning. You know he had a bad relationship with his father. Alcoholic, wife beater, child abuser. Negan would only tell me so much about his childhood. Never went into details, but I think his father did more than just beat him. You know.
Anyway, I'm choking, trying to fight back, but I'm only so much woman. The scariest part besides thinking I was going to meet my maker is the look in Negan's eyes. He was scared. And I watched that fear turn into recognition and then he let go of my neck. He started apologizing over and over again and he was crying. Another new thing. I didn't know what to make of it. He tried to hug me, but I didn't want to be anywhere near him. I rushed to put my clothes on and left. He didn't go after me. He stood in a corner of the room and just stared at me as I was putting myself together. Like, he hadn't seen me in years and wanted to make sure I had all my fingers and toes and wasn't about to sprout a second head.
I didn't stay gone long. I went to the closes Ihop and checked my neck. The whole thing was already bruising up, it looked bad, it felt worse, and I could barely talk, but I wrapped a scarf I managed to dig out of my closet around my neck and ordered breakfast. And while I sat there, I decided to forgive him, something wasn't right that morning. That wasn't him.
I went back the next day and he must have bought every single flower he could find in Atlanta because it was in my house. And he came out of the kitchen, kept his distance from me, and said that he wasn't himself yesterday. Which wasn't a lie. He wasn't. He said he doesn't know how to explain it but that his mind felt elsewhere. That it felt like he was elsewhere. "In another timeline", he said. I didn't know what to make of it. It sounded like crazy talk, but I forgave him because I knew he didn't mean it. I knew Negan wasn't giving the typical abuser speech.
For two months, it was bliss. Like we were dating again, but it was even better. We fucked every day, twice a day, sometimes three. In the first month, we talked about having babies again. A sore subject within our marriage, but he was so gleeful about it. "Brenda baby, we're going to have a fucking baby because miracles are fucking real." In the second month, we started talking about adoption. "Brenda, there's some kid out there who will be fucking lucky to have us as parents." But, then the third month I fell ill–stage 4 breast cancer and that changed everything.
He turned into a monster. He was so angry with me. I remember on the ride home from the doctor, he wouldn't look at me or touch me. I mean I'm the one who's dying here, not him. All he could say was "it was too good to be true. And fuck this world, fuck God. Fuck me." The one time he did look at me, I didn't see fear. I saw hatred. I stayed with my sister for a week. She helped me prepare in case things got worse. And it did. I came home after that week and he was in our bed with two women. He didn't even stop fucking those bitches when he saw me standing at the door.
More chemo and more medication made me weaker which meant I could barely get out of bed most days. The few times we were breathing the same air, I'd beg him to pay for home care. If you don't want to take care of me then give me a nurse. I didn't want to be a burden on my sister anymore and he is my husband! For better or worse. Sickness and health. Blah blah, just pay for a fucking nurse, I told him. He did, bought me a hospital bed so that I would sleep downstairs, a nurse, and then he disappeared. But, I didn't care as long as the nurse was here. She was real nice until I heard them upstairs. And then he came downstairs with this big grin on his face. He looked so evil. "Most expensive fucking blowjob I've ever paid for, but worth it," he said to me.
I just… I just don't know why he hates me so much. I don't know what happened. He acts as if I'm already dead and he's moved on. Maybe I am. Maybe he received a premonition or something like an evil Mr. Cleo, but why act like this? What's with the personality shift? I'm writing everything I've gone through this year to hopefully come up with an answer. I… I also don't think I have much time left on this Earth anyway. So I don't want to be forgotten. I want my story told. I want my family to know… everything! Yeah, I guess this journal will be my last will and testament.
Well shit.
"Food's ready." Mike's heavy bass voice startled Michonne.
"Okay," she said with a short nod. She glanced back at the journal and skipped through several pages. Closing the journal, Michonne rested her forehead against it. It couldn't be a coincidence that this was the same Negan that Rick met. The same Negan who vouched for one of the murder victims in court. And Frank… Frank gave her this journal. Therefore it'll be safe to conclude that Frank's boss was Negan.
Pieces of the puzzle were being found and a picture was finally forming. And that picture left a sour taste in Michonne's mouth.
"Michonne?" Mike still stood at the door. His eyebrows were drawn together. The smell of bacon wafted into the room and despite the hunger pangs in her stomach Michonne had no desire to eat. "Are you good?" He moved out of her way as she walked by asking in a way they both knew there was no honest answer.
Michonne stopped, closing her eyes she took a calming breath. "Mike. I have to show you something."
"What is this Michonne?"
It's a question Mike's repeated multiple times while clicking through the folder of photos. He glanced at her searching for an answer and then back at the screen. When he reached the photo of them and Andre, Mike flinched his head back as if the photo was a jumpscare.
Michonne softly squeezed his shoulder and sighed deeply. "It's related to the trial. This guy wanted me to defend Merle—."
Mike jerked away from Michonne's laptop and her touch. The muscles in his neck strained against his skin. "I'm calling the police."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"This man stalked you. He's probably still stalking you. Why didn't you tell me sooner? Michonne these photos are from last year!" Mike's voice increasingly grew in volume.
"This… stuff! It's news to me as well!" Michonne put up her hands in defeat. "There's a black hole in my memory where important information about this case has been sucked into. I'm just trying to put all the pieces together."
He grabbed Michonne by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her skin as if he was gearing up to shake sense into her. "Our son is in these photos!"
"I'm going to tell Rick," she said dropping her shoulders to free herself from Mike's grip. But the mention of Rick made Mike tighten his hold on her.
"How the fuck is a hillbilly cop going to protect my son?" He looked at Michonne with an intense, fevered stare.
"Don't." Michonne shook her head and forcibly removed his hands from her. "Rick's in the same boat. If this guy knows about me, I'm sure he knows of Rick."
"You think I give a damn about that man."
"I know you don't! But I do!" Michonne spat. "We're in this together and I trust my life in Rick's hands." Michonne met Mike's eyes, "I trust him to protect Andre as well… and you."
"That means nothing to me." Mike stared at Michonne and slowly his eyes soften. He then collapsed onto the chair and put his head in his hands. "You're just a lawyer. What have you gotten into that now I'm seriously worried about my family's safety? First, you're cheating, now this!" Mike looked up at her and shook his head. "Baby this has to stop. Now!"
Eyes watering, Michonne rested her hand on Mike's head. "I'll fix this."
It was all she could say and she knew it wasn't enough.
Mike's eyes were fixed toward the wall to his left and his jaw clenched and unclenched. "I'm leaving now with Andre and I'm giving you twenty-four hours to report this guy to the police." He stood and looked down at Michonne, "If you can't even do that, how the hell can I trust you with Andre." He brushed pass Michonne, leaving her in despair.
Michonne stared at Christie's door number, returning with the same uncertainty that she tried to dispel through her run. She clutched tightly to the journal and Andre's blanket in her hands.
The blanket was her son's parting gift to her when she secured him in Mike's car. Her intuitive son had sensed her sadness and held out his security blanket. Meeting Andre's deep brown eyes, the two locked themselves into silent communication between mother and child.
"I promise, I'll keep you safe." It was the last thing Michonne said before Mike began his and Andre's journey to his mom's house.
Wiping tears from her face, Michonne softly knocked on the door, and in seconds, Rick opened it.
Eyes large, Rick carried so much tension in his shoulders and chest, he looked as if he was about to burst. He pulled Michonne into the apartment and in his arms. She laid her head onto his shoulder, her nose and mouth smushed against his neck. Rick squeezed her tightly as if the only way to keep her safe was to absorb her.
"Don't disappear on me like that ever again," said Rick. He rubbed her back, massaging her muscles through her clothes. Rick thought Michonne would only be gone for an hour at most, but it'd been an entire morning of him agonizing over their last conversation.
This is too much for her. He felt like a fool for not recognizing that Michonne wasn't the same woman as before. He knew that woman wasn't gone, but he failed to realize she was struggling. Memories fragmented. Plagued by horrid visions. Symptoms of awakening to this new… world?— were harsher on her than him, so Michonne lashing out was understandable. But as one hour turned into an entire morning gone and his calls to her weren't being answered, only the worse thoughts intruded his mind.
He held her even tighter to the point Michonne pushed against his torso. "I can't breathe," she said.
"You scared me." He release some of his grasp on her enough to where they met face to face. She shook her head, her eyes still carrying that sadness from this morning.
"What I have to share with you will scare you more."
Rick sat on the bed, reading sparingly through the journal Michonne handed him and digesting the information Michonne found in her office.
Frank. "That son-of-a-bitch! I'm going back there Michonne." Rick looked at Michonne with ferocious intensity. He tossed the journal onto the bed and walked toward his Colt Python snug in its holster on the dresser.
Michonne stood, gazing out the windows, arms folded and withdrawn. Only when she saw Rick equipped with his signature weapon around his waist did she lazily turn her attention to him. "You can't go back to that bar guns blazing."
"Yeah well, I'm not waiting for Negan or his henchman to come after my family."
"Rick."
"Mich— we don't know what that man knows!" Rick secured his belt on his waist and pulled out his Colt to inspect.
Michonne sat on the bed. She looked spent as if she was due for a very long sleep after an overnighter. "I don't think he knows. Not yet at least. We have time. I think Frank's giving us time."
"Your stalker? I've seen this man up close, he's not a savior."
"No, but he wants Negan gone." Michonne sighed, "But I need more than a journal. So we'll talk to Frank." Michonne looked over to Rick and raised an eyebrow, "calmly."
Rick chewed on his cheek. The anger in him grew quiet as he contemplated taking the 'calm' approach. He was glad that Michonne was back on board of following the breadcrumbs. But, it bothered him that the danger was closer than he initially thought.
"There's something else we need to talk about."
"What?"
"The bigger mystery of why we're here."
Rick sat next to Michonne and wrapped his arm around her waist inching her closer to him.
"Is this what the afterlife is like?" Michonne looked at him with her mouth drawn up and her eyes watery.
Rick could only shrug. A part of him deep down didn't want to think about the reason behind the split memories.
"When I was younger I had these existential crises about death and what comes next. And for a while, my faith was in the Christian belief that there's a place waiting for me. A place where I'm reunited with my mother, and my grandmother, my goldfishes I kept killing," Michonne said with a small laugh. "A place where I can be at peace and wait for my children to meet me again. Then I would think, what if that doesn't happen? What if when my heart stops beating, I stop breathing, my brain stops communicating and I lose consciousness, what if there's nothing? Just nothing. And I can't protest. I can't scream and bargain and plead to go back because I wouldn't even know. I wouldn't know that I just don't exist anymore."
Rick traced small circles on Michonne's lower back. His brows knitted in deep thought as he tried to take in Michonne's words.
"But those thoughts become too much for me to bear," she continued. "So then I think, humans have been around for thousands of years. Thousands. Who's to say we haven't ridden in this car called the world over a dozen times? Maybe when I breathe my last and I ceased to have any consciousness of who I am. Me, Michonne. Then suddenly, I start to recognize myself. My first memory is sparked. My first realization of who I am and it's not Michonne, but I'm a new me. Different parents, different race, different class status, but the same world."
"Do you think we've died?" Rick held his breath until his lungs burned and then he let it go. There. I said it. That dreaded question he's been wanting to ask since the moment he reunited with Michonne.
Michonne met his eyes, "Yes. And it seems like those who believe in reincarnation was the closes to getting it right. We die, but we come back to our own life. Like God, the universe, or whoever, whatever, pressed the rewind button and said go back, start again. And maybe with us, something went wrong. Something went really wrong. We're not supposed to be conscious of our past lives. We're not supposed to remember the triumphs of our future or the pain. Just in case, in the worse case, we're heading towards the same fate."
Michonne stood up with her arms crossed, she began to pace.
"And if we're heading towards the same fate then… I think I know why Negan has done what he's done. I understand why he might target us. He died. And it was because of us!"
"Michonne." The heaviness of that statement made his heart thud harder.
She waved her hand dismissing whatever Rick was about to say. "I had a dream that you and I were in the middle of a war. We were fighting this big bastard and then an explosion blew us apart. And when I met Daryl, it felt like we met before. It felt like I knew him. That we were… friends. Negan did not need to go after Daryl when he had his patsy for his crime. I bet my life, Daryl was targeted. And… that nightmare the other night—no—a memory. Negan killed Morgan. Smashed his head in with a bat just like the others."
"Morgan?"
"Yes. I swear. Morgan died right in front of us in that other world. And I bet Morgan knows about what we're going through. He's hiding something!"
"I can agree with you on that." Michonne frowned. "I agree with you on everything," Rick said amending his previous statement. "And that's why we need to find sufficient evidence that connects Negan to the murders that occurred here and put him away."
"No." Michonne shook her head. And Rick looked into her wild gaze. A memory sparked in his brain. It was him in the middle of a yard and his eyes connected through a fence to the same wild gaze of a stranger who became his whole world.
"Rick," Michonne said, holding his hand. Her stare was fixed on his own, she reached up and glided her hand through his short curls. She took a deep breath and let it out and with total clarity in her eyes, she said, "to keep our family safe. Negan has to die."
