Author's Note

I want to clear up some confusion before it starts. Time is a little crazy in this chapter. In the last one, Tobias talked to Tris twice. Their first conversation was recently after Tris found the letters, and in the second call (Skype), Tris revealed that she had discovered the identity of Kavolo. There was a bit of a time gap between the calls and this chapter is what happened between them (and a LOT happened). The next chapter should pick up on their conversation that was at the end of the last chapter. But first, a flashback! Enjoy!


I do not own anything, just my ideas.

Chapter 46

TRIS

I smell the faint hint of fire smoke. The fire cracks as it grows higher and higher. The flames become monstrous, and I marvel at the tips of the flames as they tentatively dance and quickly disappear. As the night passes, though, it burns down lower and lower until it is just simmering coals. But then a new log is added and the process begins again.

I know I let the pain in. I know when I let it in. I do not have much to protect myself from it. The pain hides love from the moments like this that are supposed to be filled with love. So I hold the pain close to me to keep it from destroying any other kind of love; it moves through me. And it gets me instead of devouring and destroying someone else. It gets me every time. I wish I can understood how to make the pain disappear.

I watch the small party unfold in my house from the top of the stairs. Streamers act as vines across the walls and campaign is consumed as if it is water. Happy grins and excited eyes take presence throughout. I am not apart of the celebration—like I would want to be there, anyway. And it's a good thing I don't mind spending the evening and night upstairs because even though my father didn't tell me, I know he didn't want me to be downstairs.

Downstairs where he and his coworkers are counting down the minutes until the clock strikes midnight and then confetti will fly and glasses will be held high in cheers for the New Year.

I used to look forward to New Years. It was always a promise. A promise of a new beginning. A promise of a year full of events that can be anything you want. A promise that things could change, and I always believed that the change could be for the better. It was a promise of hope.

But now all I feel is dread. The pain that blackens my heart hides the old love from this moment that should be happy.

I know that this year will be nothing but horrible. Last year proved that. I remember the ticking inside me that did not stop after the clock stroke midnight one year ago. No, the ticking was time counting down to other things.

One month after New Year's last year, Caleb found out about the baby. And he didn't believe me. I can still feel the sharp pain as his knife dug deeper into me. One week after that, Caleb told dad. I didn't expect my father to understand, but I did hope that he would break from his trance and be there for me. But he stayed in his state of working and ignoring. Four months later, I gave birth to Rose, and then I said goodbye to her.

This past year made me realize that you are going to lose people and realize that no matter how much time you spent with them and told them how much they meant to you, it will never seem like it was enough. Nothing was enough.

And here I am again. Watching from afar and counting down to the New Year. Remembering the past year and the pain it brought. The pain of everything spreads across my eyes and everything feels… dull.

Because when I look around at the mass of people, they are all smiling. They are happy with joys of looking back at the good times and imagining a bright future of the New Year. Their happiness pushes me away. So far away it feels like I am an alien.

I just can't understand how people can be happy. I can't figure out what happiness is anymore. It's like everything around me is blue. Sad. Dead.

I hear a small laugh. It is forced, but it is still a laugh. The only reason I hear it from the crowd is because it is from my father. He stands among friends and colleagues looking happy, but I can see behind the façade. I can see the real him from what he projects for others to see. Inside, he walks through life asleep because the only one who seemed to wake him up is dead.

I wonder if he can hear me. Hear my cries for help in the silence that follows me. If not him, anyone? Could there be anyone out there that can hear me? Can my mom even hear me? Can she hear my begs, my cries, my sleepless nights?

But right now I don't care about anyone else—I just want my father. I want him to hold me again. I want him to pick me up and dust me off when I fall. I want him to give me the courage to do things I can't do on my own. No one else can do these things for me, except for my father.

And maybe it is this night that makes me so desperate for his love. This night that promises change. The walls that he puts up to hold everyone away can maybe fall down.

I move slightly (to wipe a tear from my face), and his eyes jolt to the movement on the stairs. Me. He looks angry at first, because he wishes for me to stay away. I am a disgrace to our family, after all. While his eyes burn as they fall upon me, there is a hidden sadness… It's something similar to grief that flashes across his eyes. I can't understand why he hates me so much. Even before the baby, I could never understand why he couldn't look at me, why he couldn't even touch me… Why he couldn't love me.

Ever since mom died, he has created this distance between us, and her. The only place I can keep my mother alive is in my mind—and my heart. There is nothing in this house that has her memory; it's like he's forgotten her. The only thing that he keeps of her is in his office. On a desk where she sits inside of a frame made of wood. A picture where she is trapped. It's like he never loved her… or me.

Please, I beg. Please hold me—hold me and my frozen heart. Mend and thaw the cold that grows each day. I stare and plead with my eyes. I feel the distance between us grow more and more, and as I look to him so far away, I feel the year of pain all pass through me.

I can't be alone right now. I can't. I need to feel something, if just for this one night. This night that promises hope. I'm lost. I am so lost and I can't find a way out of this labyrinth—at least, not alone.

I am asleep. I don't know if anyone can wake me.


My finger taps idly against the granite counter. He said five o'clock, and it is 5:03. He would not stand me up like this. After all this time… He was the one to call me; he wouldn't just not come, or come late for that matter.

I wonder if he has changed at all.

Even though I saw him a few months ago, I have decided to not count that. It was a moment of high emotions and harsh words that I may or may not regret. I can't quite remember all that happened. It's too much of a blur. Before then, though, it had been almost a year. A year since he dropped me off without a kiss on the head or even a hand on my back.

He still isn't here. I could still leave. But the wonder will be there.

I have forgiven Caleb, but am I ready to do that with my father. There comes a time when you have to choose between turning the page and closing the book. Some endings were not meant to be read, while some beginnings are lost in translation. And part of me believes that leaving my father forever is what is meant to be. Not in the way there is some reason for it, but because there are supposed to be broken things in your life. It is the universe making it chaotic, real. Even roads have holes.

And for that reason, the imperfections, I stay sitting, waiting.

I hear the front door open, and a pair of footsteps accompanied by a rolling suitcase take up the noiseless air.

I grip my cup of lemonade that is almost gone. When I got to the house, I poured myself a glass; I almost poured one for him, but I don't know if he still likes lemonade. I took a seat on one of the bar chairs to the counter in the middle of the kitchen.

When he turns the corner to the kitchen and sees me sitting there, he has a surprised look on his face. Even though he asked me to come over, he is stunned as if he thought I wouldn't come. Or maybe it's something else.

"Hi dad."

"Hello Be—I, uh, I mean Tris."

"Where was it this time?"

"Milwaukee." The hair on his head is cut short. That's normal. He had always kept hair that was short and manageable. And he has always kept a short shave, too. (The only exception would be the winter time when he sometimes let his facial hair grow into a scruff.)

"Your hair looks nice," he says placing his suit case to the side and grabbing a cup from the cupboard. "I don't think I have ever seen it so short."

"I donated it." He laughs to himself as he walks to the fridge. "What is it?"

He begins to pour his own glass of lemonade. "Nothing. It's just something your mother would do, that's all."

I stop what I am doing. Your mother. This has to be the first time he has even mentioned her in… years. He's such a meticulous person. Everything he does has a purpose; there is nothing wasted. So I know it is not a minor slip-up of words when he says Your mother. I turn to look at him, but he still faces the other way. I notice the way his shoulders sink down as if he doesn't fight the gravity pulling him down. His hair has more freckles of grey. I never noticed what the years did to my father; I don't think I truly saw what grief has done to him.

For forever, I thought he let her go. He stopped loving her. He stopped remembering her. He blocked anything and everything that reminded him of her, as if it was too painful. My father is strong, though. How could he be selfish enough to do that? How could he be so weak to completely leave me?

How could he block me out?

I've been told enough times that I am just like my mother. He just told me. Maybe that's the reason he became so distant from me. With Caleb, he's so much like father. I on the other hand, am so much like my mother. Could that be it?

He asks, "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah."

"We can make some spaghetti."

My heart jumps. "Okay."

He begins to get the pots out while I go to the pantry. It is funny how I can be gone from this house for so long, yet I can still find the places where the food sits. We begin to work without words. I place the noodles and sauce into different pots on the stove, and he begins to roll meat into balls.

There is a small ache in my heart, but it is minor and only lasts a second. Then a feeling of relief rushes through. Even with the long summer days, the sun is beginning to drift closer and closer to the horizon and soon it will disappear completely. The purest evening light take up different spots on the counter.

Spaghetti was something my mother would always make. She and I would make it together. Back then, father wouldn't travel as often, but when he did, we would make him special spaghetti for when he would come home. It became a tradition to have spaghetti after a big trip. Even though my father's back is facing me, I can tell his mind is running around the same memory.

"It's funny how you can do so much with a simple dish," he says after a while.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… Spaghetti is noodles, sauce, and some balls of meat. But if you want to add more, you can. There is spaghetti, but you can add and change different aspects until you make a dozen different dishes. One has chunks of tomato; another has specific spices, and others have different noodles."

"I guess."

"Your mother was like me. Simple. She never added anything special to make it anything different. It was food. It's spaghetti."

There is a silence that feels as old as time itself.

"I found them. I found the letters she wrote me." I say abruptly. "Actually, Caleb gave them to me."

"Letters from your mother?"

"Yes."

"I remember when she was making them," he laughs, a sound I am not used to, but I enjoy it every rare time I get to hear it. "One time, we were out at dinner and were in mid conversation when she jumped in her seat, grabbed a pen from her purse, and began writing on a napkin. She told me it was for something she was making for you, and I had said something that she wanted to include in a letter."

"She talked about you."

He hesitates, but continues his work. "Oh."

"She wrote about how you met and how much you loved each other."

"Love each other. You don't stop loving someone."

"You stopped loving me."

This time he stops, yet his back is still facing me so I can't see his face. I don't mean it as an insult; to me, it's the truth. I want to see if he confirms what I am thinking right now.

"I—I never stopped l-loving you. Never. You…"

"We both know that you hated me. I'm not a little girl, so you don't have to keep lying to me," and yourself. "You always treated me like the leap days that never belonged, but still found a way to appear every once in a while—the days that weren't supposed to happen. I was too much like my mom, and that killed you."

"You don't believe that?"

"I do. And even though it hurts, it's the truth. You thought I was her, and thinking of her—God forbid thinking of her—was too much for you. The worst part is I'm not like her. I-I'm not a perfect person, or even a graceful person. I'm not a sunset on a beach or a Sunday morning in June. I'm the sirens you hear at three in the morning. I don't float; I fall. No, I tumble. And you were never there to catch—"

The smoke alarm begins to wail and I turn down the burners on the stove. I realize I was beginning to scream—my voice reaching higher as I let everything bottled inside me explode out. My father grabs a magazine and begins to fan at the smoke detector. When goes off, he walks back over to where I am standing and places a hand on my shoulder.

He made it clear after she died that emotions were better bottle up. Feeling and expressing was selfish, and it did not accomplish anything. It was better to go outside yourself and reflect to be better. Forgetting the pain and focusing that energy on something else was the right thing to do. But that was wrong. Keeping everything inside was the worst thing to do because it grew like an animal until its wild instincts couldn't be contained. Eventually, it floods out. I wonder if he feels the same way.

"You are so much like her. You… are so much like her that every time I looked at you, it reminded me that she was gone. I thought staying away would be better for both of us."

"How could you think that? How could you possible think that was okay?! I needed you! After she died I needed you so much! I wanted you to kiss my head and rub my arm. I wanted you to tuck me under the covers and look under my bed for monsters. I wanted you to give me strength. But you didn't. I wanted you to be my father, but you weren't!"

Soft tears begin to fall, and they pick up speed as the words come out like vomit.

He pulls me into a hug. "I'm sorry, Beatrice. I'm so sorry." His own voice catches in the back of his throat. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have seen my father cry.

"I know that it probably shouldn't hurt anymore. I'm old enough now and have experienced enough to know the consequences that follow each choice and mistake. And here I am and here you are and we're just… We're broken. And I thought you never cared."

He pulls me tighter, tighter than he ever has. It's like he is pulling me into him, his arms protecting me from the dangerous world I am already well aware of. Yet, having him hold me this way makes me feel small, but… loved. It's intoxicating because I haven't felt this love from him in years. I forgot how safe and warm it feels.

"You and your brother were the only things that reminded me it was real. That she was here, and that she wasn't. You were the hardest. It was like a slap in the face, constantly telling me that your mother… I'd see you and you had her eyes and you stood on the balls of your feet like her and…"

"And that is your reason to hate me?" Even though I have come to realize it myself, it still hurts to hear him say it. Like I was nothing but a reminder of the horrible tragedy—that all he saw when he looked at me was her death.

"No… I just wish she was here, and—"

"But she died, father. She's gone, and she's never coming back." No matter how many times I say it or how many years go by since it happened, the hurt is always there. It may lesson at times, but it never goes away. "You can blame others all you want for your sadness, but that doesn't make it go away. Blaming others doesn't make it okay. I know."

"—How?" We pull back, and I look deep into his eyes. They are vulnerable—broken. They plead with all their force. In them, I see years of emptiness and longing.

"Because I blamed you. I blamed you and Caleb for everything." I put my face back on his chest, right where I can hear his heartbeat—it fits there as if we are pieces of a puzzle. With small tears still falling, I say against his shirt, "I thought you and him were the cause to all my pain. And I hated you both for it."

"What changed?"

"Time. It has a way of allowing numbness to seep into open wounds. Once there, that numbness settles, and pain subdues. I realized that hating you didn't lesson the pain, and blaming you didn't take away any of the burden. And I guess, with the passing of time, I grew up, and growing up means moving on from the things that once held you down."

"You were too young. I'm sorry. No one that age should have gone through what you have had to go through." For some reason, I feel like he isn't just talking about losing my mother. "You're too young to hate the world as much as you did. And I let it happen to you."

I don't want to defend him. For years, I blamed him for so much, and now he's admitting to everything. There's this mixture of grief and guilt about him in this moment. And even though grief is not as heavy as guilt, it takes more away from you. And this man who I call my father who never shows emotion stands in front of me broken.

At this point, words are useless. In this house when touching never happened, we have learned that our movements and contact are deliberate and with meaning. So words mean nothing when I hug him tighter. And his response isn't spoken, but shown when he traces a finger across my face pushing a hair out of my eyes, and he plants a soft kiss on my forehead. With these small movements, words are irrelevant.

Eventually, we let go and finish preparing the food. AS if we are an oiled machine, we fall into the normal pattern of setting the plates and utensils out on the table. It's as if the years that gap this moment from the last time we ate spaghetti dinner together don't exist.

While we eat, I ask, "What do you know about what mother was doing before she died?"

"Not much. She preferred to keep work at work. She didn't talk much about her cases with me."

"But she did talk to you?"

"Around that time, she told me to be more careful. I asked her why, but she didn't want to talk about it. She did tell me she was helping a criminal, which I found odd."

"Odd?"

"Well, apparently the man was a known drug dealer, a real bad guy, but he was being accused of a murder he claimed he didn't commit. Your mother was herself, helping others no matter who they were. She was defending this man, but she said it was much bigger than just being framed for murder."

"What was it, then?"

"She didn't say. She told me that the less we knew, the safer we were."

"Who cares if we were safe if she wasn't?"

"That's what I tried to tell her, but your mother still didn't budge."

"And you didn't try and protect her?! What if that's the reason she's dead? What if we could have done something to stop it?"

"Stop it? Tris, it was an accident."

"Or is that only what we think?"

"Don't do this to yourself. I thought you were doing better, why would you bring this up? Why did you come here for this internship? And with him?" I look between disgust, anger, and sorrow cross his face.

"David?"

"Don't talk about him in this house. If you knew what he tried to do to our family."

"You… How do you know anything about me?"

"I, uh, I talked to Tori."

I sigh. "Look, it doesn't matter. What I do is my business. I'm going to find out what really happened whether you help me or not."

"Don't destroy yourself over this."

"You don't need to worry about that; I've had to put myself back together before."

"What if you can't be fixed?"

"… Then, I'll bring whoever down with me."


Time is an illusion. It is measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days… yet it never goes the way we want it to. It never goes fast enough when it is empty, and it doesn't slow down no matter how much we want it to drag. It is never as solid or strong as we believe it to be. In the end, it doesn't even matter because it will be gone out of hand like wind traveling through the air. And like most important things, we will not understand how important it is until it is gone.

That's what happens when I walk into the office one Friday morning. I realize how much time has gone by and how many questions that I have yet to answer.

Every once in a while, a mysterious man walks into the office and goes directly to David's office. The blinds are always closed. He is a very tall man with dark skin and a bald head. Even with a suit on, I can see muscles budging from the material. One brave day, I walked to David's office while they were in there after I had found an excuse to be there, and I heard David call him Mr. North.

That was the mysterious Mr. North. The man who would occasionally walk in with his perfectly tailored suit and powerful demeanor. He is intimidating, but not in the way that makes me want to cower down. It makes me almost… curious.

When I was close to the door, I pretended to drop my papers. No one seemed to notice too much, and as I slowly picked them up, I pressed my ear closer to the door of David's office to hear what they were saying. It was hard, especially with all the noise everyone else around me was making. I only caught certain parts of their conversation.

"… Are you serious? She—"

"… already hard for me…"

"This arrangement… time…"

"… I can handle it, just like…"

"Just keep an eye... Don't want the same…"

I got frustrated as the conversation went no where I could follow. I decided it was best to not disturb their conversation, and I went back to my desk to work. Minutes later, Mr. North walked out and he looked right at me. His eyes were fire, burning right through me.

There is a buzzing sound in my lap, and I look down to see my phone is ringing.

I take my phone to the break room and say, "Hello?"

"Ms. Prior? This is Detective Romano; I believe you wanted to reach me."

"Yes. I wanted to ask you a few questions. You probably don't remember me, but my mother was Natalie Prior. You were in charge of the investigation of her death."

There is silence on the other end, as if he is connecting the dots… and something else. Like there is more to the picture. I ask, "Sir?"

"… Yes! Ah, yes… Beatrice, is it?"

"I go by Tris. And yeah, is there somewhere or sometime we could meet?"

More silence. "Ms. Prior, why are you calling?"

"I have a few questions for you."

"What for?"

"It's… about my mother. Only you can help me right now."

"I'm sorry, my dear. It was a terrible accident, and I'm sorry for your loss. You are looking for something that isn't there."

"No, but—"

"I'm sorry," he says before he abruptly hangs up.

"But…" I say to the lifeless connection.

I slump into a seat. This makes no sense. There is something these people are trying to hide.

"That didn't sound too good," David says behind me.

I turn to face him. "How much did you hear?"

"Not much. If you don't mind me asking, what was that about?"

I hesitate. "Just, trying to see people I knew before I go back home to Chicago."

"It didn't sound like it went very well."

"No. It was the man who investigating my mother's death. He sounds busy; he won't see me."

"Don't be too upset. I'm sure it wasn't meant to be and that you have better people to catch up with."

He begins to walk away when I say, "Did you talk to her much around the time she died?"

"I'm afraid not, Tris. I wish I had, though. There are a lot of things that I wish could have been different."


That afternoon, Caroline, Zane, Matthew, and I walk back to the apartments. Caroline insist on doing something fun tonight, but my mind is too buzzed with questions I can't even think about letting loose.

"I know someone who can buy us alcohol," says Caroline.

"Yes! I'm dying without my father's liquor cabinet back home," Zane says.

"What about you, Tris? You up for some partying?"

The thought is tempting. The magical has the power to flush away any trouble I have and create a buzzy world. And I—No! Stop it, Tris. I worked too hard to get to where I am.

"No thanks," I say gripping the end of my clothes.

"What's wrong? Can't loosen up a little?" Zane says.

"Come on, it's not like David is gonna find out. And none of us are going rat each other out," Caroline adds.

I take a deep breathe. "No, it's not that. I, uh… I don't drink, anymore."

"Anymore?"

"Sober for 14 months. I'd like to keep it that way."

"What the fuck? You're not even 18."

"It's not my proudest moment."

"Fair enough, the more for us." Zane says with a big gulp. I have to remember to focus on my breathing. I don't need to drink. I don't need it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as we turn a corner to our building.

"Hello," I say.

"Tris, this is Detective Romano. I'm sorry about earlier; I was in the middle of… something. If you are free to talk—"

"Yes!"

"There is a diner across the street from a park next to my station. It's called Two Dads. I'll meet you there in an hour?"

"Yes, thank you. I'll see you there," I say, and then I hang up.

The three of them give me looks. "What?"

"Who was that?"

"Oh, uh, a detective."

"Why the hell are you meeting with a detective?"

"It has something to do with my mom."

"And you'd rather see some old detective than hang out with us?" Caroline asks. We enter the building and get on the elevator.

"Sorry, it's important."

"Yeah, yeah. Mom dead… blah, blah, blah." It always amazes me how blunt and open Caroline is. She doesn't have a filter, which is crazy and brave. It's crazy because she never stops with speaking her mind, but there is something brave about telling others how you feel—not caring about what others think of you.

Matthew slows his pace and says, "I'm gonna have to ditch you guys too. I have to meet with my uncle… Family stuff."

"You two suck."

"Sorry," Matthew says as the elevator doors opens, and he rushes out with his phone whipped out.

"He's such a mushy family person. What's wrong with hanging out with people your own age? And doing something for yourself instead of your family?" Caroline rants when we get back to our room.

"What do you mean?"

"He's this big family guy. Some may think it's nice, but I think it's just plain annoying. Like, why would you change your name for your family?"

"Change his name? His name isn't Matthew Burkett?"

"No," Caroline says. "Burkett is his mom's maiden name. He told me how his mom was one of four girls and they all got married so no one carried on his grandfather's name. Matthew changed it when he turned 18 for his grandpa."

"So what's his real last name?"

"He told me, and I remember seeing it… Oh, what was it again."

"It's okay, I just found it funny how—"

"North," she blurts out. "His original last name was North."

North?! My mind screams.


Detective Romano is already at a table when I get there. I slide into the booth he sits in, and he puts down his drink.

"Hello," he says.

"Thank you for meeting me. I am curious… Why did you tell me no, earlier?"

A waitress approaches the table. "Would you like anything?"

"Just some water, please," I say. The waitress writes on her notepad and walks away. I turn back to Romano. "How much do you remember about my mother's death?"

Instead of answering me, he looks out the window to the park across the street. "I knew you'd call one day. I just never imagined it would be this soon."

"Excuse me."

"You were so small, but very determined, I remember. Keep in mind, dear, that people change, but the past doesn't." He looks back outside again. I can't tell if he is trying to avoid looking at me, or if there is something amusing about the park. "After you called me, I went straight home. I went through scrap books and a few other things. A bottle of liquor and you pleading voice in my head made me call you."

"I just have a few questions."

"But you don't." He looks straight at me and looks deep into my eyes. In this moment, I am sure there is more. "We both know you think it is something bigger."

"Well… I think something else, something bigger, happened that night. How did she die?"

"… I hear the park is lovely around this time."

"It's the middle of the summer; it's packed. And I have questions that you aren't answering."

He looks sternly into my eyes. He quietly says, "Not here."

He trails out of the booth leaving some money on the table, and I follow him out of the diner. He stops for a hot dog on the corner, and before I know it, we are deep into the greenery of the park that's across the street from the diner.

"You're asking the wrong questions," he finally says after a few minutes of silence.

"Then what should I be asking?"

He looks around him, as if there is someone following us. "It… It's too dangerous."

"Was there anything wrong with the car? Did she really die in a car crash, or was it something completely different?"

"I shouldn't have called you. It'd be better if you were safe and didn't know."

"Didn't know what? Please tell me. Please. You have no idea what her death did to me and my family. If I could just understand..."

"Your mother was in dangerous waters."

"I know that. And I know that I am creeping into them, too. I'm not afraid. I refuse to be scared by whoever did—"

"Kavolo. Kavolo had your mother killed."

"W-What? But he isn't real; he's a myth."

"He's very much real."

"Then who is he?! And how do you know him?!" He doesn't say anything. "I know you know, so please tell me!"

"If I do that, I will be sending you into the belly of the beast."

"That's what I want. I want the truth, for once. I have never been given that luxury. For years, I have agonized about why my mother was taken away from me. I refused to accept it was an accident, and you know something that will tell me what really happened that night."

"I… I can't. Not now."

"Then when?"

"I don't know if there will ever be a good time."

"You don't understand. There has to be a…" He shakes his head and begins to walk away. "No! No, you can't leave."

"I don't think you understand. There's no stopping him or taking him down. He's too powerful, too rich, and too connected. Is that what you want? Are you willing to lose yourself in this and leave those you love behind?"

"I… I…"

His voice is soft. "Choose to live, Tris. Allow yourself to be happy. Because one day you'll wake up and realize that you no longer have that choice. And sadly, we humans can't handle emptiness for long."

He leaves just as calmly as he came. How can he tell me these things and just walk away? Am I just going to stay stuck in this never ending circle of deception? How am I supposed to live when I can't breathe as this need for the truth suffocates me?

I'm so frustrated, I don't pay attention as I go back to the apartments. I don't even remember it. All of a sudden I am in the room. (Caroline is scarce, but it's still early.) My head finds its way to the pillow on my bed, and I let my eyes fall with ease. The beautiful thing about sleep is that it promises a better tomorrow.


I wake with the smell of coffee running through the air. When I open my eyes, Caroline sits at the table with a coffee and the newspaper.

"I never realized you were a reader," I say.

"I didn't think you would go one Saturday without going to the gym. Looks like we are both surprised with each other."

She's right. After my talk (even though it wasn't much of a talk) with Detective Romano, I went back to my old house to look through more files. I found nothing but that endless circle. When my alarm went off this morning to go to the gym, I ignored it. I get out of my bed and walk over to where she's sitting.

"Why the newspaper?"

"You'd be surprised how much information you can discover from this tiny printed and oversized thing. How else am I supposed to stay on top of everything?"

"What are you reading?"

"An article about some cop's suicide."

"Really? What happened?"

"It says, The longtime detective for the NYPD had a long history of closing tough cases, but sources say that the aging man was having difficulty with depression… The decorated cop was found early this morning after shooting himself. Alcohol seems to be a factor."

"That's so sad."

"There will be a wake for Detective Christopher Romano at the—"

"Wait! Who is it?"

"Detective Christopher Romano."

"Oh my god." I can't move. I can't even breathe. How could this be happening?

"Did you know him?"

"He was the detective I saw last night. He was the one who investigated my mom's death."

"Oh shit. What did you say to him? Did you think that he…"

She is cut off by my buzzing phone. "Hello?"

"Tris? It's me, Marissa."

"Uh, hi."

"I hear that you're in New York."

"I am. How did you know that?"

"We need to talk," she says urgently. "Now."

"There's a breakfast café next to my building. Sara's Place. But, this is kind of a bad time. I just found out that Rom—"

"Detective Romano is dead? I know. That's why we need to talk… He gave me something to give to you."

"Why? What is it?"

"You'll see."

I practically fall as I run to my stuff to change. Caroline shouts, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Just, don't wait up on me."

"Like I would," she says as I leave.

As in-your-business as Caroline is, she doesn't hover. She knows when to back off, and besides, she'll find other ways to get what she wants.


When Marissa walks into the café, I see she is carrying an envelope. She sits down across from me and orders a coffee. I try to hide the curiosity inside me.

"Hello, Tris."

"Hi Marissa."

"How have you been, since the winter?" Since the trial.

"Better. Still a little on edge. A few nightmares."

"I am tempted to ask if you are looking for trouble." I put my head down, knowing that a part of her is right. "Let me remind you that you must be selective with your battles. Sometimes peace is better than being right. Are you willing to fight?"

I don't answer, but point to the envelope. "Is that what you are supposed to give to me?"

"Well, not yet. Yesterday, Romano called me and asked me to hold something for him. He told me it was a letter to you, and he wanted me to give it to you in a few years."

"Why you? And why in a few years?"

"He trusted me. He knew I am not like him under the control of someone else. And he knew that you and I know each other from the trial. He said this letter would give you answers, but he didn't want you to know until you were older and ready."

"But you're here, now."

"After I found out about the suicide… He wasn't suicidal. There's something else. And I believe you have been through enough to handle whatever is in this letter. You deserve the truth."

"Thanks, but… If you think it was more than a suicide, aren't you going to do something about it?"

"It's out of my hands. I don't do those cases; I'm Special Victims. But, like a caged animal, the truth is too powerful to remain caged."


I make sure no one is following me when I leave the café. I turn at multiple corners and even take two cabs before I reach Central Park. Once there, I make myself disappear in the greenery. Then, the strangest thing happens. I find a think tree and begin to climb. Once I am up high and supported by a strong branch, I open the letter.

Dear Beatrice,

There are heroes in this world, and there are villains. I used to think there was a distinctive line that divided them. But, sadly, I have come to know that there is no such line. In the end, you can either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

I have done some very bad things in my years in this world. I always thought that doing as many good deeds would make up for the one mistake, but it always found a way of finding me. No good deed goes unpunished.

You are right. Your mother's death was not an accident. There was nothing random about her death, and I carry the burden of the truth from that night on my shoulders every day. Not a moment passes when I think back to that time and regret my weakness.

Twenty years ago, I was deep in dept. I had a gambling problem, and I had borrowed money from the wrong people. Fifteen years ago, I made a deal with the devil. That devil's name is Kavolo. Even after I had gotten clean and paid my debts, he kept reeling me in. He owned me, and there was nothing I could do about it. For a moment, just a brief moment, I loved the power I got working for such a powerful man. I am ashamed of that feeling, and it left the moment it arrived. He was a powerful man, and he knew it. But, there was someone even more powerful.

At the time of your mother's death, she was defending a man named Sam Schmidt who had supposedly murdered someone. He claimed innocence, and your mother not only believed him, but was helping prove his innocence. Sam Schmidt was Kavolo. The man your mother was defending before she died. Schmidt had been over thrown by a more powerful person. An untouchable person. A person who had the resources to frame Schmidt. The new Kavolo had your mother killed because she was getting too close to the truth.

Tris, I have come to know that the truth is like a lion. You don't need to protect it. Let it free, and it will defend itself. And it's funny how you never truly know how heavy secrets are until you stop carrying them. I know sending you this has the potential to send the dominos falling over and over until everyone is taken down, including yourself. I just want to make sure that you know what you are doing. And the consequences, good or bad, of those actions. Don't swim in waters that are too treacherous, or you'll drown.

I'm sorry,

Christopher Romano

I feel like there is a hole inside me. I should feel something more… Happy? Terrified? Satisfied? Threatened? I just feel numb. This is it; at least, it's something. It's some form of truth about what really happened. And part of me is not sure what this will mean.

I wish the letter was heavier, so I could throw it through the trees and break something. But when I flip it, I find something interesting. Written on the back, almost too small to see, Romano wrote:

When lost, look to the North.

Why does North keep coming up? Unless… Could it be? Could Mr. North be Kavolo? Could that be the man who killed my mother? But what about Matthew? My mind is running in a million different directions. How… Maybe… Could…

A realization comes to me. I remember what Marissa told me: Pick your battles. Call me irrational, call me an adrenaline, attention junkie, but I have made my decision.

And I know what I have to do.


"He… He's not a myth. He's real. And… I know who it is," I tell Tobias.

"What?!"

"Well, at least, I know who he was."

"Who he was? Why isn't he anymore? Who is it now? And what does that have to do with you?"

"…


Author's Note

The flashback was highly inspired by the song "Winter Love" by Olivia Lufkin. I found it one day and thought it was very beautiful and you all should listen to it. You'll definitely see the correlation between that and the flashback.

I leave for college this week. I wanted to leave you guys with a long chapter (THE longest I have ever done!) with a few questions answered, but not all. I will try my absolute hardest to update as often as I can, but I may be taking a small break to adjust to my new surroundings. If you have any idea of what's going on, say something. Please review!

Be brave, everyone!


QUOTES

1). Love is fragile, and we are not always its best caretakers. –The Last Song, movie

2). Pain demands to be felt. –The Fault in our Stars.

Congratulations to: leximarie627, Amityswiftie, divergentlover1005, Annie (Guest), dolly123, Guest.

There are four (song, a book, a movie, faction manifestos) quotes in this chapter.