Disclaimer: I do not own any copyrighted material.

Warning: This story includes descriptions of violence. Nothing too graphic and I'm going to keep those descriptions as T-rated as possible. However, if this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read any further.


~Chapter One~


"When you go from an abstract idea of murder to the visceral reality, you can no longer be objective. Only when you feel the pain of those victims and their loved ones can you know the magnitude of the choice that killer made. And it's that choice that seals his fate."

~Esther Mayweather~


I feel like I am running away.

Like a scared little girl who can't face the monsters in her closet.

But that's not the only reason I'm doing this. I have motivations that are not nearly as self-serving or pitiful. I'm doing this to help because that is what I do—get people out of trouble. I live for doing the right thing. It gives me a sense of purpose like nothing else in my life.

Only that's not exactly the whole story.

I'm on my way to the last place I want to be, to help someone get out of a terrible situation. Usually, I punish those who cause the problems. It doesn't exactly heal the wounds the perpetrator has created, but it certainly lessens the sting. Provides closure. Prevents further tragedy.

And that's all anyone can really hope for.

I'm entering uncharted waters now. I have enough contextual knowledge to make an educated guess as to how the tides will turn, but I can't be positive. I am fairly sure those involved have the utmost faith in me, and while that's flattering, I know I shouldn't write checks my ass can't cash.

But desperate young women, who are all out of options, will hear what they want.

And I have a soft spot for this particular young woman. And her teenaged brother, who's family I've known since early childhood. She's my best friend (one of them) and I would do anything for her—even make a three hour drive in the middle of the night, in rain that hasn't let up since I crossed state lines.

Even return to my quaint, restrictive hometown.

Mystic Falls is suffocating. Mundane. The same scene plays out each and every day. Happy families, off to work and school and yoga class, oblivious to the dark, seedy underbelly of the real world. It's like a bubble, protecting its citizens from harm.

Sure, it has now been popped, but a new one will form the second I decide to go back to my normal area of expertise. The moment I patch everything up, it will be like I wasn't even there. Which is how I want it.

The weather worsens, droplets coming down faster, smacking into my car like tiny little knives trying to penetrate the metal. My wipers try to push the rain away, but the clearness of the road ahead of me becomes a huge blur moments later. Only the red taillights of the car ahead of me let me know that I'm minutes away from my destination. And that's only due to the fact that the red beams illuminate the night just enough for me to read the Welcome to Mystic Falls sign.

It's impossible to miss in the daylight. It's like a beacon on clear nights, too. A giant, brilliant white billboard with cursive letters and little vines curling up the latticed base. It's old, though. Weathered from years and years of standing in the same spot in the rain, snow, wind, and sun.

Every so often someone will repaint it, but just the base color. The blue lettering remains untouched, faded and chipping. My Grams used to say that it showed character. Who or what that character represented was never made clear.

The streets of this little town in Virginia are thin, winding, and typically one way in the residential areas. It's very easy to get turned around if you don't know where you're going. A giant warning that you are hurdling deeper into a sneaky tourist trap. Thankfully, my house is pretty close to the entrance. I make a left and I'm done traveling for the night.

Home.

I shake my head in distaste. It's not my home anymore. This mid-sized house with light blue siding, a small well-manicured lawn and cute porch accented with matching wicker seats is Rudy Hopkins domicile. I haven't resided here since I left for college. When I had the chance to return, I opted to enroll in law school. The thought being that I would never have to set foot in this Podunk little town again.

A lot of good that did me. I've only succeeded in deluding myself, getting in so far over my head that drowning would be a welcome fate. But life preservers aren't built to fail, they're built to save.

My father opens the door before I have a chance to flip the welcome mat over in search of the spare key he hides there.

"Hi Dad," I say sheepishly, suddenly embarrassed. I don't get the chance to call very often. I make a point to on his birthday and holidays, but it feels more like a formality than a conversation between father and daughter.

He looks tired. Not a huge shock. It is two in the morning and the reason for my sudden appearance is grim. "Welcome home, honey."

"Thanks."

When I enter the house, I very quickly realize that everything is exactly the same. Same pale-yellow paint and creaky hardwood floors. Old blue couch with its odd pattern of little yellow daffodils, cushions sagging and droopy. The Bonnie captured in the picture hanging on the far left hasn't aged a day over ten. Furthermore, it's the only photograph in the room. The rest of the walls are devoid of anything. They scream of emptiness, the loneliness of an old man whose loved ones don't bother to check on him.

I can't stand it.

I drop my travel bags in the hallway and venture into the living room. As much as I want to go to my former bedroom and sleep off the exhaustion I feel from my unplanned road trip, there is something I have to deal with first.

And it is staring me right in the face.

Dad must have waited for me (instead of retiring to bed as he usually did at eleven o clock at night), watching the Channel Eight news broadcast to pass the time.

The television is the only thing in this room that has withstood the test of time. Large and monochromatic with a clear picture. Which makes the top story seem as though it's unfolding in front of me like a stage play.

A man who I don't immediately recognize is standing outside, right in front of the open field in Mystic Fall's cemetery. It is a sort of pathway to the tomb that supposedly houses the skeletons of the founding families of our quaint town. Mostly, teenagers just use it for smoking pot and drinking straight from the bottles of their parent's preferred alcohol. The few times I partook in such activities, my throat burned as I took huge gulps of bourbon.

My father isn't much of a drinker, so he didn't suspect a thing. He had also been willfully ignorant, but I digress.

Now that field, hidden behind rows and rows of headstones and willow trees, is a place of sorrow. The scene of a very real horror movie. Anna Zhu's final resting place, where she took her last breath, died without a friendly face to hold her hand.

Where she was viciously murdered.

My eyes are trained on the TV while the anchorman relays the details of the crime. His name flashes on the screen, right underneath the headline. Teenage girl found brutally stabbed to death Saturday night. Robin Keith: Head reporter.

How grossly inappropriate.

Pictures of the dead girl appear as Robin speaks, getting more emotional by the second. He sounds as if he will burst into tears.

Anna had been beautiful.

"…found her body the following morning…"

The news crew opted to show a picture of her on her sixteenth birthday, which according to Robin, had occurred a mere three weeks ago. She is smiling, dark eyes shining with happiness. She is on the taller side, though that's amplified by her extremely high heeled shoes. She is wearing a short, pink dress, her black hair rolling over her shoulders in a perfect wave. Her mother is to her right, her boyfriend to her left.

They, too, are filled with joy.

"… police have named her sixteen-year-old boyfriend a suspect in the case, though he hasn't been officially charged…"

Said romantic interest's photo pops up next to Anna's.

His tenth-grade yearbook picture. He looks just as I remembered him. Dark brown hair that always ends up falling over his giant brown eyes. The typical emo style that some kids decide to adopt. Goofy grin. He exudes an innocence that makes it impossible to believe that he had any part in this tragedy.

How could anyone in their right mind accuse Jeremy Gilbert of first-degree murder?

I've literally known him his entire life. I was at my best friend's house the day her mom and dad brought her little brother home. We were ten, still young enough to appreciate the delight a newborn baby brings with him. He had been a band-aid baby, created only because Isobel and John Gilbert wanted to erase the problems in their marriage.

It only lasted for so long and their fighting resumed. It was also intensified from the pressure of parenting two kids instead of one. They should have just stopped with Elena. She was enough. Jeremy? He was a mistake. That's often what they shouted, angry noises only slightly garbled from the barrier their bedroom door caused.

Elena and I would often linger just outside her room, trying to figure out what all the commotion was about.

Elena felt guilty; still does. I empathize with him. I, too, had been born in hopes that I could save Abby and Rudy from themselves. Spoiler alert: I couldn't. My parents finally ended their engagement and cut their losses. That's why I'm a Bennett and not a Hopkins and that's also why I had been closer to my mother's mom and spent very little time with either one of my creators.

How could I leave the girl that is essentially my sister out in the cold? How could I let my little brother go down on a sinking ship, when I have the know-how needed to pull off a rescue mission? They are my family, too. Even more so than my blood relatives—I must clear Jeremy's good name.

"It's so sad…" my father says, sitting down next to me. "She's so young…"

"I know," I murmur, leaning forward, placing my hand on my chin. I'm listening carefully, trying to glean whatever public knowledge I can from this short segment.

My father clears his throat loudly. "That boy's life is over, too. Two lives ruined over a silly argument."

My head snaps to the left. "It's not over. And is that what everyone's saying? That they fought before she died?"

"That's the word around town. And there is no way the Gilberts can afford a good enough attorney. John's got money, but legal bills are expensive."

Duh. It's like he forgets that I'm one of the top prosecutors for the DA in North Carolina's Dare county. "They won't have legal fees and I think their attorney has done pretty well for herself. I'm representing Jeremy—that's why I'm here."

"You're not a defense lawyer, Bonnie. And when you said you were coming home for Elena, I assumed you meant for emotional support. Though, she has a husband for that."

I feel bad. I hadn't meant to sound snappy. And, yes, Elena does have Matt, but he can't help Jeremy prove his innocence. It's a nice bonus to see Dad, I suppose. "I know my job title, Daddy. But my friends need me, and I missed you. It's nice to be back. When all this is over, we'll catch up—just the two of us."

Of course, I only mean a few parts of that statement, but I don't want to wipe that hopeful look on his face away. I hate Mystic Falls with a passion. But I don't feel that way about Dad. He's my father, and he didn't bail on me like my mom did. I love him, I just can't deal with the feeling of not… I don't even know what the sensation is. I only know it makes me feel like I'm seconds away from imploding.

"That sounds great, sweetie pie. Do you need help with your bags?"

I appraise Rudy with more scrutiny then I did earlier. He's in his navy-blue robe, a Virginia Beach t-shirt that has several small holes along the hem, and striped pajama pants. There are bags under his brown eyes that look like they have been there for days. He needs rest far more than I do.

"No, I got it. Good night, Dad. Love you."

He repeats my words almost verbatim and slowly drags himself up the stairs.

I hoist my bags over my shoulder and head to my room. It is the first door on the right. It still has an old charcoal drawing of mine taped to it, the edges curling away from the massive amount of tape I used to get it to stick.

I don't think it had been any good, not even when I drew it, but it had been one of my better attempts. It is a rough sketch of that fateful spot that's now all over the news. Though I made the tree branches over the two lovers sitting in the grass shaped like a heart. I would never admit it, but I used to be a secret hopeless romantic.

My bedroom hasn't been touched since I left it nine years ago. When I closed the door on my way out, I had silently vowed to make an impact on the world. I like to think that I accomplished that goal. Being the youngest prosecutor in my county garners me a bit of attention, though that's not why I do my job. I do it because the monsters that roam the Earth, harming innocent human beings deserve to be punished.

Always.

The verdict doesn't fall in my favor every time I try a case, but it's better to have fought for justice than to let those assholes get away with their crimes. And besides, I have a talent for arguing. I'm good at it. Or so a few select friends tell me.

I kick my flats off, tossing them in the corner, right next to a stack of old notebooks. I fall back on my bed, wondering why I wanted the white gossamer canopy so bad, because it blocks my view of the angst-ridden artwork I had created and displayed on my ceiling.

On second thought, that had been a stroke of pure genius.

Part of my brain tells me to get up, to shed my rain-dampened sweatpants and t-shirt, but I'm too tired, especially now that I can relax. I'm not going to get to relax much. Not until I win this case. Not that Jer has been arrested yet, but it's coming. I know it. Significant others are always looked at first for a reason, and Elena tells me that the cops say they have strong evidence pointing to Jeremy—they are just running a few more tests. There's still a chance that those tests show that someone else is the culprit, but I have a terrible feeling that is not how this will play out.

So, I close my eyes, hoping that visions of dead young women don't haunt my dreams.


I told Elena that I'd meet her at the Mystic Grille at noon.

I am the first to show up.

A hostess who looks to be about seventeen escorts me to a secluded booth in the back of the restaurant at my request. I want as much privacy as possible. If I intend on winning, I'd like to know a bit more before the case file is placed in my hand tomorrow morning. The girl complies and sets two menus on the table. I flip through the options idly while I wait. As I'm doing so, a small rectangular sheet of paper flutters onto the tabletop.

A picture of Anna stares up at me, her eyes boring into mine like lasers.

It's a menu for a fundraiser set up to donate proceeds toward the cost of her funeral. I call a waiter over and order a root beer float, which had been Anna's favorite dessert. Or so the flyer says.

I feel obligated to contribute, as I always try to help. Whenever a cashier asks if I want to donate an extra dollar to charity, I give three. This time… I feel odd about doing so. Almost like I'm the girl's enemy, which is absurd. I'm trying to make sure that the right person is put away for her death. I want to give her family closure. True closure, which isn't possible when an innocent kid is punished while her killer walks free.

But people don't tend to like the accused, even if they truly didn't commit the crime.

They feel the same way about the defense team. Only three-fold. At least, it's that way in this town.

Elena arrives ten minutes later, a giant pair of sunglasses perched on her nose, hair pulled back into a ponytail. Baseball cap on her head. An over-sized sweatshirt on, despite the heat of summer sweltering away outside.

If the public despises criminals and their attorneys, they hate the family of the killers the most.

She takes her hat and glasses off, throwing them down on the table like they have burned her. Her brown doe-eyes are puffy and red. She's been crying for the past few days, I'm sure. She's always so worried about Jer and now… he's in more trouble than most delinquent teens. And while I know he's been acting rebellious lately, that doesn't automatically mean he's capable of murder.

I hug her tightly, getting to my feet and wrapping my arms around her like I always do when she's sad.

She hugs back so tightly that I'm not totally sure she'll ever let me go.

But she does.

When she backs away from me, she tries to smile. "Thank you for doing this. You saved my parents from getting a second mortgage on the house. And Jeremy, he's so grateful, Bon. You have no idea."

"Elena, you're family. I will do whatever it takes to make sure Jer is okay." I try not to think about how big—and nearly impossible—this task will be. Even if he's not guilty in the eyes of the law, he still has a tough road ahead.

"You are the best," she says with a sniffle.

"Thank you. Now, tell me what happened."

She tells a tale about a boy and a girl who went on a date. Nothing fancy. Just dinner at the local pizza place. Boy and girl end up in the back seat of his dad's car, after they've eaten. The couple has clumsy, first-time car sex. Boy drops girl off behind her house as to not alert her parents to the fact that their daughter left without their knowledge. Somehow, they wind up in an argument, and boy drives off. Girl then shows up dead in the cemetery two hours later.

The police have more than just semen connecting Jeremy to the crime. The ME states in the report that she appears to have been sexually assaulted. Her death had not been quick or merciful. It's even worse when you read Mystic Gazette's version of events. Elena brought several newspaper clippings with her.

It is going to be a bit of an uphill battle, but nothing is set in stone. I still need to see the police report and speak to Jeremy himself. Both things that will have to wait until tomorrow.

"After I go to the courthouse, I'll stop by your house tomorrow. Have Jer there by one. Is Matt okay with me using his office?"

Elena's high school sweetheart turned husband is a coach at the high school. His home office is covered in football memorabilia and stats, which will have to be set aside so I have room to work.

"Of course."

Her phone goes off and she's suddenly in a hurry to leave.

"Matt's mom is coming over tonight," she explains hastily. "I have to make dinner."

"No problem," I need time to mull the facts over in my head anyway.

After we part ways, I head over to the bar and order a glass of bourbon, for nostalgia's sake. I decide that I can indulge just a little bit. Just as long as I don't get hammered, I'll be perfectly capable of logical thought. Plus, it'll help me get the image of a dead Anna from my head. She did end up invading my dreams last night.

I'm still nursing my first drink when I feel a presence next to me.

I turn and am momentarily stunned by the new patron.

He looks just as I remember him. Devastatingly handsome, shaggy brown hair, icy blue eyes. He's definitely more muscular, and maybe slightly more reserved, but that doesn't really mean anything. Damon Salvatore isn't known for having a filter.

"Well, if it isn't Judgy. At a bar. Drinking the Devil's juice. The scandal!"

"Seriously?"

Maybe I'm wrong about the reservation.

"Little Miss Goody Two Shoes, I thought you only had the balls to drink where no one else could see you. Damon, you ass, we are not going back to my house to drink this! What if my daddy sees?"

"Well, I'm a big girl now." I nod to the bartender and down the rest of my bourbon.

"I'm so proud," he sits on the empty barstool beside me.

"Gee thanks."

He looks me over, eyes wandering over my body slowly.

"Oh, that's a nice t-shirt," he remarks, voice laced with arrogance.

I glance down at my torso. I had completely forgotten that I hadn't changed out of my clothes I had worn yesterday. The Beatles emblem suddenly feels like a neon sign on my chest. I haven't forgotten about how this article of clothing came into my possession.

"This old thing? I've had it for years."

"I know."

He calls the bartender over and orders his own bourbon.

Just like old times, I think, smiling lazily to myself. When we weren't bickering, those old times were particularly fun. Exhilarating. Freeing in a way that I didn't think possible.

And then they came to an end that was more of a cliffhanger than a conclusion that tied everything up with a neat, little bow.

I mean, I didn't say goodbye before I moved and he never tried to find me. I never expected to come face to face with him ever again. The story of the enemies turned drinking buddies, turned best friends ended abruptly—for good reason.

Reasons I don't want to remember.

So, instead of addressing my elusive departure, we talk about our lives. We don't drop the familiar bantering we are so used to and it is almost like I never left at all.

"And so, after I got out of the Army, I became a law enforcement officer."

"Resident bad boy turned into a law-abiding citizen… how very Stefan of you." I tease. Stefan has always been more morally inclined than his older brother, a trait Damon often hated, as Stef could be a wet blanket. Even more so than me, and aside from the occasional drink or a shared joint with the elder Salvatore brother, I had been extremely strait-laced.

We both admit that we are single and childless. Damon had once hoped to woo Elena, but he obviously lost to Matt Donovan, something he unwillingly admits under his breath.

I don't offer many other details about my love life. Neither does he. That topic has a glaring KEEP OUT sign after so many vague questions and answers. I want it to stay that way.

And then the conversation turns to me.

"I'm a prosecutor," I tell him. "I'm just glad we're on the same side for once."

"Hey, we were best friends in high school. You loved my bad influence."

"Whatever. You are the loser who calls alcoholic beverages 'Devil's juice,'" I snort. "What are you? A religious middle-aged woman?"

"Only because you bring it out of me." He retorts smugly.

"Good."

"Hey… I've got to get going. Work's gonna suck tomorrow."

"Tell me about it," I mutter.

"Maybe I will," he takes a napkin from the metal dispenser on the bar and jots his new phone number down.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach for no particular reason. I take the napkin and program the number into my phone, not caring if I look overly eager when I text him to share my own contact information. Bourbon has always dulled my inhibitions.

He holds up his phone. "Call you later, Bon Bon."

"Not my name!" I shout at Damon as he pays for his drink and leaves.

I end up ordering another drink because Damon is right: it's going to get really fucking frustrating soon. Tomorrow is when the hard work begins.


Hey, I hope you guys enjoyed this new story. Thanks for reading! Oh, and just to let you know, this story will contain nods to my other Bonnie/Damon stories. However, while some aspects may be similar, the plot will NOT be the same. Also, I'd like to give some recognition to the plethora of suspense/mystery books that inspired this. Namely, Defending Jacob by William Landay. Also the non-fiction book Mindhunter by John Douglas.