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~Chapter Two~


Well, I won't back down
No, I won't back down
You can stand me up at the gates of hell
But I won't back down

~Tom Petty, I Won't Back Down~


My day is already not going as I had planned.

Instead of stopping by the police station before meeting with Jeremy, I end up going to Elena's house first.

The Donovan home is one of the larger ones on the block. And yet, it still has an air of coziness about it. Elena has lined the walkway with buttercups and daisies, which creates a simple pattern. It looks perfect. So does the front yard, bright green grass, freshly cut. I can still see the horizontal lines from the lawnmower. The house itself looks brand-new, though it has been around for years. The siding is white, the foundation made of what looks like freshly laid brick. They must have had thousands of dollars' worth of renovations done. 22 Hummingbird Road did not look as picturesque the last time I saw it.

This is the type of home that the American Dream is made of.

Upon first look, no one would think that anything is wrong with the family living there. Everything looks perfect, so perfect it must be. Perception is important, but that doesn't make it real.

I quickly make my way to the front door, my black briefcase practically glued to my hand. Before long, anyone related to Jeremy or the investigation won't have any privacy. Reporters will be clamoring to get a quote and/or photo of the horrid "murderer" or his family.

I wonder if Matt knows this and if Elena truly understands the notoriety that has been forcibly pushed on the Gilberts. I eluded to it yesterday, but gossip had been last on my priority list. Facts come first. Damage control will have to be done later.

It feels like I've been waiting hours until Matt comes to open the door. In actuality, the face of my watch tells me it has only been half of a minute. During my exaggerated waiting period, I have taken in all the details of the Donovan's entryway. Flowerpots with sunflowers in them sit on either side of the front step. There is a huge set of wooden initials adorning the door. A huge letter D in the middle with an M to the left and an E to the right.

How adorable. This was just the kind of thing Elena used to daydream about. Normalcy. Happiness. Now that's all gone, and she will be forced to rebuild her entire life.

And the innocence that she so desperately clung to will never come back.

"Hello Bonnie, thanks for stopping by. Come on in."

"Thanks, Matt," I reply with much less stiffness. Acting like this is just another visit from his wife's best friend won't solve anything.

"You can go to my office. Jeremy's already here. It's the last door on the left."

"I remember," I say, though I haven't set foot inside his home since I came back for their wedding. The celebration that Damon was mysteriously absent from. I had figured he just didn't want to attend for obvious reasons. Now I realize that he hadn't been in the country.

Matt's office is covered in football junk from ceiling to floor. Whiteboards with dotted lines and X's and O's stand on either side of his mahogany desk. The bookcase is filled with DVDs of old super bowls and mediocre high school games. There are two chairs in the room, on either side of the desk, both wheeled.

Jeremy is sitting closest to the door, spinning around while tossing a miniature football in the air. When he sees me, he stops fidgeting abruptly. The toy ball hits the carpeted floor and rolls under the desk.

"Bonnie!" his voice is a mixture of surprise and relief.

I smile wryly. "Hey, Jer. How are you holding up?"

His fringe of dark brown hair falls into his eyes. "Fine, I guess."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I say gently, taking my spot in Matt's seat.

His computer is up and running. The background picture is one from his wedding. He's standing behind Elena, arms wrapped around her, wearing his purple bowtie like it is a badge of honor. I can see the joy radiating off my best friend in her white, strapless ballgown with its sparkling bodice. I turn the monitor off. This is a somber time and that picture feels out of place, it makes the mood even more depressing.

"Thank you," he answers, and he sounds… defeated.

"We need to get down to business," I tell him, my voice as soothing as I can manage. "It's not going to be fun, Jer, but you must tell me everything. No half-truths or lies of omission." That last sentence sounds stern, almost harsh, but he needs to understand the importance of being open with me.

"Come on, Bon." He groans. "Do you have to be so… serious? I've already been interviewed by the cops. I don't need you to act like one."

Well, Jeremy's nailed the unsympathetic teenager role the media will undoubtedly cast him in.

Which just makes this so much harder than it needs to be.

"Yes, I do. This isn't a joke, Jeremy. Your attitude will be under a microscope. You can not—under any circumstances—act inconvenienced by the investigation. Not even to your parents or your sister. I'll have to tell them the same thing, so don't be so averse to it."

"Okay, I get it."

I pretend as if I believe it. "I know it's hard, especially because being suspected of a felony crime leaves little room to grieve, but what you say to me is confidential. Attorney-client privilege. You are not to speak to law enforcement unless I'm sitting next to you. Got it?"

The teenager nods, finally looking anxious. He gulps and begins to fiddle with a few loose threads on his black hoodie. Jeremy has gone full throttle into the goth subculture. To top it off, he's taken after Elena's lead by trying to disappear in bulky clothing in ninety-degree weather. I'll have to steer him away from that, too. I don't want people to think he's trying to hide—although he is—or manifesting his violent thoughts in his stereotypical style of dress.

Every little detail matters.

"Oh, and no talking to the press. They like to take things you say out of context. The town newspaper is the worst offender—this is the biggest news since Liz Forbes gave Damon Salvatore a job." That's what the asshole said yesterday, at least.

"Everyone loves a good redemption arc, Bennett. Town Rebel Turned Savior. It was front-page news for weeks."

"Why do I get the feeling you're exaggerating?"

"Don't worry about that. I don't want to talk to anyone." Jeremy sounds like isolation is already getting to him.

I feel a pang of sadness for him. The little boy I once knew isn't sitting in front of me. The young man I see now is crumbling under the pressure of suspicion, grief, and sorrow. He lost his first love and all the blame is on him. It breaks my heart.

"Well, you can talk to your family about other things. In fact, that's an order. You need to keep up a normal conversation with them. It will help you maintain a level head. Do not try to be my annoying little brother, either. Starting now I'm just your lawyer. Not your friend or pseudo-sister. Elena and I haven't spoken except for a chance meeting at the Grille. I don't want anyone to claim that I have a conflict of interest."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I don't want anybody to say I'm biased. If they do, we're screwed."

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Neither do I. I put my briefcase on the desk and wait. The gravity of the whole situation has hit him. Jeremy's eyes go wide, his hands grip the edge of the surface in front of him, nearly knocking Matt's cheesy bobblehead down. All the color drains from his face. My words spooked him, and he hadn't been expecting it. I'm sure he thought that our relationship would be the same as it always had, and that's just not possible.

"Jeremy… I need you to tell me the whole story. Start from the beginning—from the time you woke up until they found Anna the next day. I need to know every little detail you can remember—even if it seems unimportant." I grab my notebook from my briefcase and take a ballpoint pen from one of the disorganized desk drawers.

"Alright," he begins slowly as if he's scared to tell me his version of events. "I woke up late that day… I had a text—from Anna. That's what made me get up. I slept through my alarm."

I jot a short-hand version of his explanation on the paper. "What time was that?"

"Seven, I think. School starts at seven-thirty… you remember that, right?"

"Focus on you," I say, not looking up from the timeline I'm fleshing out. "What I know is unimportant, okay?"

"Okay," he repeats anxiously. "I got dressed and left the house fifteen minutes later. I walked to school. I was only ten minutes late—I think that's what the secretary wrote on my hall pass."

"I would like to see the pass if you still have it."

"It might be in my backpack at home, I'll check."

"Good. Now I want you to back up a bit. Did you see anyone on your walk to the school?"

"No… yes… maybe. Kind of. I think I saw Tyler Lockwood smoking a cigarette on his porch."

"Does he live with his parents still?"

"Yeah." Jeremy starts to become a little more at ease. His words start coming faster and faster. My hand cramps as I try to keep up with him. "I went to all my classes. Except for Math—that's the last period. Anna and I skipped and went back to her place. Her parents work until five. We stole some weird wine coolers her mom had hidden. Then, we went to her bedroom…" he trails off, cheeks turning red. I bet he never thought he would be talking about his sex life with me.

I have to take a second to compose myself before I encourage him to go on. I told Jeremy we have to set our normal way of acting around each other aside. He's a client, just a client.

"I need you to tell me what you did, Jer. I'm not going to judge you." I sound like the Bonnie that's speaking in the courtroom. Not my actual words, but my tone of voice, that gentle prodding that dares even the most rigid of defendants to crumble.

The tone that says: go on, tell me your secrets. I won't bite. And once I've got them comfortable enough that they feel I'll go easy on them; I go in for the kill.

"We got to like, second base," he mumbles.

"I need you to be more specific."

"We were like… our pants were off… and—"

I'm quite relieved when Elena bursts through the double doors, phone pressed to her ears, arms waving frantically.

"Mom says the police officers came by to search the house. They have a warrant—they're even looking in the back of Dad's car."

Fuck. There goes the relief. It wasn't even nice while it lasted.

"What do you mean they're coming over to arrest him?" By the time Elena finishes her question, she sounds hysterical.

I try to hear Isobel's response, but I can't make any sense out of her shrieks.

And then there's a firm knock on the door. My heart is pounding against my ribcage franticly. I knew I should have stuck to my guns and gotten transcripts of Jer's interview first. Now all I have is incomplete hearsay, which won't do us any good when he's locked up in a three-by-nine cell overnight.

I keep my composure as I hear Matt allow the officer inside. He had the door open before the man could even introduce himself.

The footsteps get louder and louder. I feel like the narrator from A Telltale Heart and I'm not the one being charged with first-degree murder. I want to reassure the scared boy sitting across from me, I want to tell him I've got his back, but I can't. It's not my job to be anything other than an impartial attorney. I'm not the girl who would help Jeremy up when he fell and scraped his knee, I'm not even the girl who hugged Elena when she temporarily broke up with Matt in tenth grade.

I am my job title—nothing more, nothing less.

And then the arresting officer walks into the room.

My heart feels like it is about to explode as I'm forced to admit that I can't even be the girl that matched Damon Salvatore shot for shot, trading taunts and slinging insults at one another until they morphed into terms of endearment. The girl who stole his prized Beatles t-shirt and kept it all these years cannot make an appearance.

Not when said former secret best friend is here to take my lit—client—into custody.

The silver handcuffs clink together as Damon holds them up. I can tell he isn't pleased about having to do this. It is odd, seeing him in his uniform: tan button-down shirt, brown pants, combat boots, shiny badge. I'm not surprised to see him without the hat—he has always been vain about his appearance and probably doesn't want to end up with sweaty hat hair.

"I'm sorry about this," he's not talking to Jeremy, but to Elena, who has taken refuge in Matt's arms.

Damon has always gone above and beyond to display his more compassionate side in Elena's presence. That might not ever change.

Elena's quiet sobs partially drown out Damon's emotionless voice, reciting Jeremy's Miranda rights as if he were ordering something from a fast-food drive-thru.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used in a court of law…" as his suspect stands, Damon—rather gently—pulls Jeremy's hands behind his back, locking them in the cuffs without the callousness I know he's prone to.

I throw my notes into my briefcase and stand up. The desk chair flies backward, hitting the rear bookcase with an audible thunk. "Don't answer any questions, Jeremy. I'll meet you at the police station."

We all watch as the innocent boy is guided through the doors. Elena's eyes fly to the window, where she watches as her brother is loaded into the back of the cruiser.

I, for my part, don't turn my head. I can't afford the rush of sadness the action will cause.

"Stay here," I instruct. "At least until my car is out of sight. Then you can make your way over there."

Elena only nods, tears freely falling down her cheeks.

I hope I can make everything okay again or at least leave them in a place where things could end up that way. I've always been able to patch things up for her, but all those times mean nothing now.

If I can't fix this, I don't know if I would be able to ever look Elena in the eyes again.


The police station is small.

It resembles a box, with a single entrance and a door around the back used for transporting suspects from place to place. It's made from sand-colored bricks with few windows. Two standard ones in front, the others barred shut. Small, and close to the roof, which is supposed to deter criminals from attempting to escape. It's just a bonus that the design is also a bleak reminder of the cage they are locked inside.

When I emerge from the driver's side of my blue Toyota Prius, I smooth out my black pencil skirt, check my green blouse for wrinkles. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for the impending battle. I must walk through the main doors as if I own the place. This wouldn't normally be an issue, but a part of me worries about running into anyone else I know.

That would create an extra problem that I don't need.

Damon's involvement in this matter makes things awkward enough, I don't want to think about the flak I would get if anyone we knew from high school caught on to our not-so-contentious friendship. If representing Jeremy would cause a conflict of interest, then spending two years getting shit-faced in the cemetery with the arresting officer would sully my reputation beyond repair. I wouldn't be on the D.A.'s shortlist of preferred attorneys anymore. I wouldn't get to try the biggest cases and I wouldn't be the next-in-line for the D.A. spot when the current one retires at the end of the following year.

I push those thoughts aside as I breeze through the entrance.

The officer that is manning the front desk is smiling. I find that odd, but then again, most citizens in Mystic Falls revel in the eternal happiness schtick.

Her bright demeanor disappears the second I make eye contact with her. I wonder if she assumes that I'm here to report a crime. I'm fairly short and I know I don't seem very intimating upon first glance. As much as I resent it, my green eyes and curtain of black hair do little in the way of scaring the accused or their counsel. I often use it to my advantage, but if I'll be in the interrogation room with Damon then I'll be forced to change tactics.

I think I appear so determined that this woman doesn't know what to expect. She looks to be in her mid-forties. Her hair is beginning to gray and there are wrinkles underneath her hazel eyes. Her nametag reads Officer Mills.

I'm glad Sheriff Forbes has retired and moved to Florida. I don't see any other familiar faces stationed at their desks. A few people glance up at me, but I don't know who they are, and they do not know me. There are several uninterested huffs as the majority of the Mystic Falls police department turns back to their computers, unaware that they are dismissing someone who will become an important player in the grisliest case they will ever work.

"What can I do for you?" Mills asks in a gravelly voice.

I pull my identification out of my blazer pocket. "I'm Bonnie Bennett. I'm here for my client, Jeremy Gilbert."

"I see," The woman goes from being wary to being disgusted. I knew many law enforcement officers would believe he was guilty before he had the chance to stand in front of a jury, I just hoped that I would be treated with some cordiality.

Not.

I'm about to ask her if she has any issues with the current legal system, when she says, rather curtly: "He's in interrogation room seven. I'll have Detective Salvatore take you back."

Detective? He didn't tell me he made detective. At first, I feel misled, but we hadn't had that long of a conversation. His bitterness about working today now makes complete sense. He knew about the warrants and wasn't excited about the fallout.

I glare at him as he approaches, refusing to acknowledge the semi-apologetic gleam in his eyes. After my discontent is made obvious, I try not to look at him at all; I've always had a small weakness when it came to him and that's a secret I plan on taking to my grave.

He grabs my elbow and pulls me down a long hallway, stopping just one room short of our destination.

I drop my briefcase, plant my hands on my hips, and tap my foot against the thin gray carpet that covers the concrete slab of a floor.

"So, they promoted you without seeing if you could count to ten first?" I point to the seven printed on the door next to me.

"You know, I'm surprised you can still walk with that pole up your ass. You might have to have it surgically removed."

"Why do you care about my ass so much?"

"The same reason you still have my t-shirt," he replies snidely. "Now, as you're former BFF I thought I'd help you out a little."

"How kind of you. Why do I need help?" I frown. He knows I'm not a charity case and I know he can't usually bother with putting others before himself. This is a pointless little dance we are having, so I ignore the fire igniting in my belly.

It shouldn't be this easy to fall back into old habits.

"Well, for starters, you've never defended anyone before. And I'm not allowed to have any part in this. I've been benched, Bon Bon. Enzo's in charge now, and he thinks Baby Gilbert is guilty as fuck. He won't go easy on you—I know you like things rough, but Enzo doesn't listen for safe words."

I bite my lip, shifting my gaze from side to side. I can't believe he made such a blatant insinuation when anybody could walk by and overhear us. The corridor is empty, though, so I relax a little.

"Don't worry Bennett, the only place audio is recorded is in there." He gestures to the room currently occupied by a very rattled Jeremy.

"I know that. And I'm not scared of Enzo, whoever that is."

Damon rolls his eyes at me like I'm incapable of understanding even the most basic of concepts. "My partner. If you think I'm a dick, you'll change your mind after you meet him. He makes me look like an angel."

"Yeah, okay."

"Fine, don't believe me. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

He reaches for me and my body stiffens instinctively. I find myself wishing to be young again, to not have to be the guiding force behind this catastrophe. Things used to be so simple when it was just Bonnie and Damon. It seems ridiculous now. That had been one of my reasons for fleeing. I guess it true what they say about not missing something until it's gone.

He nudges me on the chin. "Good luck, champ. You'll need it."

My eyes narrow, pointed retort ready to go, but he's already sauntering away from me.

I can hear him telling another officer that I need a few moments alone with "the kid" and that the cameras will turn on when Officer St. John is ready.

I shake my head. Focus, Bennett. You've got work to do. I hold my head high as I enter interrogation room seven. Damon may be right about the fact that I've never been a part of a defense team, but I know what I'm doing. This Enzo might think he's got this in the bag, but he's got another thing coming.

Bonnie Bennett doesn't go down without a fight.