Disclaimer: I do not own any copyrighted material mentioned in this update.


~Chapter Ten~


And if you wanna shut down and pose as positive and
Hide smoking from relatives and
Rest on me,
Honey, that's all right

~Catfish and the Bottleman, Cocoon~


"Are you listening?"

Jeremy is looking at me, but his expression is blank. I'm almost positive he hasn't heard a word I said in the last five minutes. His mind is somewhere else—I can't tell if it's because he's finally getting how serious the situation is or if he just doesn't care.

"I am," he sounds robotic. The only thing keeping his head upright is his arm, which is propped up on the table, hand cradling his cheek.

I decide it's just the stress getting to him. Some people cower when life gets tough. Others run, like I did, back when all roads led to God knows where. And some stand and fight—an approach I have always preferred to take.

"I know this sucks, but why didn't you tell me everything?"

He seems to snap to attention when he processes my inquiry. "I'm sorry, I didn't… want you to be… disappointed."

"It's easy to get hooked on pain meds," I reason gently. "You got hurt… and sometimes you get so used to dulling the feeling, it's extremely difficult to cope without them."

"Well, you knew about my problem," he reminds me.

It's true; I did know about it, but I wasn't aware of his relapse. No one had been.

"Jer, you didn't share the whole story. You didn't say you went to Elena's either."

"I forgot."

I'm torn.

I scrutinize him, watching for any signs of dishonesty. I don't find a single one. His gaze does not waver, no facial ticks or fidgeting, his voice isn't shaking… but an uneasiness takes over me anyway. There's a fine line between I forgot and I'm lying. The thing is, if a suspect tells the same story over and over again, he could have rehearsed it. Made up a plausible scenario and memorized every fake detail. Stress causes some problems with memory. Just because someone says they don't remember doesn't automatically indicate the validity of their words.

The key is to look for little tells. Habits that people exhibit when fudging the truth. Also, the number of discrepancies in their story. Observation goes a long way in my line of work.

But I know Jeremy Gilbert isn't a murderer. He can't be. And while it feels as though everyone is against us, I know that at least one person believes me. It was the only time Damon and I spoke about the subject, as anything more would be like waiting for a bomb to explode, but it made all the difference.

"Bon Bon?"

"Yeah?"

"Just so you know… you're right."

"You're going to need to be specific. I'm right about a lot of things."

"Wow, someone thinks highly of herself."

"Damon—what am I right about?"

"Baby Gilbert… I agree with you—for once. He's innocent and I have your back. You aren't alone, Bennett."

"I know that, too."

The rest of the night unfolded as expected. Bourbon, playful banter, and camaraderie. The usual. I've been trying to forget about the butterflies remembrance gives me. History shouldn't—can't—repeat itself.

"I get it, but I can't keep finding things out like this. Not in police reports or on the internet."

"The internet?"

"Social media," my fingers are typing the web address in the search bar at record speed.

I slide my laptop over to him, folding my arms across my chest as I wait for him to see the goldmine of negativity his posts and messages have created. His eyes widen as he scrolls through the page, mouth contorting into a grimace. As the panic grows, I pull his log of messages from my files.

Each comment I want to clarify is highlighted in neon blue. The recipient is done in pink with an X beside the name if I feel I may need to speak with them. Dates and times are outlined in orange. I must admit, the majority of the first three pages look like a rainbow, which isn't a great sign.

But I've never been on this side of a case; so, I need to be ready for every possible curveball Alaric may throw. I'm just being thorough—that's all.

"I didn't realize my status update would get so many comments," he says in awe.

"I told you to stay off of these kinds of sites, Jeremy."

"I have…" he replies, and I see his eyes dart over to the timestamp on the corner of the screen. It is dated a day after I gave those directions to him and everyone else related to the Gilbert clan.

Really, it's nothing wordy or incriminating. But it has opened the door to so much vitriol that Jeremy and death begin to seem like the same. You can't have the younger Gilbert child around without thinking of a pretty corpse.

Jeremy Gilbert—is feeling sad.
Miss her…

That's all he wrote.

And had he not been at the center of a murder investigation, his words would be met with sympathy. So many I'm thinking of you or I'm sorry for your loss comments that the server would crash. No mean messages would be in the bunch. But because that's not the case, he had been met with a flurry of responses ranging from a sarcastic yeah right to exclamations of his guilt.

There are even groups of people who have suggested he kill himself.

He sighs, unable to make eye contact with me. "You were right. This stuff is sick."

"And wrong, but that's why you were supposed to delete your profile. Nothing on the web is ever truly gone. We can only limit the amount of backlash thrown our way."

"I know that now."

I shut my laptop down and gesture at the papers I've notated.

"What can you tell me about Kai Parker?"

"Where do you want me to start?"


I chew on my bottom lip, wishing desperately to forget all the information Jer gave to me earlier in the day. His friendship with Kai is another nail in his coffin, another pothole I must maneuver around. I had completely underestimated how harrowing this task would be and I hadn't exactly had high hopes, to begin with.

And what better way to avoid unpleasant thoughts than Damon?

I don't know how I feel as I wait for him to answer the door. Apprehension, perhaps. Or desperate? Happy. Is it possible to experience all those things at once?

The answer is a resounding yes. The entire period—from the time I made my choice until I'd spent a total of three months in Connecticut—was a nightmare of exactly this sensation. I thought I'd never have to wrestle with this kind of turmoil again—that was the point of being Bonnie Bennett. Star prosecutor. Independent, strong, fulfilled. Open to the occasional fling, but unwilling to be too reliant on another person.

I did exactly what I had told Damon. So why do I feel so conflicted?

He doesn't look all that surprised when he appears in the doorway.

"Bennett, what a surprise!"

"Sorry… I forgot to bring a rock to throw at your window. So, I thought I'd do it the old-fashioned way."

"That's disappointing."

"Is that what all your dates say?"

"No. Usually, they get me confused with God."

I'm sure my expression is one of annoyance. "Your ego is way too inflated."

"If I remember correctly, you said the same thing."

"Shut up, Damon." I avoid his gaze as he attempts to do an exaggerated impression of teenaged me.

But he doesn't look away. He studies me carefully as I stare at a picture hanging just beyond his shoulder. A giant oil painting of Mr. Salvatore. Surprisingly, neither Stefan nor Damon took it down. It's been watching over the foyer for as long as I can remember. I used to feel like he was looking at me as I tried to leave his home undetected.

It was creepy.

Now it just feels sad.

I've come to realize people only tend to love you when you're dead.

"What's wrong, Bon Bon?"

Everything. Nothing. Though they are on opposite sides of the spectrum, both answers would suffice.

"I don't know."

"You missed me that much, huh?" he pantomimes checking a watch. "It hasn't even been forty-eight hours."

"I'm glad Stefan finally taught you how to tell time."

"Me too. Those flashcards were a lifesaver."

I finally look at him. His dark hair is tousled. He's in a t-shirt and sweatpants. His eyes have bags under them. He must have just woken up from an ill-timed nap.

It's eight-thirty on a summer night. The sky has just started to darken, tinged with hues of pink. The lampposts haven't even turned on yet.

And then I get it.

Damon had gone on a date tonight. With some girl, he's met a handful of times while on duty. Andie… I hadn't listened intently enough to get her last name. I was so put-off by the idea that I pretended to be enthralled by the cheesy B-movie he decided to play.

Now, I feel dumb. Like I've been hit by a truck, too injured and stunned to get off the road.

"Your date looks like it's going well," I nod at his disheveled appearance.

"I didn't go out," he says casually. "I called her and canceled it."

"Why?"

He smirks. "She's a reporter. Thought it'd be a bad idea. I figured she only wanted to go on a date because she thought I'd have privileged details about Anna's homicide."

"Oh… good call." I can hear the change in my voice—the disappointment, though there isn't anything to be disappointed about.

"I knew you'd be impressed with my forethought."

"I am, surprisingly. I didn't know you were capable of thinking before you act."

"Neither did I."

"So, I was wondering—"

"Do you want to come in?" he asks, cutting me off. "We can order a pizza or something. Paint our nails… have a pillow fight. Then you can tell me what's bugging you."

I plant my hands on my hips and glare. "I didn't say anything was bugging me."

"Didn't have to. You always drag things out when you want to avoid talking things over."

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

"You're so immature!"

"And you're so uptight."

"Damon!"

"Bon Bon."

"If you order olives, you're in charge of picking them off my half."

"I know. Believe me, I'm not going to make that mistake twice."


Hey everyone! I hope you liked this chapter. I've been working on a few different things… so I'll update soon, but it may be a longer wait than usual. Especially because the next chapter of Come As You Are is an important one. As always, thanks for the feedback and support.