Part Four
Running On Empty

Daryl awoke on Saturday morning to a nasty whiskey hangover, a voicemail from his brother, and a new text from yet another unknown number.

The text was very clearly from Beth, of course.

Why do you keep blocking me? I'm all you've got left… My door is always open. All you have to do is knock. I love you. Even when no one else can. I hope you remember that.

The voicemail from Merle was yet another plea for a visit.

"You forgettin' about me already, baby brother? It's awful lonely in here. You too busy with all yer new friends and yer fancy apartment to give yer ol' brother an hour of yer weekend? Ain't even askin' fer money on my books this time. Jus' thought it'd be nice ta see yer stupid ass. 'S been a few months… A'right, talk to ya later."

Daryl sat on his couch with a piece of toast and his first beer of the day and realized he was thinking of those goddamn pills. Downright longing for them. The freedom they'd offered, the numbness, the absolute euphoria that he was desperate to reach in his current state. The oxycodone, the Percocet, the Adderall, the Vicodin. They would all wash away his pain. They would make him feel loved, accepted, welcome, happy. They would erase the feeling of neglect and abandonment that haunted his every waking hour. They would bring the blissful numbness he so deeply craved.

He shuddered and tried to push the thoughts away. Because that's not who he was anymore. Not who he'd been for years. He wouldn't resort back to that. He wouldn't let Carol or Connie be right about him. He wouldn't let Beth push him to that extent.

But what else did he have? Did no one else understand? Could they not understand?

He pulled out his phone and did another search, as though it would be different from last time. Beth Greene Georgia. Beth Greene Atlanta. Beth Greene Rick Atlanta.

Surely there was someone else out there who'd experienced what he was going through. Surely there was someone who'd been drawn into Beth's web of seduction and lies and managed to make it out. Surely he wasn't alone in this.

He reminded himself that he wasn't quite as alone as he'd thought. He wasn't completely abandoned. He still had his brother.

Though how Merle could help him from behind bars, he wasn't sure. But maybe talking to him and remembering that he wasn't entirely alone in the world would do him some good.

He put down the beer and took his first real shower in days, though shaving felt like more of a chore than he was quite capable of at the moment. Then he got dressed and hopped on his bike, riding it all the way to the correctional facility where his brother was being held for the next 20 to 25 years.

There were a few other people in the visitors' room. Daryl chose a table close to the corner, watching as his brother was led in by a correctional officer and sat down in the chair across from him. Merle grinned, resting his hands atop the small table and leaning forward.

"Well, well, well," he chided. "'Bout time ya come see yer big brother."

Daryl grunted, leaning back in his chair and gazing across the table listlessly.

Merle furrowed his brow. "Y'look like hell. You on them pills again or sum'n? Lemme see yer pupils."

Daryl shook his head and averted his gaze downward. ""M fine. Jus' been drinkin' a lot."

Merle chuckled. "Oh yeah? How come? Gettin' bored with the ol' nine-to-five? Told you it wasn't no good for ya, Darylina. Gonna wear ya down eventually. Us Dixons ain't made fer that shit."

Daryl heaved a sigh. He lifted his head and met his brother's sharp eyes. "How you been doin'?"

Merle shrugged, frowning. "Same ol' shit. Made a few friends."

Daryl chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Friends?" He already knew what it meant.

"Yeah," Merle said. "Finally got in with the Aryans. They got my back. 'S all't matters."

Daryl's stomach twisted, but he tried not to let the discomfort show on his face. "Figures."

Merle rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat. "Ain't like I'm gettin' a Swastika tattoo just yet. Relax."

"Didn't say nothin'," Daryl murmured. "Don't care."

Merle huffed out an amused breath. "Sure ya don't. Jus' like ya didn't care when I put that SS decal on my bike."

There was a beat of silence. Almost awkward.

Then Merle cleared his throat and asked, "So what's new? Y'still got that job? That fancy apartment? How's yer bestie doin'? The dyke or whatever."

Daryl stiffened. "My apartment ain't fancy. Told you already. An' Carol ain't gay just 'cause she's got the haircut."

Once again, Merle rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Semantics."

Daryl sighed. "She's not… talkin' to me. Don't want nothin' t'do with me no more."

A crease formed in Merle's brow and he frowned. "Oh yeah? How come?"

Daryl shrugged. A lump was already forming in his throat at the mere thought—the memory of Carol's words piercing his heart—but he tried to hide it. "Some stupid shit."

"Huh," Merle huffed out. "What stupid shit?"

Daryl shifted in his seat, averting his gaze, unwilling to meet his brother's eyes. "She, uh… hooked me up with a girl. Didn't work out."

There was a long moment of silence. Then Merle said, "Oh. I see. So y'fucked shit up with the girl an' now yer li'l friend don't want nothin t'do with ya." He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "See, this is why y'can't trust women, Darylina. They're all in cahoots. Bunch'a man-hatin' fuckin' feminists. Ready t'make ya out t'be the devil. One li'l misstep an' the next thing ya know, they're crucifyin' ya." He shook his head. "Damn shame. The pussy ain't even worth it, truth be told."

"Guess you would know," Daryl shot back, unable to stop himself. "Yer half the reason I can't make nothin' work."

Merle furrowed his brow, his frown deepening. "The fuck's that s'posed t'mean?"

"You know what it means." Daryl clenched his jaw, shifting in his seat uneasily. "Can't fuckin' escape the reputation you made fer us. Don't matter how hard I try. Everybody always finds out I'm the brother of a rapist. The brother of a murderer."

"Oh, fuck off!" Merle spat, slashing his hand through the air. "How many times I gotta tell ya?! That bitch was askin' for it! She wanted it! Ain't my fault she couldn't handle her own shit."

Daryl bit back what he really wanted to say. He swallowed past a knot in his throat and murmured, "Yeah, you been sayin' that since the day you got arrested. Doesn't change anything. Doesn't make it right."

Merle scoffed. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, looking up towards the ceiling dismissively. "How the fuck was I s'posed t'know she was a senator's daughter… bitch was just as coked-out as all the rest of 'em. Didn't matter. She wanted what she wanted. Christ, she was downright beggin' for it—y'think I'd put myself in that position willingly? Y'think I'd've given her them drugs if I'd known she ain't had no tolerance? C'mon, Daryl. You know me. How many times we gotta have this fuckin' argument? She wanted it. She liked it rough." He paused, scoffing and rolling his eyes. "Ain't my fault she couldn't handle her shit."

Through gritted teeth, Daryl growled, "She was barely fuckin' eighteen, Merle. You knew what you were doin' was wrong. An' ya did it anyway."

Merle shrugged, tightening his arms across his chest. "Still. Don't mean she didn't want it."

Daryl shook his head. "Yeah. An' now she's dead. An' yer stuck here 'til ya either die or get too old t'wipe yer own ass."

"Wouldn't be if it weren't fer her big-time daddy bringin' the hammer down on me."

"So y'think it was worth it?"

Merle narrowed his eyes, his mouth curving into a deep frown. "Was anything we did after Dad died worth it?" He licked his lips and squared his shoulders. "Honestly. You tell me."

Daryl sighed. He leaned forward, putting a hand to his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. "You fucked everything up. You made a name fer us that I can't fuckin' escape—no matter how hard I try. All anybody sees when they meet me is yer brother. Dad's son. And I can't fuckin' get away from it."

Merle scoffed. "Not my problem. I didn't make that name fer us—ain't my fault the Dixons got a bad rap. Y'can thank all the fuckin' reporters who made it such a big deal an' went diggin' into Dad's record." He shook his head. "The hell you bringin' this shit up for, anyhow? Thought you was makin' a new life fer yerself. All Merle-free an' whatnot. From the sounds of it, you was doin' pretty goddamn well. So what happened?"

At that, Daryl's defenses crumbled. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought back a sudden onslaught of tears.

He couldn't cry in front of his brother. He wouldn't. He would not.

But when he finally managed to speak, he couldn't meet Merle's eyes, and the lump in his throat made his voice thick and raspy. "Beth happened."

"Beth?" Merle sucked on his teeth, confused. "That the girl ya fucked things up with? Christ, don't tell me yer gettin' this bent outta shape over some pair'a tits."

Daryl shook his head. "Nah. She-she's my neighbor. Moved in last year. She's…"

Would his brother believe him? Now that it really mattered? Or would he simply admonish Daryl and make him feel even worse?

He realized he no longer cared. He literally had nothing else to lose.

"She's stalking me. Tryin' ta ruin my life… and she's succeeding."

He expected a laugh, or at least a condescending snort and eye-roll. But when there was no response except silence, he lifted his head and met Merle's narrowed eyes.

Merle leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, his expression turning somber and serious. With a lowered voice, he asked, "'S that why the girlfriend didn't work out? Why Carol turned against ya?"

Daryl merely nodded, swallowing back tears and blinking rapidly to keep them from pooling. The look on his big brother's face was one he hadn't seen in years. It was what he'd been searching for and so desperately needing.

It was… understanding.

Of course, in some sense of sick universal irony, Merle of all people was the only one who believed him.

Merle humphed thoughtfully before asking, "The hell's she been doin'? Wait—first, how old is she? What's she look like? What d'you know about 'er?"

Daryl sighed. "She's… she's nineteen or twenty. Real small, skinny, blonde, big blue eyes. Real pretty. Innocent-lookin'. I barely know shit about 'er."

"Shit," Merle murmured. "Sounds like…"

His voice trailed off, as though he were deciding against saying what he really wanted to say. Daryl knew what he wanted to say.

Sounds like Mama.

Instead, Merle said, "Sounds like the type… So, what shit d'you know 'bout her exactly?"

With a listless shrug, Daryl explained, "I—I know she moved in by herself. First time on her own away from her family. Claims her daddy lives on a farm outta town. Got an older sister an' a brother-in-law on the other side of town. Said her mom's dead. She's got a job, but I dunno where. And she's… real unstable."

"Well no shit," Merle remarked. "Stable folks don't stalk people. 'Specially a guy like you."

Daryl chose to ignore that comment and went on, "No, I mean… she ain't right. Been sick in the head a while, maybe her whole life. Already had a scar on her wrist when I met her. Think she tried t'kill herself before. Right after she moved in, she started bein' weird. Pushy an' obsessive. Got my number, kept textin' me an' tryin' ta hang out. I shut it down, told 'er I wasn't interested in bein' friends or nothin'. But she kept it up. Wouldn't take no fer an answer. Told a couple of our neighbors some shit that made 'em real suspicious of me. Made 'em think I was some kinda predator or some shit. Then one day, I came home an' she was bein' hauled off in an ambulance. Guess she slit her wrists. Neighbors heard her callin' out my name while the paramedics were takin' 'er away."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Merle muttered.

"I didn't know how t'fuckin' handle it," Daryl went on. "Thought if I ignored it, she'd give up. I didn't even tell 'er my last name. Wouldn't give her the time of day. But a week after that shit, she came back home an' I heard her fightin' with her sister. Sounded like…" He paused, huffing out an uncertain breath. "I'ono. Sounded like she'd done shit like this before. With other guys. But she always managed to play the victim. Her sister got my number an' called me. I thought she was givin' me a heads-up or sum'n. But all she did was tell me t'stay away from 'er. Like it was my fault. Like I'd been leadin' her on or some shit. Said she was on new meds, spent some time in a mental hospital. Claimed she was doin' better… I believed it. Jus' tried t'keep my distance."

Merle's face was slowly draining of color, his eyes going wide with every detail Daryl relayed. "Fuckin' hell, baby brother… you believed that shit? After this broad turned yer own neighbors against ya?"

Daryl shrugged, ashamed. "I thought…" He swallowed hard. "I thought she was jus' havin' a hard time. Thought… fuck. I thought she just needed some grace, man. I was—I was try'na empathize."

"Fuck me," Merle muttered. "That was yer first mistake." He shook his head, his mouth pinching tight. Then he sighed and said, "A'right… so how much worse has it gotten? What else did this crazy bitch do? And what'd you do?"

Daryl averted his gaze, unsure of whether he should tell Merle everything. Whether he wanted to tell him everything.

He knew he was stupid. Yeah, that was easy to see now. In retrospect. He didn't need to hear about it from his brother, too.

"C'mon now," Merle urged.

Daryl met his eyes warily, trying to gauge whether or not he should tell the whole story.

Then Merle said, with the softest and most compassionate tone Daryl had ever heard from him in his entire life, "Tell ol' Merle all about it. We're gon' fix this. But I gotta know everything… even if ya fucked up a little. Don't leave nothin' out now. I need every little ugly detail."

Daryl chewed on the inside of his cheek, a thousand painful words building on the tip of his tongue.

"Wha'ssamatter? Y'think I'mma thump ya on the head an' call ya a dumbass?" Merle asked. "My name ain't Will. I don't fuck around when it comes t'my li'l brother. Mind you, I'm 'bout all you got left at this point."

Something about hearing those words struck a chord in Daryl. He had to look away and blink rapidly to keep the tears back, swallowing over and over again to compose himself.

"Now g'on," Merle said. "Lay it on me. Tell me everything."

And so that's exactly what Daryl did.

He told Merle everything. Every fucked-up detail, every bone-chilling bit. He spilled his guts in the visitors' room of the correctional facility in a way he hadn't been able to with Carol.

Halfway through, the tears pooled and leaked from his eyes, dripping down his cheeks, and he paused, stifling a sob and expecting Merle to admonish him. But he didn't. Merle's face remained stoic, his jaw clenching, his shoulders tight, his hands balling into fists atop the table as he listened intently.

Daryl held nothing back, though. Not even the parts that made him look bad.

The day Beth had moved in. Her number on a piece of paper—Beth with a heart. The incessant texts begging to be friends and his attempt at setting boundaries. The sudden cold-shoulder from Bob. The interrogation from Rosita. The heightening creepiness of Beth's text messages. Her little "attempt" and the final nail in the coffin for Rosita. The screaming match between Maggie and Beth, followed by the headfuck of a conversation with Maggie that only left him with more questions. Rosita moving out and shunning him completely. How he'd turned to booze, just like the old days, to numb his unease and feeling of abandonment. Beth's seemingly genuine apology, including a gift that had appeared innocent and heartfelt. The brief respite afterwards. Meeting Connie. Carol's encouragement as he developed the first healthy romantic relationship of his entire life. Finding himself trusting someone and falling in love for the first time ever. And then the social media stalking. The lipstick prints on his mail. The creepy, foreboding song he could hear through Beth's door and the thin walls of her apartment. And of course, sleeping with Connie—taking things to the next level and allowing himself to develop real feelings and high hopes. Followed by Beth showing up at his doorstep, half-conscious and "drugged," in seemingly desperate need of help. And then the heartbreak; the absolute devastation that came from learning that Beth had found Connie, gone straight to her under the guise of needing help anonymously, and lying. Losing not only Connie's trust, but Connie entirely. The lacy red thong. The condom. The texts. The crutch of booze once more.

When he got to the part about his confrontation with Beth in the hallway, he didn't even try to lie. He told the whole truth, every shameful part. His whiskey-soaked veins, his hand around her throat, her hot breath on his face and her crotch pressing up against him; her admitted desire to take everything from him. Her threat to ruin his life with the rape kit and the web of lies she'd so carefully weaved. Her promise of never letting him escape, no matter how far he thought he might get. The realization that she had everyone wrapped around her finger—everyone but him. The camera hidden inside the dog toy and the implications behind it—blackmail? Another way to hurt Connie? He didn't know. Didn't want to find out. The red spray paint on his door and the dumpster, how ASSHOLE still glared at him from beneath two coats of paint every time he approached his own front door. Desperately searching all possible combinations of names and words to learn about her past and the men she'd previously victimized, only to come up with even less information than before. More insane texts. Threatening texts. Haunting texts. Multiple new numbers that he couldn't block, couldn't escape. His own mistake—a moment of madness—when he'd found himself outside of Connie's work and seen the look of fear on her face. And then the unsolicited video.

Finally, he explained how he'd gone to Carol, half-drunk and completely desperate. And how she'd heard everything and decided to turn him away. To believe the word of some half-baked girl over the word of her supposed "best friend." To use his brother's sins against him. To treat him as though he were no different than her abusive ex-husband.

The only parts he left out were the details he was most ashamed of—the nightmares of their mom returning to haunt him, the photos Beth had slid beneath his door, the way he'd pictured her while he jacked off and wept. What felt like his own slow descent into a madness that could only match hers. (Some things were simply better kept to himself, no matter the circumstances.)

When he finally finished, his throat was sore and his voice was hoarse, his cheeks wet with tears that he kept wiping away with the back of his hand. He was sobbing quietly in the visitors' room of the prison that held his brother, shoulders shaking as he hunched over the table and tried to keep his voice low.

And Merle's face had gone more pale than Daryl had ever seen it. He hadn't even looked this shaken the day he'd been convicted, when his name and picture was plastered across every newspaper headline in Georgia, and the trial was being aired on every local news network in the tri-state area.

No, Merle had never much cared for himself. Not really. It was his baby brother that he truly cared about.

The realization brought fresh tears to Daryl's eyes. But he fought them back. Sniffled and regained composure, wiping his face dry on the sleeve of his shirt.

Merle stared at him from across the table. After the silence hung in the air for a long moment, he let out a simple, "Huh."

Daryl swallowed thickly, sniffling. Shook his head and admitted, "Feel like I'm goin' fuckin' crazy. Feels like I'm all alone. She… she's made me all alone. I was thinkin' 'bout those pills today an-and I ain't thought about 'em in years." He heaved a world-weary sigh. "So I came here."

Merle let out his own sigh, his face still pale. He leaned back in his seat and remained silent for a moment. Contemplative. Crossed his arms over his chest and glanced towards the correctional officer standing guard in the corner before settling his gaze on the bare tabletop. Chewed on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.

Finally, he muttered, "Well, I ain't one t'tell ya the drugs won't help. Always helped me." He sucked on his teeth. Hummed to himself as if in deep thought.

"But you know I been try'na get away from that," Daryl murmured. "I don't ever wanna go back t'that shit. Ain't even drank this much since y'got convicted… all it does is make everybody look down on me. Makes 'em not wanna believe me."

"Yeah, but they didn't even believe ya stone-cold sober," Merle said. "So that ain't sayin' much at this point."

Daryl sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. "I know."

"Christ, baby brother." Merle rubbed a hand across his face, shaking his head. "I don't… fuck. I dunno where t'even start. This is one hell of a fuckin' pickle y'got yerself in."

"I'd move out—get as far away as I can," Daryl said, "but she'd just find me. Or send the cops after me. Put me behind bars." He clenched his jaw at the mere thought, his spine stiffening as he accepted the fact that he was really and truly trapped.

"Yeah… reckon yer right. Crazy bitch like that—all young an' innocent an' pretty, an' a history of mental illness that makes her seem easy t'take advantage of… you wouldn't stand a chance."

Somehow, it sounded even worse coming from Merle. Sounded even more real.

"Look," Merle said, "the bitch knows what she's doin'. Ain't nothin' against ya, I'm just pointin' out the facts. She's gotcha by the balls, damn near literally."

Daryl grunted. "Yeah. I… I know."

Merle heaved a long sigh and scrubbed a hand across the gray stubble on his cheeks and chin. "D'you, uh…" He frowned, shooting a glance towards the guard in the corner again. "D'you think any'a those guys she did this to before… y'think any of 'em made it out somehow? Ya think maybe they'd know how t'handle her? Shake 'er off?"

Daryl shrugged. "Fuck if I know. Can't even find 'em."

"How many y'think there are?"

"Dunno. At least one. Maybe two or three. Already told ya everything I know. Not like I can ask her sister."

"Fuckin' Christ," Merle murmured with exasperation. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…"

"I never scorned her," Daryl corrected. "All I did was… fuckin' smile at 'er. That's it."

"Yeah, yeah," Merle said, though the usual emphatic tone of his voice was lacking. "Don't matter now. Crazy bitches are gonna do crazy bitch shit. An' this bitch is peak crazy. Thought I'd had some insane broads in my life, but I can't say I've seen anythin' like this cunt in all my days. Dunno how y'attracted her, but shit…"

Daryl had to choke back another sob, the hopelessness rising up and threatening to strangle him. "So I'm fucked. I'm completely fuckin' fucked… gonna end up in here with you just 'cause she couldn't take no fer an answer."

"Hell no," Merle said, sitting up straighter. "Not if I got anythin' ta say about it."

"The fuck'm I s'posed t'do then? Can't shake 'er off, can't move out, can't get anybody else t'believe me—"

"I believe you. An' I'm all you need. You forgotten that already?"

Daryl blinked, frowning. He was about to argue, but then Merle snapped his fingers to get the correctional officer's attention.

"Hey! Gorman!"

The CO shot a withering glare in Merle's direction.

"Lemme get a piece'a paper an' a pen," Merle said.

With a sigh, Gorman walked over, extracting a small notepad and a pen from his shirt pocket. He ripped a single page from the notepad and slapped it down on the table along with the pen. Merle gave him a smug smirk.

"Thanks, hoss. I owe ya one."

Daryl watched with a quizzical expression as Merle proceeded to scrawl something on the paper.

"What's that?"

Merle finished and handed the pen back over to Gorman, who snatched it from Merle's hand and returned to his post in the corner without a word.

"It's a start," Merle said, sliding the piece of paper across the table to Daryl. "Can't do much for ya from in here, an' I dunno how much this'll do, but it's somethin'. Least y'can do is find out what yer workin' with. Maybe see if there's a way ta trap this bitch in her own mechanisms. If y'can track one of those other guys down, maybe they'll know somethin' about 'er that you could use in yer defense. Fight fire with fire or whatever. I'ono. Worth a shot, though."

Daryl picked up the paper and squinted down at it to see a name and phone number. "Who's this?"

"Private investigator," Merle replied. "Old business associate. He owes me. Call 'im up, tell him I'm cashin' in that favor. Then tell him everything ya know about Beth—'specially those names ya heard her an' her bitch sister screamin' about—an' see what he can find out."

Daryl gazed across the table at Merle, a bit dumbstruck. "You… really think this'll help?"

Merle shrugged. "I dunno dick about shit, baby brother. But like I said, there's only so much I can do from in here. Reckon it couldn't hurt t'try."

Daryl cleared his throat and shoved the paper into his pocket. "Alrigh'. Yeah. 'S not a bad idea." He found himself blinking away a fresh pool of tears. "Shit… I dunno—"

"You can put some money on my books," Merle interrupted, raising his eyebrows. "A hundred? I'm try'na treat me an' the boys to some good eats."

"Fine," Daryl conceded. "Reckon it's the least I can do fer actually fuckin' believin' me."

Merle barked out a laugh. "Yeah. I'd say so. Jus' remember—whatever this batshit li'l bitch tells ya, I'm the only one who's ever gonna care about you. And I mean really care about ya. No matter what, ol' Merle's got yer back. Don't you ferget it."

And though he didn't want to believe it, Daryl found himself ruminating on those words long after he'd left the correctional facility and driven away. They settled at the back of his mind much like his mom's words had.

"Nobody can ever love you like I do, Daryl baby. Nobody."

"I'm the only one who's ever gonna care about you."

Sometimes, he hated loving his brother.

As soon as Daryl unlocked his front door and stepped inside, he could tell something was off.

He shut the door behind him and locked it again, then stood in place, narrowed eyes glancing around and trying to discern the difference that had made him bristle upon entering. Dog trotted up to him with a happy greeting, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of his mouth. Daryl reached down and scratched him behind the ears before shooing him away.

He took a few tentative steps forward before he realized it was the smell that was different. Someone had been here while he'd been gone.

There was a faint trace of vanilla perfume lingering in the air.

Beth.

He recognized it almost immediately because it was the same scent that had filled his nostrils when he was gripping her by the throat. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, goosebumps formed up and down his arms, and—God help him—his dick twitched in his pants, an involuntary warmth forming somewhere beneath the pit of his stomach.

He took precarious and wary steps further into his own apartment, his gaze searching every inch, preparing himself as though he expected her to jump out from the shadows at any moment.

She wasn't here, though. Not anymore. She'd definitely been here. He knew for certain because there was something waiting for him on his kitchen countertop.

A homemade peach pie covered with clear cling wrap. And resting atop it was a folded piece of paper.

His breaths were coming shorter and more rapid, his heart thumping in his chest. He reached out with tentative fingers and unfolded the paper to read the note she'd left, written in the same handwriting as that very first note she'd stuck into the crack of his door over a year ago:

This one is homemade. Don't worry, I didn't put anything weird in it. You looked like you needed some cheering up. Hope you enjoy the treat. I know you'll be thinking of me while you eat it.

And at the bottom, right beside a little heart, she'd added:

I love you.

With a frustrated grunt, Daryl chucked the pie and the note straight into the trash. Then he went through his entire apartment, searching every nook and cranny for anything else she may have planted or conveniently left behind. He even double-checked Dog's bag of food to assure himself that she hadn't tampered with it.

Thankfully, there was nothing. But now he was wondering how the hell she'd gotten into his apartment.

Well, he reckoned, probably the same way she'd managed to get into his mailbox.

Nothing was sacred so long as Beth Greene knew where he lived.

Daryl's first phone call was to a locksmith. He scheduled an appointment to have his locks changed the next day.

His next call was to the number Merle had written down.

He sat on the couch, jiggling his knee anxiously with the phone pressed to his ear. It rang three times before it picked up.

A deep male voice answered, "Hello?"

Daryl cleared his throat and said, "Hey, uh, who's this?"

"You called me."

Shit. Stupid thing to say. He was nervous. "Sorry, I—uh, I got yer number from my brother. Merle Dixon. He said yer a private investigator, told me t'let ya know he's cashin' in that favor."

There were a few seconds of silence. Then the voice on the other end replied, a tinge of frustration in his tone, "Merle Dixon? Isn't he in prison?"

"Yeah. But—"

"Nah. I know." There was a sigh. "Guess I still owe him. I'm not tryin' to get on his bad side. I'm guessin' you're Daryl?"

"Tha's right. An' you are?"

"Caesar Martinez. No more questions. What d'you need a P.I. for?"

Daryl grunted awkwardly. Cleared his throat again and glanced over his shoulder anxiously, towards the too-thin walls of his apartment. He kept his voice low, damn near a whisper. "A… girl. Woman. She's my neighbor. I need t'know as much as possible about her."

There was a pause. Then, "Is this like… a stalking thing? 'Cause I don't do that shit. If y'like the girl, just go talk to her, man—"

"Nah, nah, it ain't like that. It's, uh… the opposite, actually. She's the one stalking me."

Caesar made a sound like a half-chuckle. "You gotta be shittin' me."

"Wish I was."

"An' what d'you think I'm gonna be able to do about it? You should be makin' a police report."

"That's not an option. She's got me cornered. I'm stuck at a dead end here. She knows damn near everything about me, but I dunno shit about her. I just need… somethin'. Anything that could help me figure out how to get her off my back."

Caesar sighed. "Alright. Fine. But I do this, an' you tell yer brother we're clear. Got it? My debt t'him is paid an' done with, and I don't ever wanna hear his name again."

"Yeah. Got it. So yer gonna help me?"

"Help you?" A mirthless chuckle. "No. That's not what I do. I get information and pass it on. Then you forget you ever knew me."

"Right. That's what I meant."

"Just so we're clear."

"Crystal clear, man."

"Cool." There was a pause, followed by the sound of rustling papers in the background and soft breathing. Then Caesar said, "Okay. Tell me everything you know about her an' what you need to find out. I'll take it from there."

Daryl spent nearly thirty minutes on the phone telling Caesar everything he knew about Beth—and everything he needed to know.

When he finally hung up, he felt as though a few pounds of the weight resting on his shoulders had been lifted. Though it still clung heavy to his heart, to his lungs. He found himself sitting silently once he'd ended the call, staring at the dark screen of his phone and hoping against hope that there was something… anything… that could free him from the death-grip Beth had on his life.

Caesar had promised to call back within the next two weeks. "A month at most," he'd assured. "But she's young. It's hard to find information on minors, so I might not be able to get more than the last year or two. I'm not a miracle worker."

Daryl was desperate, though. He accepted his chances, no matter how slim they may be. Besides, she wasn't a minor anymore, so he was still clinging to a little bit of faith.

At the end of the call, Caesar had hesitated before asking, "What d'you think you'll be able to do with this information, anyhow? How's it gonna stop her from doing whatever she's doing?"

Daryl had heaved a deep sigh. Then he admitted, "I'm not sure. Best case scenario, you can find somebody who knows somethin' I can use against her."

"Fightin' fire with fire. No doubt that was Merle's idea."

"So you do know my brother."

Caesar chuckled before asking, "And worst case scenario?"

Daryl hesitated. But he finally said, "Worst case is I know exactly what I'm dealin' with. Just how real her threats are. And I go from there."

Nearly a month passed without any word from Caesar.

Beth's behavior didn't escalate, but it didn't exactly de-escalate, either. She hadn't tried to break into Daryl's apartment again, as far as he knew, but she was still texting him from various unknown numbers nearly every day. Sending unsolicited and very explicit pictures and videos. Calling him "baby" and saying "I love you." She was still playing her guitar loudly—and singing even louder—at certain hours when she knew he could overhear it. She knew his schedule by heart, that much was clear.

Her determination did not waiver, nor did her desperation.

He tried to cut back on the drinking, well aware that it wouldn't make him look any better if he were actually able to make some sort of legal case out of the whole ordeal. Most of all, it didn't make him look credible to anyone. But it was difficult. He only left his apartment for work and the store, and every time he took Dog out for a walk, his head was on a swivel and his heart was racing. He'd begun looking into available apartments on the other side of town, as well as the cost of installing a camera system in his home. Though he wasn't sure he was quite ready to take those steps yet.

He kept his phone nearby at all times, anxiously waiting to hear back from Caesar.

Finally, nearly a month after their original phone call, Daryl's phone rang. It was nearly nine in the evening, and he was already three glasses of whiskey deep, but he answered on the second ring.

"Martinez?"

"Yeah, it's me. You got time to talk?"

Daryl cleared his throat and set down his half-empty glass, sitting forward on the couch and pressing the phone tighter against his ear. "'Course." He kept his voice low, glancing over his shoulder toward the thin walls of his apartment. "What d'you got for me?"

There was a sigh, and the tone of Caesar's voice was almost foreboding. "Well… I found a lot more than I thought I would. That farm she grew up on is near a pretty small town—that's where she went to high school—and people talk. Only took a little digging to hear all the rumors."

"I don't want rumors," Daryl said. "I want facts."

"That's the thing," Caesar said. "I know how small-town rumors work. It's like a shitty game of Telephone—there's facts an' there's exaggeration. It was pretty obvious which parts were true. I didn't go lookin' for her whole life story, but I damn near got it anyway."

"Oh yeah?" Daryl grunted. "'S that… a good thing?"

"Man, that's not for me to decide. You wanna know the whole story or not?"

Daryl sighed, slumping forward. "Reckon I do. Lay it on me."

He heard a sigh from the other end of the phone, followed by the sound of rustling papers. Then Martinez cleared his throat and began speaking in a low, methodic voice, like he was reading aloud: "Beth Greene was raised on her family's farm in Senoia. The land and the house have been in her family for generations. Her dad, Hershel, had a wife named Josephine. Married about fifteen years. Had one daughter, Maggie. Josephine died when Maggie was a toddler. He ended up meeting Annette, who already had a son from a previous relationship. She was about twenty years his junior, but they got married an' nobody really batted an eye at the age difference. Hershel adopted the boy—Shawn—as his own when he was still in diapers. Couple years later, Hershel and Annette had Beth. They were the picture-perfect blended family fer a little over a decade. Maggie went off to college, then she dropped out an' came back when Annette got diagnosed with stage four leukemia.

"After that, it's a lotta hearsay. Got a slightly different story from everybody. Guess ol' Hershel had a drinking problem he gave up when Maggie was born, but some say he fell back into it after the diagnosis. Once Annette passed, the details get pretty convoluted. Somethin' about Maggie runnin' off to live in Atlanta with her new boyfriend, Shawn takin' on the brunt of the farmwork, Beth missin' a lotta school an' runnin' around with boys she wouldn't've normally hung out with. I dunno. Like I said, there's a lotta rumors."

Daryl took it all in, playing it out in his head like some kind of fucked-up movie. He grunted in understanding and murmured, "Yeah, alrigh'. Makes sense. What else?"

Martinez heaved another sigh into the phone. There was more rustling of papers. Then he went on, "The uh, Jimmy guy you named? Remember that?"

"'Course," Daryl confirmed.

"Right, well… sounds like he was a family friend. Worked on a nearby farm. Guess he dated Beth fer about three months or so, sometime around the cancer diagnosis. From what I heard, things went south after Annette's funeral. They broke up. It was messy. She spread a lotta rumors about him, told everybody he got her pregnant an' tried to convince her to have an abortion before she had a miscarriage. Nobody could actually say whether it was true or not. Half of 'em seemed t'believe it, the other half claim she was a prude, say she never even slept with the guy. There's a general consensus that it was a lie t'make him look bad an' get him in trouble with his super conservative parents. And… well, either way, it worked. About a month after she spread that tale around town, he enlisted in the Army an' went off to bootcamp. Folks who knew his family say his parents forced him to enlist. Last thing anybody heard of him was that he was KIA overseas about a year ago."

Daryl felt like a sledgehammer just slammed into his chest. He exhaled a breathy, "Jesus Christ…"

"Yeah, well, that ain't the end of it," Caesar continued. "After Jimmy left town, the brother—Shawn, remember?—well, he ended up gettin' killed. Some kinda freak farming accident. Hershel drowned his sorrows in the bottle. Maggie took over the farm, but she was still spendin' half her time in Atlanta with her boyfriend. Got engaged an' all that. Somewhere around that time, Beth made her first suicide attempt. Slit her wrists an' spent two days in the hospital, then another three in the psych ward. About six months later, she's back home an' doin' fine. This is where that Zach guy comes into play. That's one of the names you gave me, right?"

Daryl swallowed hard before confirming, "Yeah. What happened with him?"

"Guess they dated fer about four months, maybe a little more," Caesar said. "I dunno for sure, it's all hearsay."

"So when does this shit stop bein' hearsay an' yer best guesses?" Daryl asked. "Y'get any actual proof that all this is true an' not just small-town rumor mill bullshit?"

Caesar scoffed. "Listen, I'm not one t'go off word-of-mouth alone. When it came to legal details an' shit like that, I corroborated with some sources. Keep in mind, this ain't the kinda thing that's gonna be in newspapers. Beth was a minor for the majority of this, so all these files were locked down. I had to call in a few favors."

With a grunt of resignation, Daryl said, "Good. That's what I wanted t'hear. So what happened to the Zach guy?"

"Well, six months before she graduated high school, he ended up gettin' arrested on a rape charge."

"Beth?" Daryl immediately guessed.

"Nope," Caesar said. "Some other girl. He was goin' to the state college an hour away. A classmate claimed he drugged her drink an' date-raped her. Ended up bein' insufficient evidence to take it to court, but he still lost his scholarships and got expelled. Then he tucked tail and left the state after it was all said an' done. Nobody around here's seen hide nor hair of him since. From what I found, he moved all the way to Montana. Managed t'track him down, gave him a call. But as soon as I spoke Beth's name, he hung up and blocked my number."

Daryl exhaled a breath of disbelief. "What the fuck…"

"That ain't even the weirdest part," Caesar went on. "Even before the Zach shit, Beth was the babysitter for this couple in town that was friends with her dad—the Grimes'. Just a guy and his wife and their two young kids. From what everybody said, Beth was spending nearly every Friday and Saturday night at their house for a good year or two, watchin' the kids while the mom and dad went out or worked late. The dad was a Sheriff's Deputy, believe it or not. Guess he was usually the one t'come home first most nights. Usually gave her a ride home since the farm was a ways out from their house. She was two months from turning eighteen when she went to the cops and said he raped her."

Daryl's breath hitched in his chest. He rasped out, "Rick? Was that his name?"

"Yep," Caesar confirmed. "That's the one."

"Fucking Christ," Daryl murmured with disbelief. "An' what happened? What came'a all that?"

Caesar let out a mirthless chuckle. "That's where it gets real fuckin' tricky, man. There's all kinds'a stories goin' around that li'l town about it. Some people believe one side, some believe the other. Nobody seems t'know what the hell the actual truth is, though. Only thing anybody knows is that there was a court case, a lotta fuckin' evidence, and…. Well, ol' Rick ended up getting divorced. Lost custody of his kids. Went to jail. I looked into it and he was convicted on aggravated statutory rape, assault and battery, and possession of child pornography. Got ten-to-fifteen years and a lifetime registry as a violent sex offender."

"A Sheriff's Deputy?" Daryl asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, you're tellin' me," Caesar agreed. "But they come down a lot harder for shit like that when it's a cop. Age of consent didn't mean shit when they found nude photos of the babysitter and a bunch more evidence on his phone. Not to mention, Beth went around cryin' to everybody that he took advantage of the situation, even went to the cops with a black eye and a bloody lip. Claimed he got violent and raped her when he was givin' her a ride home one night, and the rape kit only backed up her story…

"But the real nail in the coffin was his own wife testifying against him. Not sure what it was exactly, but she turned over some evidence she'd found. From the sounds of it, nobody really wanted to believe it, but most of 'em ended up accepting it as the truth. Some of 'em said it made sense 'cause him and his wife were havin' a lotta problems—said she was spendin' way too much time alone with his partner, and he was spendin' way too much time alone with the babysitter. Even had a couple people say, and I quote, 'Rick Grimes can be dangerously charming.'

"And the cherry on top of that fuck-filled cake was Beth breakin' down and making another suicide attempt a month after he was convicted. Took a bunch'a pills an' had to have her stomach pumped. Spent another week in the psych ward. But nobody really knows what happened after that. Guess Hershel finally got sober again, but just barely. And then Maggie got married an' moved out for good. Little while later, Beth moved out, too. I think that's about the time she ended up becomin' your neighbor.

"Whatever happened in between all that is irrelevant and unreliable, so far as I'm concerned. Couldn't find a single thing with her name attached aside from the locked-down police records. Local paper wrote about the Sheriff's Deputy bein' disgraced an' locked up, but her name was never mentioned 'cause, ya know… she was technically still a minor at the time."

Daryl realized he was holding his breath and finally let it loose, escaping his chest in one long exhale. He was squeezing his eyes shut and squeezing the phone in his hand even harder. He had to consciously loosen his grip before he asked, "And that's it? That's all ya found out?"

Caesar scoffed. "That ain't enough?"

Daryl humphed. "Nah. Yeah. Y-yeah, I guess that's enough. It just…" He bit down on his lower lip. Exhaled again. "Just don't make sense."

"What about it doesn't make sense?" Caesar asked. "This chick's bad news. I mean—fuck, man." He let out another chuckle, devoid of amusement. "She's top-tier fuckin' crazy, from what I've learned. If what you claim is true, and she's some master manipulator, then every guy she's come into contact with has ended up either disgraced, dead, or locked up. Even if I thought you were lying, after findin' all this out, I'd be suspicious as hell of this bitch. And now she's got her sights set on you?"

Daryl's stomach twisted painfully. He grasped the glass of whiskey in his other hand and took a long swig before responding, "Yeah. She does. So what the fuck do I do now? Y'think there's any way out?"

A long silence filled his ear. Finally, Caesar let out a sigh. There was more rustling of papers. Then he said, "Honestly… I dunno. I think yer best option would be to move. Get as far away from her as you can. As fast as you can."

Daryl humphed. Shook his head, even though he knew Caesar couldn't see it. "Y'think I ain't already thought'a that? She's got… fuckin' evidence. She's already set me up for ruin. She'll find a way t'fuckin' incriminate me. I can't—"

"Then do whatever the fuck you're gonna do," Caesar interrupted. "But I did my part already. I got your information. Me an' Merle are square. I don't ever wanna hear his name again."

Daryl sighed. "Nah. Nah, I know. Ain't gotta worry about that."

"Alright then. All I can tell you is—shit, I'ono. Good luck, I guess. Try not to end up in prison like your brother."

"Gee, thanks."

"I'm just bein' honest."

"Right. Well…" Daryl took in a deep breath, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass as he kept the phone pressed to his ear. "What was that last guy's name again? The one that got locked up? Rick somethin'?"

"Rick Grimes," Caesar confirmed.

"Y'know where he's bein' held, by any chance?"

More rustling of papers in the background. An exasperated sigh. And finally, "Yeah, here it is… Georgia State Correctional Facility. Minimum security. About two hours from where yer brother's being held. Why?"

Daryl set down his glass and leaned back into the couch, tilting his head up towards the ceiling. Then he rasped out, "Think I'm gonna have ta do some investigating of my own."