TITLE: The Quality of Darkness
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.
A/N: I believe this chapter requires a bit of explanation before you read it. When you start, it may seem a bit confusing because there are a lot of things going on that are not immediately explained and the sections alternate between present and very recent past (although they're all in present tense). This is similar to the structure used at the end of the last chapter. The later sections help explain the earlier ones. I was trying to convey chaos and suspense by structuring it this way, that's why I didn't group all the "like" sections together. Please bear with me, because it will all come together in the end, I promise.
Chapter 21: Convergence
Drake sees his eyes before anything else, sees the way they widen as they stare into his, the way the pupils slowly dilate. He feels the man's fingers digging into his arm painfully, but he can't twist away. The sound has shocked him into stillness. It's so loud, his ears are ringing, and it seems to drown out everything else.
Except for the screaming.
They've been sitting in silence for what feels like an hour after Drake stops talking, but it's only been a few minutes.
Josh meets his eyes and even in the darkness, Drake can see what he's going to say, can see the words poised on his brother's lips. "No way," he says, shaking his head as he pushes himself off the bed. The floor is solid beneath his feet, but he feels a little dizzy. He reaches out for the armoire to steady himself.
"Drake." Josh moves to get up.
Drake waves him off. "I'm okay," he says. "Just got up too fast."
Josh scoots to the edge of the bed and looks up at him. "You should tell them."
"I can't," Drake says and hates that his voice sounds hoarse. "It was hard enough telling you."
"They –"
"No."
"But…" Josh begins, but stops. He looks away for a second, down at the floor. Then he sighs. "What about the police?"
Drake nearly laughs, but suppresses it enough so it comes out more like a derisive snort. "The police," he says. "And how is that any different from telling Mom and Walter?"
"They could arrest him," Josh says, looking up again.
"Based on what?" he asks. "My word?"
"It's the truth," Josh says earnestly. Josh the Boy Scout. Josh the eternal optimist.
"Yeah, it is," Drake says. "But there's no proof."
"He nearly killed you."
Drake shakes his head. "No, Josh. I nearly killed me." He steps off the platform and shuffles over to the loft, his right hand resting on one rung of the ladder.
"Because of him."
Sighing, Drake climbs up to his bed and sits heavily on the mattress. "Yeah. Because of him." He shrugs. "Because of me, too."
Josh doesn't respond and Drake looks over at him, sees him looking back. Then he crawls beneath his blanket, folding his arms beneath his head and staring at the ceiling. He knows he won't be sleeping tonight; he's almost forgotten what it feels like.
"He can't get away with it," he hears Josh say after a long moment.
He already has, Drake thinks. But he doesn't say it.
He's falling.
He feels light, almost like he's floating, and he wonders for a second if he'll ever hit the ground. It all seems to be happening in slow motion.
Then the impact comes, knocking his breath loose. He tries to take a breath, but can't. There's a heavy pressure against his chest.
The sound approaches through a tunnel, getting louder and louder until it explodes across his mind like a train.
Someone's still screaming.
Is it him?
Drake sees the difference in Josh immediately in the early light of morning. He seems lighter, almost, as if knowing the truth has freed him from some sort of self-imposed prison. But Drake can also see that he carries the knowledge reluctantly, that it's hiding just below the surface, itching to reveal itself.
So when Josh looks up from tying his shoes to tell him he's going downstairs, does he want Choco Charms or Toasty O's, Drake says, "Promise me, Josh."
Josh looks momentarily confused as he asks, "What?"
"I mean it," Drake says, holding his gaze. "Promise me."
His eyes clearing, Josh nods. "I promise."
Drake's not convinced, though. Josh has never been good with secrets.
His vision is blurry and he blinks, trying to clear it. He sees stars. Real ones. He thinks, It's nighttime. But of course it is, he realizes. It was dark when he left the house.
Something warm is spreading across his chest and he tries to lift his hand to touch it. But his arm won't move. He tries the other one. That one's stuck, too.
He tries to turn his head, but feels dizzy and stops. His lungs burn but the pressure hasn't lessened; in fact, it feels like it's gotten worse. He still can't take the deep breath he needs.
Then he realizes something else: it's quiet.
The screaming has stopped.
Josh wants to escort Drake to all his classes like he's the new kid, but Drake insists he's okay. Yeah, he freaked out yesterday, but that was yesterday. Today is today. He'll be alright.
"I think you should ditch History," Josh says.
"Josh, I'm shocked," Drake says, trying to sound light, but he's only trying to conceal his nervousness. "I wish I had that on tape."
"I'm serious."
"I know. But he's not going to try anything during class."
Josh's eyes flit over Drake's right shoulder, in the direction of the corridor where Mr. Bradford's classroom is. "I hate him."
"Join the club," Drake says, not looking.
Josh is still staring, like he didn't even hear what Drake said. "He can't get away with it," he says for the second time in less than five hours. Drake can see a muscle twitch in Josh's cheek and the timbre of Josh's voice makes him feel suddenly cold.
"Josh," he says sharply, drawing his brother's attention back. When Josh's eyes focus on him, he continues. "You promised me. Remember?"
"Yeah."
"Josh."
"I got it," Josh reassures him. "I'm not gonna tell. It's just –" But he stops his words abruptly, looks away again.
Drake understands.
"Oh god. Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod."
Drake hears the words over and over, then hears something hard hit the pavement, bounce once, then skid.
"Ohgodohgodohgod."
Is he saying that? He doesn't think so; it doesn't sound like his voice.
"Ohgodohgodohgod."
Maybe he's imagining it.
But then he hears crying.
Drake opens his mouth, tries to speak. But it's hard because he can't breathe very well. "Hey…" he manages, but he barely hears it himself.
"Drake…"
His name. Someone is saying his name. But it sounds soft around the edges, more like, 'Drage'. The 'k' sound is soggy.
"…'msrry…"
I'm sorry.
God, how he hates those words.
"It's nice to have everyone together," Walter says, like it's Christmas and all the cousins have come to visit. He looks around the dinner table, catches Drake's eyes, and suddenly looks away, down at his mashed potatoes, studying them like there may be treasure hidden inside.
Everyone shifts uneasily in their chairs.
"Ricky Brantley swallowed one of Mr. Schmidt's goldfish today in Earth Science," Megan blurts out and Drake looks over at her, meets her eyes. He can see a hint of desperation in them and it twists like a knife in his gut. She's holding her fork in her left hand, using it to move her peas around, and if he looks hard enough he can see just the edge of a Band Aid peeking out from her sleeve.
"I did that once," he says, meeting her eyes again. "In fifth grade."
"Mrs. Redmond," Audrey says.
"Yeah," Drake says, turning to look at his mother. She's looking at him, but not really. She's afraid to meet his eyes because she doesn't want to see what's behind them.
It's the closest thing to a normal conversation they've had as a family in what feels like forever.
"Was there money involved?" Josh asks, picking up the thread.
Drake smiles slightly. "A dollar," he says, looking at him. "And a kiss."
Josh rolls his eyes. "Of course."
"Stella…something," Drake continues. "I remember it was my turn to feed the fish. I'm standing at the tank sprinkling the food into the water when Stella walks up to me and says she'll give me a dollar if I swallow one of the fish."
"So, of course, you said, 'okay'."
"Uh-uh," Drake says, shaking his head. "I said, 'no way'."
"But, you just said –"
"Unless," Drake says, holding up one index finger, "she kissed me, too."
"Some things never change," Walter says and Drake can almost hear him smiling.
Drake looks at him. He is smiling and Drake feels his own mouth curve up slightly. They look at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Drake shrugs. "Turns out, she didn't kiss me anyway," he says, popping a bite of chicken into his mouth.
"Why not?" Josh asks.
Drake finishes chewing, then swallows. Carefully, he sets his fork down and looks around the table. Everyone is looking back at him expectantly. Even Audrey.
"She says to me," he says, " 'I don't like sushi.' "
The laughter that follows is like a symphony.
"Drage…"
And then it hits him – where he is, who he's with, what's happening. He starts struggling against the weight pressing against him as his brain finally connects it with the strained voice whispering his name.
"No…no…" He pulls at his arms, trying to free them. "No…no…"
Panic accelerates his heartbeat and it thuds inside his skull like a bass drum, pressing painfully against his temples. Tears spring to his eyes and his throat burns. He struggles beneath the body sprawled across him, holding him down.
It barely moves. Feels like dead weight.
"Can I see them?"
He'd only come in to see how she was doing, but she's turned it around on him. The hand he's using to steady himself as he kneels beside her tightens around the back of her chair. "Megan…"
"Never mind," she says quickly, turning away.
He tries to explain. "It's just that…"
"I understand," she says, closing her books and gathering up her stuff. She stands up and carries her things to her bed, where her backpack lies open on top of the blankets.
Drake stands and follows her with his eyes, but doesn't go after her. He can see the jerkiness of her movements as she shoves her books into her bag, catches the quick swipe of her hand across her eyes.
"Megan."
But she doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge him at all. She just zips up her bag angrily and walks to the door, dropping it next to the bookshelf with a muted thump. Then she stands, facing the closed door, her arms crossed over her chest.
"Do you really want to see them?" he asks her.
It takes a second, but she nods, her dark ponytail swinging slightly with the movement.
"Why?"
"Because," she says, and he can hear the tears in her voice. "Because I just want…" But she can't say anymore.
Drake feels his throat begin to close up. "Alright," he says softly and lifts his left arm up, starts to work at the tape around his wrist with his other hand.
She's suddenly in front of him and she's got her hands on his wrist. "Let me do it," she says, pushing his hand away.
Her fingers are smaller and can grip the end of the tape better and in just a few seconds, she's peeling it off slowly, careful not to hurt him. Next comes the gauze, and when she starts to peel it away, it sticks to his stitches. She stops.
"Go ahead," he says.
She hesitates, then tugs it away, revealing two very angry-looking slashes that stand out starkly against his pale skin. He hears her small, yet sharp, intake of breath.
"Pretty ugly, huh?"
Her fingers hover over them, but she doesn't touch them. "Do they hurt?"
"Sometimes," he says. "If I turn my wrist the wrong way."
"Can you…" she begins, then stops, biting her lip.
"Can I what?"
She looks up at him, her dark eyes shiny with tears. "Can you still play the guitar?"
Jesus. He hasn't picked up a guitar since the gig at Clancy's. His throat burns, but he tries to keep his face impassive. "I don't know," he says, his voice tight. "I haven't tried."
He feels the anger begin to warm him then, like a familiar companion. It travels through his blood and settles somewhere in his chest, drawing his mind into sharp focus.
He comes to a sudden decision.
"Megan," he says, tearing his wrist from her grasp and gripping both her shoulders. "I need a favor."
She looks at him, her big eyes holding his gaze. "Anything," she says.
"Help me." His lips form the words, but he doesn't know if he's saying them out loud. The panic thumping inside his skull is blotting out all other sound. "Help me."
He can feel the tears roll down his temples, the cries clotting in his throat like blood, and he chokes on them, spluttering incoherently.
The panic, the tears, the pressure against his chest – it's all combined to steal what little breath he has left, and the world starts to get a little fuzzy. He blinks his eyes to clear his vision, but it doesn't help.
He thinks, I don't want to die here.
He scribbles the note hurriedly on the back of a sales flyer for Guitar World while Josh is in the shower. It's not much, doesn't explain anything, really, but Drake figures it's better than nothing.
"Josh," it says simply. "You were right. He can't get away with it." Then he signs it with the flair of the rock star he still dreams of being and folds it in half.
Guilt creeps in as he picks up his keys, but he pushes the feeling away. He doesn't have time for it. He doesn't have room for it, either. Not with everything else going on inside his head.
He pats his pockets; his cell phone resides in one, Megan's favor in the other. Then he picks up the note and steps up onto the platform, shoving it into the crease of the open Physics book on Josh's bed where he knows his brother will find it.
The weight is suddenly off him and he instinctively opens his mouth to gulp in air. But it's too much, too fast, and he starts coughing – hard, rasping spasms that cause him to roll over on his side and draw his knees up against the force of them.
After a few moments, the coughing subsides, and he hears someone say, "I don't think we should move him."
Someone else asks, "Are you hurt?"
He doesn't answer, just keeps his eyes closed and concentrates on breathing.
His right arm is curled around his stomach, but his left hand is resting palm-down on the pavement next to his head. It feels warm against his skin. And wet.
His eyes snap open and he lifts his hand to his face. He can see his fingers begin to tremble.
He's lying in a puddle.
But it's not water.
"running late. be there in 20"
That's the message waiting for him when he parks the Honda in one of the angled spaces in front of the restaurant and retrieves the phone from his pocket. He had felt the phone vibrate against his thigh on his way there and knows who it's from before he even opens it. A cold sweat breaks out across his forehead as he reads it.
The air inside the Honda suddenly feels thick and oppressive and he cranks the window down a few inches in an attempt to let in some cool air. But the late evening air is warm and brings no relief. The angry determination that had brought him there has slowly given way to fear and now he's gritting his teeth against the internal tremor that threatens to consume him.
The phone rings, the electronic melody cutting through the haze, bringing everything into sudden, sharp focus.
It's Josh, calling from his cell phone. Drake can almost hear the urgency behind the ring, can picture his brother standing next to his bed, the tiny phone pressed painfully against his right ear, Drake's scribbled note clutched tightly in his fingers, eyes wide with panic.
Drake lets it go to voicemail, sees the missed call notification pop up on the screen, counts the seconds until Josh tries again. Six. Six seconds.
When the phone begins to ring again, Drake shuts it off.
He jerks away, using his legs to propel himself across the pavement, trying to escape the edges of the sickening pool that glistens darkly in the yellow light of the parking lot. He tries to stand up, loses his balance, falls down again.
He can't stop staring at it. Bile rises, sharp and bitter, in the back of his throat.
Something suddenly blocks his vision and as he forces his eyes to focus, he sees a face. A man's face.
"Are you okay?" the man asks him, but the sound seems far away and it doesn't quite match the movement of his lips.
Drake looks down at his hand again, moves his fingers one at a time like he's ticking off silent points inside his head, then draws his palm slowly across his shirt.
But it doesn't come off. Because there's more blood on his shirt.
In fact, he's covered in it.
The glass of ice water sits untouched on the table in front of him and, not for the first time, he looks around the restaurant. The booth is in the back corner and there's no one in the booths on either side. It's private yet still public. And it's quiet, too; there shouldn't be any interference.
He can see the door from where he's sitting and his eyes flit nervously to it every few seconds. He fingers the gadget clipped to the front of his shirt halfway up his chest, hidden in the space between two buttons. Megan had given it to him when he told her he needed to record someone without their knowledge. She had produced a small gadget from her bag of tricks and handed it to him, no questions asked, telling him simply that all he had to do was push the button on the side and it would start recording.
He had nearly made the crack that if he had known she was going to be so nice to him, he'd have tried to kill himself a long time ago. But he didn't.
Forcibly, he pulls his hand away from the device, willing his hands to lie flat on the table in front of him. He's already pushed the button and he wonders if it's sensitive enough to hear his heart pounding inside his chest. He hopes not, because otherwise that sound will drown out everything else.
"Are you sure I can't get you anything?"
The question startles Drake and his right hand knocks over his water glass. Water and ice slide across the table in every direction, including over the edge and into Drake's lap. Jumping up, he scoots out of the booth, wiping at his pants with his hands.
"Here," the waitress says, handing him a wad of napkins.
Drake takes them and presses them against the sodden denim, trying to soak up as much of the water as he can as the waitress leans across the table to clean up the rest of the spill.
"At least it wasn't coffee."
The words stop Drake cold and his fingers tighten around the clump of wet napkins in his hand.
It's him.
"It's not mine," Drake says, his voice flat.
The parking lot is awash in red and blue light and Drake feels more than sees the circle of onlookers surrounding him. The air is buzzing with the sound of hushed conversation. He's aware of the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.
Off to his right, there's something he can't bring himself to look at, so he doesn't. He focuses instead on the back of the car directly in front of him. It's yellow and has a sticker on its back bumper that says, "Trees are for hugging."
"What's your name?" the man asks.
"The blood," Drake says. "It's not mine."
"I know that. I know." The man's voice sounds soothing and Drake thinks, Walter sounds like that. "I asked you your name."
It takes a second, but he finally says, "Drake. Drake Parker."
"Okay, Drake," the man says. "My name's Mike. I'm going to help you. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Drake says, looking at him. He's wearing some sort of uniform. "You're going to help me."
"It's good to see you," Nathan says, looking at Drake unblinkingly from the other side of the table.
Drake doesn't respond to that, just stares back at him as he rubs his sweaty palms nervously against the thighs of his still-damp jeans. He hasn't been this close to the man in nearly three weeks and it makes him uncomfortable.
"When I got your message, I couldn't believe it," Nathan continues. He smiles, leans in a little. "I'd almost given up hope."
Drake reaches for the glass of water the waitress had brought just a few moments before to replace the one he spilled. It has barely begun to sweat and he wraps his lips around the straw and takes a long drink, the cold liquid sliding down his parched throat.
The smile slips from Nathan's face in the ensuing silence and he slides his left hand across the surface of the table towards Drake, stopping it halfway. "Drake," he says. "I –"
"Do you know what today is?" Drake suddenly asks him. He pushes his glass away and tucks his arm back beneath the table.
Nathan looks confused, opens his mouth to speak but closes it again without saying a word. Instead, he shakes his head.
"It's Friday," Drake says in a tone that says the answer should've been obvious.
"Yeah." But it comes out sounding more like a question than an affirmation.
"What makes Friday so special?"
Nathan doesn't reply, but his eyes widen ever-so-slightly as the realization begins to set in.
The expression warms Drake and he feels his nerves begin to subside. "Something happened to me on a Friday. Something important," he says.
A beat. Then, "Yes." Drake sees Nathan's fingers curl against the table, his knuckles showing white from the pressure.
"I tried to kill myself on a Friday."
"Yes."
"Because of you."
Drake's sitting in the back of the ambulance, staring out through the open back doors. There are orange reflective police barricades set up to keep the rubberneckers back and Drake counts four uniformed policemen standing guard behind them.
"Follow my finger with your eyes," Mike says.
"Huh?" Drake asks, turning his eyes back to the paramedic.
Mike smiles patiently. "I'm going to move my finger around and I want you to follow it with your eyes without moving your head. Okay?"
"Okay." Drake does as instructed.
"Very good."
"Now touch the tip of your nose with your right index finger."
Drake does.
"Now do the same with your left index finger."
Drake complies.
"Good," Mike says. "You don't seem to have a concussion."
"My head hurts, though."
Mike nods. "You've got a pretty nasty bump in the back." Then he grins. "You must have a pretty thick skull."
"Yeah," Drake says. "That's what everyone says."
"Drake Parker?" A new voice.
Turning his head to face the newcomer, Drake sees a man standing just outside the ambulance, looking in at him. He's tallish and slim, wearing a rumpled gray suit jacket and a hideous green tie pulled loose at his collar. A wave of salt-and-pepper hair flops over his forehead as if it's given up its fight against gravity at such a late hour.
"Your kids give you that tie?" Drake asks him.
The man smoothes his right hand over it, his smile revealing a row of even, white teeth. "Grandkids," he says. "Last Christmas."
Drake nods, but doesn't say anything more. He keeps his eyes on the man, though, watching as he removes a small spiral notebook from his right coat pocket and pulls a silver retractable pen from the spiral. He feels Mike pick up his left wrist and rest it on his knee as he begins to unbutton the cuff of his shirt.
"I'm Detective Sheridan," he says. "You feel up to answering a few questions?"
Drake hears Mike's sharp intake of breath. Surprise, he thinks.
The detective looks in Mike's direction and Drake can see his dark eyes fall on the exposed bandage, the edges stained with dried blood.
"They're a matching set," Drake says as Mike continues to roll up his sleeve.
Detective Sheridan meets his eyes and there's a softness in his gaze that wasn't there before. Drake recognizes the look – a mixture of pity and sadness that chafes him. The detective writes something in his notebook, then underlines it twice, looking back at Drake. He opens his mouth to speak, but Drake cuts him off.
"Is he dead?"
"I don't want to talk about this," Nathan says, pulling his hand back towards him, curling his palms around the beige mug of coffee in front of him. He looks down at it intently, like it'll reveal the future to him.
Drake bites back the response that springs immediately to his lips. "I do," he says instead.
"Why?" Nathan asks, still not looking up, his grip on the coffee cup so tight that Drake thinks it might shatter.
"Because I can't sleep," Drake says, "without seeing your face."
Nathan looks up at that, his blue eyes wide. "Oh God." The words are barely a whisper and Drake wonders if the recorder picked them up. But it doesn't matter, anyway, because those aren't the words he wants.
The second the question leaves his lips, he remembers the sirens. There were sirens, loud and urgent; he remembers hearing them. He doesn't know how long ago it was exactly, but it wasn't too long, he thinks.
Or maybe it was hours ago.
He's not really sure; he's lost track of time.
But if he was dead, they wouldn't have bothered with the sirens. Would they?
"I ripped my stitches out, you know," Drake tells him. "So they had to tie me up."
Nathan closes his eyes, sagging slightly against the cushions. "What do you want from me?"
"The truth."
"The truth?" Nathan asks, like he doesn't comprehend. He looks at Drake again and Drake can see the desperation in the man's eyes.
Good. "We all have truths, Nathan," Drake says, getting satisfaction from the way the use of his first name makes Nathan flinch. He pulls his arms out from under the table, plops them heavily on the surface in front of him. He sees the waitress approaching and gives her a look, shaking his head to warn her off. When she turns around, he looks back at Nathan. "These are some of my truths," he says acidly, tugging at his sleeves until the edges of his bandages peek out of the ends. The one on his left wrist looks whiter than the other one; Megan had helped him re-wrap it the night before.
Nathan stares at them, his light eyes traveling from one wrist to the other. "I'm sorry," he says.
"Don't," Drake spits. "Don't ever fucking say that to me again."
He closes his eyes, taking a breath and letting it out slowly, trying to calm the anger that hums just beneath his skin.
By the time his parents see him, he's wearing a black San Diego PD t-shirt that's two sizes too big and smells like mold.
"Your parents are here," Detective Sheridan had told him a few minutes before, handing him the shirt. Drake had understood the implication and had changed quickly, stuffing his own shirt into the trash.
The look of profound worry on his mother's face morphs quickly into relief the second Drake steps through the door of the interview room Detective Sheridan holds open for him. "Mom," he says, hearing the door click softly shut behind him.
"My baby," Audrey says tearfully, her emotions propelling her towards him.
Drake lets his mother hug him and is surprised when he feels his own arms wrap tightly around her. "My baby," she says again into his neck and her breath feels warm against his skin.
"I'm okay," he tells her and his eyes focus on Walter, who's standing a few feet away next to the table, gripping the back of one of the chairs for support. He looks on the verge of collapse.
"When Josh told us you were gone…" he begins, but stops, unable to finish.
"I had to," Drake says.
Walter nods and Drake hears his mom whisper, "I love you so much."
Drake closes his eyes and tightens his arms around her. "I love you, too."
And he means it.
"I don't know what else you want me to say," Nathan says.
Drake looks up at that, staring back at him blankly. He's exhausted. Beyond exhausted, really, and his thoughts move through his mind like mud, thick and viscous, struggling to form into something coherent.
This isn't going to work, he realizes; he should've known. Nathan's going to win and there's nothing he can do about it.
His anger slides away and he suddenly feels like crying, feels the tears prick his eyes, and he presses his hands against them until tiny points of light form behind his eyelids. "I'm so tired," he says, sighing. He doesn't think he'll ever sleep again.
It's the complete lack of sound that finally draws his attention after a minute and he looks up to find Nathan staring once again at his wrists, at the bandages that are still peeking out of his cuffs, hiding the scars that will mark him forever.
"It's your fault," Drake says, liking the way the words feel on his tongue.
Nathan's Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he nods.
It's the closest thing to a confession Drake's gotten yet and he grabs hold of it with all the strength he has left.
"You hurt me."
"Yes." The word is choked.
"Say it."
A pause. "I hurt you."
"How did you hurt me?"
No answer.
He'd forgotten all about it in all the chaos, but when he went back and dug his blood-stained shirt out of the trash, there it was, still attached.
He holds it out to Detective Sheridan, who takes it from him and looks at it curiously. "What is it?"
"It's some kind of fancy recorder," Drake explains. "My sister loaned it to me. She says you just plug it into the computer and it plays."
The detective looks at it again, then turns his eyes back to Drake. "What's on it?"
"Everything," Drake says. "If it worked." He looks at his mom, then Walter, then back at the detective. He lowers his voice when he says, "He finally admitted it. What he did to me." He looks at the gadget resting in the palm of Sheridan's hand. It's covered in blood. "I hope it isn't ruined."
Sheridan nods, then closes his fingers around it. "Our computer guy can work miracles," he says, smiling slightly. "If there's anything on it to find, he'll find it."
"Thank you."
"I walk through my life like it doesn't belong to me. Like I'm just borrowing it," he says when Nathan doesn't say anything. The words are out of his mouth before he realizes he's even thought them. "Sometimes it feels like it doesn't fit and I just want to crawl out of my skin. Nothing's the same." His throat feels tight, making his voice sound strained, but he fights through it. "I just need to hear you say it, you know? Just once. You've taken what you wanted from me. Just give me this one thing. Please." Drake hates the note of pleading in his voice, but there it is. He needs this.
Nathan opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Then, "I can't." He shakes his head. "I can't."
When Drake walks into the room, she's sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The lighting is harsh, a bare bulb nestled behind a metal cage that hangs directly over the table, washing it – and her – in an over-bright glow. Everything in the room is metal – the table, the chairs, the can of soda sitting next to her hands, the handcuffs that glint dully around her wrists.
She looks up when he closes the door behind him. Her blue eyes are red but dry and they appraise him closely, filling with a sadness that he knows well. She tries to smile, but can't, her lips pressing together in an expression more akin to a grimace.
He doesn't know what to do.
"Drake Parker." She says his name like she can't believe it.
He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yes, ma'am."
She flinches at that. "Please," she says. "Call me Claire. I'm not quite old enough to be your mother." She tries to smile again, but is only half successful.
"Claire." Drake tries the name on for size, feeling it on his tongue, remembering the day Nathan told him about her, wishing he didn't remember it at all.
"Please sit down."
He hesitates, his eyes flitting to the empty chair across from her and then back to her face. She looks back at him unblinkingly. Finally, he takes the few steps to the table and sits down, the chair's metal feet screeching loudly against the polished cement floor as he pulls it out. He rests his palms flat on the table, then thinks better of it and rests them on his lap underneath it.
The room is warm and the air is stale and Drake wonders how many criminals have sat in this same room, this same chair, breathing this exact same air. He looks away, away from her face, away from her eyes that now know too much. He focuses instead on the can of soda that sits on the table, beads of condensation pooling on the table beneath it. It's regular soda and he almost smiles; every female he knows drinks diet.
"Drake Parker," she says again. "DP." Her voice sounds faraway.
He looks at her but she's looking away, her eyes focused somewhere in her memory. Nathan was right about one thing; she is beautiful, even with the red eyes and the tear-stained cheeks and the dark rings of mascara that frame her lower lids.
"I kept trying to think of names that started with D. Debbie. Donna. Darlene. Dana. Desiree. Diana." She shakes her head and a strand of dark brown hair escapes from behind her ear, falling across her cheek. She turns her eyes back to him. "I was so blind," she says. She lifts her right hand to push the strand of hair back behind her ear, but the handcuffs force her left hand along for the ride, making the movement awkward. The clang of metal against metal sounds hollow inside the spartan room and Drake hears her breath catch at the sound.
He's not sure what she's talking about, but he doesn't ask, asks instead, "Why did you want to see me?" But the look she gets in her eyes gives him his answer.
They're both victims.
The beginnings of tears shine in her eyes and she blinks them away. She takes a deep breath, then another one, like she's trying to gather strength. "There was another boy," she says, meeting his eyes across the table. "In Minnesota."
Drake's breath catches in his throat. "Bobby," he whispers, dredging the name up from the dark part of his memory. His voice says the name, but he hears it inside his head in Nathan's. He tries not to shiver.
Claire gives him a startled look, eyes wide. "Yes," she says. "He told you?"
"Just his name," Drake says as he stares back at the sweating can on the table, watching a drop of condensation grow heavy and slide down to join the others.
"Nathan told me the boy was lying," he hears her say. "That he just wanted revenge on Nathan for failing him."
Drake closes his eyes. His eyelids feel heavy and exhaustion tugs at him.
"I believed him," she says, agony making her voice hoarse. "Because I wanted to."
"He didn't love you," Drake hears himself say and he opens his eyes, startled at his own words. Where did that come from? He looks at her, expecting anger, but there isn't any. There's only resignation in her eyes.
"He never did," she says matter-of-factly.
He brings his arms out from under the table and rests them on the surface, watching as her eyes fall to them. Her lips start to tremble, but she doesn't say anything.
"You should consider yourself lucky," Drake finally says, watching her stare at his wrists. "Believe me, you don't want love from a man like him."
She cries then, bringing her hands to her face, fingers splayed across her forehead, the chain of the handcuffs clinking softly.
Drake watches her in silence. His eyes burn with fatigue. His bones ache with it. He knows what she's feeling because he's felt it, too. Guilt. The pain of it is sharp. Sharper than a razor.
"It wasn't your fault," he tells her.
She looks up at that, her hands in midair in front of her, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. "I should've seen him for what he was," she whispers, shaking her head, her eyes wide and pleading.
Drake feels his throat tighten. "He didn't want you to see it." He hadn't seen it himself until it was too late.
She just looks at him and Drake sees something dark flash in her eyes. "I'm sorry he hurt you," she says after a long moment.
The weight of her words squeeze the air out of his lungs and he looks away, staring down at the handcuffs circling her wrists. They look heavy and he can see the redness beneath them where they've rubbed against her skin. And he suddenly realizes it's not fair. He lifts his eyes to her face, sees her still staring back at him. "You don't belong here," he says.
She smiles weakly, but it fades in an instant. "I shot him," she says simply, holding his gaze.
"He deserved it," Drake says, a crisp edge of certainty creeping into his voice.
Anger blooms behind her blue eyes. "Yeah," she replies, nodding slightly. She reaches for the can of soda with both hands, looking down at it as she turns it slowly between her palms. She seems to be debating her next words; Drake can see the thoughts flutter across her face. Finally, she sighs, like she's decided something.
"I've got sins to pay for," she tells him softly, not looking up.
Drake nods. He knows about sin. About how it can drag you below the surface until you can no longer see the sun, plunging the world into darkness. About how the need to cleanse yourself of it is so powerful that life itself pales in comparison. But there's something he needs to tell her. Something he's had to learn the hard way. He slides his hand across the table, brushing his fingertips against the back of her hand.
The gesture makes her look up and she meets his gaze across the table.
"Just make sure they're your sins," he says.
Drake pushes through the front door of the restaurant, angry tears stinging his eyes. It has all been for nothing. He was so close. It's not fair. He's digging in his pocket for his keys when –
"Drake."
The voice, like it always does, stops him dead. He pulls his hand from his pocket and turns around. Nathan is on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, looking at him.
"Is it that important to you?" Nathan asks.
Drake's heart thuds against his ribs and his breathing quickens. "Yes," he says.
Nathan steps off the sidewalk and walks up to him. A couple exits the restaurant behind him and turns left, disappearing down the sidewalk.
The closer Nathan gets, the stronger Drake's urge to back away, but he grits his teeth against it and stands his ground, even when Nathan is so close Drake can feel his body heat.
"I never meant to hurt you," Nathan says.
Drake shakes his head, starts to back away. "No," he says. "That's not enough."
"Wait." Nathan reaches for him, closing his fingers around Drake's arm. "Don't go. Please."
"Then say it," Drake says, trying to ignore the heat from Nathan's hand. It feels like it's burning him.
Nathan's eyes fill with a torment so sharp it's almost painful to look at. "I…" he says, swallowing hard. "I raped you." A harsh cry tears from his throat. "God forgive me."
Drake can scarcely believe it. He actually said it, said the words. And he thinks to himself that even if it didn't record, at least he would know, even if no one else does.
He's so caught up in the moment, the unbelievable relief of it, it feels as though the rest of the world has faded to black around them.
Then he hears the shot.
VOICE-OVER GUY: Is Nathan dead? Will Drake be able to play the guitar again? These questions and more will be answered in the final chapter!
As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you.