Something about Kellerman's new behavior was suspicious to Lincoln. Too thoughtful. Friendly. Out of character. The whole lot was simply too convenient – yes, that was just the word for Paul Kellerman's brand-new attitude. Convenient. His timing was spectacular: he showed up only when Sara was by herself and was always gone a few minutes before Lincoln stopped by. And they were always times when Sara appeared in a particularly despondent mood, her ever immaculate eyes betraying a tearless but bone-deep melancholy.
No one ever said grief was easy.
It wasn't easy for Lincoln either, but he did his best to make it work, for his family's sake. And Sara was family, had become family from the moment she'd stood on that altar, stared at his little brother in the eyes and said: I do. As a matter of fact, Lincoln had considered her family for much longer than that. Maybe it'd been the time they had met in Chicago, and she'd told them about the motel bathroom and Kellerman and the key she'd found at her dad's which might exonerate him. It may not have been for him she'd done it, enduring torture and the threat of death, still Lincoln unresentfully accepted he was forever in her debt. Hell, maybe it was just the fact that she was pregnant with his niece or nephew. Maybe it was just that, if Sara Tancredi hadn't become family, Lincoln would have too little of it left.
The fact that she wore the name Scofield rather than Burrows made no difference. As a matter of fact, Lincoln had grown quite protective of his sister-in-law, which made it not only annoying but worrying that Paul Kellerman should pay such frequent visits to Sara's house. Every time she told him that he'd been by, bile would swarm to Lincoln's mouth, the taste of unforgotten, unforgiven anger.
It was never a secret that Lincoln hated the guy, but he so happened to hate him more since he'd graduated from near-murdering his dead brother's wife to stalking her. In truth, Kellerman was behaving too much like a predatory animal, feeling the territory around his prey, enjoying the catch almost as much as he'll enjoy the meal.
But what Lincoln hated most was how powerless he was to stop it. Because Sara tolerated, perhaps even found comfort in those visits. As weeks went by, he'd noticed her way of talking about Kellerman was changing. From the first, she'd been rightfully infuriated at his unwanted attention, but perhaps even then there had been invisible relief in her eyes – at feeling anything more powerful than the calling of the dead, of the ghost-memories that lurked in every corner of this house.
When Kellerman was there, exasperating, outrageously insistent – maybe Sara felt at least briefly recalled to life.
Lincoln often disregarded how few ties Sara had left, apart from him. He had Sofia and LJ, but Sara, she had that cold, lonesome diamond on her slim finger, married no longer to a living and loving husband, but married nonetheless, married eternally; to his grave or hers.
It was a cold and dreary thought, and Lincoln shook his head clear of it.
But he couldn't deny that although Paul Kellerman was a wicked wicked man, although their relationship was merely friendship and not even that, although his attention had to be the last thing Sara deserved, chances remained it was what she needed – maybe even what she wanted.
Still, from the deepest of his primal instincts, he didn't trust the man. Didn't trust him because though he'd put colors back into Sara's cheeks, his grin was turning wider at her mourning-black dress, like he was playing, and winning, to make matters worse. Didn't trust him because men like Kellerman were like mindless children, and they tossed one toy aside without a second thought when another game caught their attention.
…
A MONTH EARLIER
"Aren't you even going to ask me what I'm –"
"No."
"Fine." Kellerman conceded, pushing a polite smile. "Will you listen to me then?"
Sara's lips morphed into a white, near-invisible line. "I believe," through clenched teeth, "we've already had this conversation at my husband's funeral, and I've been perfectly clear as to how I felt about seeing you."
"Yes, you've been very clear."
Prudence veiled her eyes like a judgmental frown. Caution looked well on her, as it turned out, as well as the naïve simplicity with which she had accepted his friendship in the past. In truth, he might really be making the world a favor. Sara Tancredi was too beautiful a woman to belong to a man's stone.
"Nevertheless," Kellerman resumed, "I'd like you to hear me out. Not because you owe me anything," he said, watching her eyes flare up at the reminder of his saving her in court. "Of course, you don't," he smiled compliantly. "Believe me, it's not my intention to worsen your day or exacerbate your grief."
A tremor of hesitation went over her bottom lip. They were a natural and rather surprising shade of pink, Kellerman thought, like rose petals, and that he'd never yet seen a more attractive widow, nor a sterner one.
"Make your point, Kellerman." She said. "I suggest you be brief. And please," she added, "don't tell me you're here to make amends."
"Would it be so awful of me?"
"Not awful. Insensitive, and uncalled for. If that's all it is, I'd like you to get out of my doorstep and not come back."
"So adamant," he chuckled, actually chuckled. "What a tough negotiator you would make. If we'd not ended up on two opposite ends of the checkboard –"
"You make it sound as if we were each born there, regardless of our own decisions." She looked too startled for outrage.
"Well, as I've told you, Sara." He said, now earnest and confident. "I'm a changed man."
Fleeing his gaze shortly, "I wish you wouldn't say that." Standing only a few steps from him, in the entrance of her house, behind the open door. She hadn't invited him in and he didn't think she would.
"Why not?" He prompted softly.
"Because whether or not you are changed is nothing to me, Paul. I don't care what you do with your life, so long as you don't pose a threat to mine."
"That's the only scenario for us then? My threatening you or not threatening you?"
"What else is there?"
He allowed himself a short pause, going over her slightly distraught eyes, her lips parted as if ready with a reply. Most obviously, her walls were drawn up and her weapons were well in hand. The silence between them was meant to make them feel unnecessary, heavy, impractical.
"We were friends, once," he answered finally. "Weren't we?"
She was so prompt to look affronted he knew he'd only given her the right bait. "I think that friendship came to a radical end the moment you strapped me to a chair."
She shut the door before he had time to say anything else. Though it might look like an immediate defeat, Kellerman actually viewed this exchange as progress. Slow, laborious progress, but the best rewards are always at the end of such strenuous paths, aren't they?
For starters, Sara had to know by now that Kellerman had not the least intention of standing down. Both of them knew that he'd be back. And one day, maybe not next week, but soon enough, she'd find relief despite herself in his relentless attempts. Why shouldn't she, when his gaze was lustful and warm, and his only rival was dead underground? Part of her had to know that in vowing loyalty to her late husband, Sara was like a little girl sitting in the dark, playing hide and seek, when everyone has long stopped playing and left the party. And that girl would need to step out of the shadows at some point, even though she didn't have the will to stand.
Kellerman smiled, walking away from Sara's house. He'd gather her into his arms and carry her straight from the grave unto a silky bed. He'd warm her skin with kisses until she remembered she was alive, and when he'd have enough, he'd leave her for dead.
Maybe the universe should have thought twice about making Sara Tancredi a beautiful woman.
…
Sara stood by the unlit fireplace in her living room, her fists and eyes drawn shut. If there was such a thing as a higher power, it'd strike Paul Kellerman dead at this very second. It'd spare her the weariness of enduring his attempts at friendship, the energy of fighting him off.
He'd be back. She knew it and he knew she knew it. For whatever reason, this wasn't the end of it.
Considering her options, Sara thought she might have to tell him she'd forgiven him. He'd tried to kill her, she'd tried to kill him. You can go on with your life and your quest for redemption. We're even now. Even Steven.
"As if," she muttered under her breath.
It was a few minutes before her doorbell rang again–she'd secured the door locked–and she hurried to open it when she remembered she was expecting company. Lincoln stormed in with an immediate wave of friendly warmth, bringing in the familiar smell of jeans and sea salt.
"Sara," he said, instead of hello, with an unusual blend of shock and concern. "I believe I just had a hallucination."
"Did you?"
"Well, it's the only explanation I can think of for seeing Paul Kellerman drive past me, just one street away from your house."
Sara shook her head, with a tired, "Oh."
"Oh?"
"What can I tell you? He said he wanted to make amends."
"And you believe that?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
Lincoln made some coffee in the kitchen though she hadn't had a drop since before her pregnancy. He poured her some orange juice instead and sat opposite her, on the wicker chair Michael had picked for the living room. The whole house probably gave away the fact that both he and Sara thought of this country as a place of never-ending summer. Which it had been, in a way, for those few months of marriage before Michael died. A brief and immortal never-ending summer.
"Listen," Lincoln said at some point, drumming his fingers over the edge of the coffee table, "has that creep been – you know, bothering you?"
"Who, Kellerman?"
His arched brow was exaggerated, a parody that said Like you don't know, as if there only existed one creep on the planet. "I wish that you'd told me," he added, more earnest. "I don't like the thought of him lurking around here. If you want, I can have a very persuasive conversation with him about troubling a bereaved pregnant woman."
"So that's what we're calling me?" Sara didn't pretend to be startled at Lincoln's lack of finesse. She'd grown fond of the man, probably earlier than she'd realized. "Look, there's no need for you to snarl like a wolf defending his pack." The image ought to make up for the one he'd pinned on her. "Honestly, I hadn't seen Kellerman since the funeral, before today."
Lincoln relaxed a little. Soon enough, they were chatting about LJ's grades and how fortunately he's picked up more from his uncle than he did from his old man, and Sara hardly thought it was fair to ruin Lincoln's mood by adding that, though she really hadn't seen Kellerman for a long time, she knew in her bones that she'd see more of him in the future. A lot more than she cared to.
…
The imperceptible swell of her belly had turned into a slight yet undeniable bump, one that gave Paul Kellerman an almost irresistible urge to grin. Some women never bloom more than when they are expecting their first child, and he had trouble thinking this stereotype would fit one better than it did Sara.
She had looked beautiful before. That afternoon, she looked radiant. He wondered in how much trouble he'd be in if he told her.
It had been difficult enough to get her to agree to a rendezvous. He'd suggested a café, where he expected she'd be drinking anything but coffee. This was just the right place, a restaurant would be too intimate while her house would be intrusive.
Before she took a seat, the bump not quite concealed by her red summer dress had Kellerman struggling not to betray his amusement. How well he could picture Michael's helpless ghost turning and tossing in his grave. In truth, scheming bastard that he was, Kellerman could almost feel sorry for the unborn fetus, and for the father. Surprisingly enough, not for the mother.
He'd long learned long that first unrivaled rule. Never to take pity on your target.
"Well?" Sara spoke expectantly after sitting opposite him, without wasting a second, without even pretending to check the menu.
Kellerman remained silent, impassible, and repressed yet another smile when a waiter came near their table. A flush of red spread to Sara's cheeks. He thought of what the warm skin would feel like beneath his lips.
Clearing her throat, Sara mustered a polite tone and said she'd have a glass of lemonade, waiting until the waiter had walked away to plant those angry brown eyes on him again. "Well?" She repeated, a hint drier.
Shrugging his shoulders with mock innocence, "Well what?"
"What will it take? Fifteen minutes, half an hour?"
"It would help me to know what you're talking about."
The exhale she let out made it useless for her to call him a lying swine. "You said you'd stop harassing me if I agreed to meet you."
"What I said," he countered, "was that I wouldn't have to stop by unexpected if you agreed to see me. Besides, I'm hardly harassing you."
For a moment, there was a fleeting look of distress in her eyes. Without thinking, Kellerman nearly expected that she'd tell him, Stop. It would be simple, like people you're about to kill telling you they don't want to die. Please, stop. Leave me alone, Paul. Leave me to my grief. I feel very at peace here, sitting in the dark.
But a few seconds went by, and Kellerman had time to stiffen his resolve. He'd bring light into her life whether she wanted it or not. And then wouldn't stick around to watch whether he'd made her alive or blind.
"All right," Sara said, now not with impatience. Quietly, she picked up her purse, near-threw a five-dollar note on the table for the drink she'd apparently do without and actually turned, as if to walk out on him.
"What are you –" It took a moment to compose himself. Raising his tone on her, under any circumstances, would always make him look like a jerk. "You're leaving?" He pretended this was surprising.
"Unless this is the last I'll see of you, yes. You've promised to leave me alone."
"No I haven't, and I won't." On a calm and patient tone. "What I've said is I understand you wished me to stay away."
"Then why won't you?"
"This I'll explain," he smiled, "if you'll just sit down and listen to me."
Hesitation made her look like a guileless lamb that wonders if the snake aims to help or bite. Her appraisal of him was maybe thirty seconds, standing there frozen on her feet, her purse hanging against her waist and that slight most becoming baby-bump. With her breath caught in her throat, her eyes brimming with silent wariness. Remember how quick he was to pin you down into a porcelain tub. There's always something he wants. All snakes ultimately bite.
Finally, Sara consented to sit down and he thanked her with a tilt of his head. "You have five minutes." She warned.
And so he decided not to waste them. "I'm not the same man you knew once."
"I don't see how this is an explanation." There was irony in how cold she sounded. Probably, she thought she was the merciless one.
"Well, here's one." He said. "Though you may find it unforgivably cruel of me, I meant it when I said I cared about you. Believe it or not, but you're the only person I regret wronging who isn't dead, Sara."
"You mean," with a cold scoff, "I'm the only person who's survived you."
"Which is precisely why I want to help you."
"By stalking me?"
"I'm not stalking you. And you are going to need help, Sara." Though this visibly gave her an excuse for outrage, he didn't give her time to intervene. "Humor me for a minute, think about this. I don't know if you've exactly been looking for a job the past few months and I don't mean for this to make me sound like a prick, but I believe the recent scandals in your life will make it awfully hard for you to find employment."
"It does make you sound like a prick." But maybe he always sounded like a one to her.
"I'll try to be more tactful," he conceded. This wasn't as bad as what he'd been expecting – she might have spat at him or slapped him in the face for this.
"What are you saying exactly?" She arched a brow, remarkably composed. Not angry, surprisingly enough. He hadn't seen her lose control, he realized, since she'd tried to strangle him aboard that train wagon. "That you want to blackmail me?"
Her calm startled him as well as the question itself. "I want you to let me help you. America doesn't go easy on single mothers, or on ex-addicts, or on prison doctors who've aided and abetted convicts."
"You sounded like prick before. Now," she remarked, without bothering to look cold, "you just sound desperate."
It flashed through his brain that she was trying to anger him. He'd not lose his cool, either. "Do you think Lincoln's wages at that swim shop or whatever he calls it will support you?"
Her unrestrained laughter was more shocking to him than anything else she might have done. Honest to God, he'd really been expecting her to slap him.
"Support me." She repeated, half-sounding like a question. "Is that what you think I'm in need of? You coming here, paying off your debt."
"That's not –"
"I can't think of anything I'd hate more."
The money had been nothing but a practical excuse, maybe something like a peace offering he thought he could wave at her. He hadn't really expected her to take it.
"I don't want your help, Kellerman," she resumed, "and I don't care for your money. Take my word for it. I grew up in a house with money and no soul, if my child has to be raised the other way around, I'll get by."
"I don't doubt you will, and I never thought for a second money could buy what I owe you. I don't think anything can."
"That's what I thought. What did you really come here to offer me?"
His mouth broke into a smile before he could help it. That was okay. It was a good smile.
"You want to be my friend." She interjected, still not angry. "Is that it?"
"Not your friend. Friendship is mutual. Friends each get something out of the other. And friends are easily offended, you mind what you say to them, you care for appearances." He chuckled. "There's ugliness in grief friends aren't the best suited people to see. What I want to be is whatever you need, whenever you need it. I've used you in the past, it's only rightful you should use me. I'd be most glad you should find use in me at all – after a trauma, some people are given anger dolls to channel their hate."
The chuckle on her lips was somewhat amused, serious, not derisive.
"I guess I could be that," he continued. "Someone who'll one-sidedly accept whatever you want to take without ever expecting you to give."
"And you think I want that?"
"I just thought I'd let you know the offer was yours to take. We don't have to be friends. You don't have to like me. But I'm someone with whom you don't have to pretend, someone you don't need to impress. If you're ever in trouble, Sara, you can call me. If it's money, if it's legal help you need, if it's something the police or your brother-in-law can't help you with. I've also been told I'm a good listener, if you tire of solitude." If you tire of sitting in the shadows. "It isn't really friendship I'm offering –"
"Devotion," she interrupted, for some reason. Now that she'd said the word, he couldn't think of any other that'd be right for it. A few minutes of silence filled the air between them. The pause wasn't hostile or exactly uncomfortable. "I want to know why," she said, which sounded legitimate.
The answer was unprepared, yet it came to him immediately. "You seem to be the last person in the world that I'm interested in."
It took him a little while to realize that was probably true. Then he focused on studying Sara's reaction. He didn't care, whether or not she made it easy on me. What amused him was the tension, was trying to figure it out. Come on, sweetheart, throw your drink at me. Walk out and threaten to get a restraining order. Or fall melting in my lap, tell me I'm the brother you never had. Make me forget I'm bored. Remind me why I love playing.
He could tell she was tempted. No, it wasn't temptation yet. She was interested. What he'd sold to her was the promise of being there for her without an agenda. Perhaps that was the most ironic part.
At some point, Sara looked down at the menu. It was early enough for breakfast, and Kellerman did the same thing, marveling at how simple the whole thing seemed, as if she hadn't just been about to walk out on him.
While going over the list of side pastries, he noticed an alluring and reminiscent image of blueberry pie. He was probably the wiser not to point it out.
…
ONE MONTH LATER
Truly. Lincoln gave a lot of thought to Kellerman, and how he had pried his way into the life of his sister-in-law. It was just out of character that he would be her friend if there wasn't something he wanted from her. Nothing good would come out of this.
It wasn't Lincoln's place to tell Sara who she should or shouldn't see. The worst of it was that he actually seemed to be helping her, in ways. Time had done its job as well, of course, but that friendship between her and Kellerman, it was the high of her week. Lincoln could tell, because she was always lighter and more cheerful after she'd seen him, whether or not she was even aware of it.
Lincoln's annoyance grew into anger, at the very thought. Paul Kellerman had become her ray of sunshine.
It was late, too late at night to be having such thoughts. Sofia was fast asleep at his side, and Lincoln should probably get some rest as well. But he couldn't help thinking of that moment when his brother had given Scylla up to Paul Kellerman, when they all signed that piece of paper and became free members of society. It seemed to him there was something off, lurking in the memory, but he couldn't put his finger on what.
But then he remembered Sara handing hers over, how it'd caught his eye even from a distance – he had been talking to Sucre and only half-paying attention, but now it was coming back.
When Kellerman had taken Sara's paper, he'd brushed a finger over hers. The touch had been slight and may have well been accidental. At the time, it was what Lincoln must have thought since he had dismissed it immediately, but now, after all that was happening, as he was trying to make sense of Kellerman's intentions…
That index touching Sara's actually felt to Lincoln like a bad omen, as if it had foreshadowed the unexpected misery ahead, Michael's premature death and Sara's grief.
For whatever reason, Lincoln thought it would make sense for him to rush out of bed and scramble to his car, to drive all the way to Sara's place and warn her: don't trust him. Don't trust him.
He's got something up his sleeve. He's always got something up his sleeve.
He'd be sick enough to fix you for the mere kicks of tearing you apart himself.
He'll spin you around like a carousel and pin you down as he pleases, to watch you dance.
Only a second later, the idea felt ridiculous, because he'd wake Sofia up and he wouldn't be able to explain why. That was just the silliest of feelings.
But the thought of Kellerman's polite grin, after he'd taken Sara's paper and watched her uncomfortably walk away, kept Lincoln from sleep for the next two or three hours. That reptilian smile and the playful flicker in his eyes now seemed the worst omen of all.