----------------

"Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk."
--Susan Scarf Merrell

Chapter 3

Yellow crime scene tape criss-crossed the entrance to Virginia Gray's apartment. It was a cinch to ignore its DO NOT CROSS warning and glide right in, but thick orange tape sealed the door shut, making it impassable.

I need to get in there! I need to know what happened! I have to see for myself!

She searched the hallway to check that nobody was watching her - hell, they probably were while hidden behind the safety of their peep holes any way – as she reached up, took an end of the orange tape and ripped it off with the ruthless motion of a bikini waxer, unpeeling paint along with it. She repeated the process with the other two pieces, put the key she never before used into the lock and swung the door open.

Ahead of her, the apartment was a dark cavern of unknown possibilities and, being an artist of sorts, her creativity kicked into overdrive. Residual anger for her mother's neglect of Gabriel's needs made her lose the diminutive amount of commiseration she held for the woman but familial ties kept her hesitating at the door. It was the tender-hearted Gabriel who effortlessly acquitted their mother for her disregard of him and stayed behind in Queens to manage their father's clock shop Gray & Sons, and assist her when she needed help with the rent or groceries or simple conversation and visitation while Grace made her pilgrimage west to feed her appetite. Gabriel gave their mother everything and she gave very little in return. But that was Gabriel: a giver rather than a taker.

Inhaling deeply, she stepped underneath the yellow tape that was left intact and slipped inside, carefully shutting the door behind her. Gingerly she continued on into the depths of the cluttered, outdated apartment, gazing upon the carnage that had been left behind. Pieces from mom's snow globe collection were shattered; water pooled in precarious puddles across the floor which was warped in various places where the water had seeped in. A chalk outline of where their mother's body had been found accompanied blood stains on the floor.

Then she saw it: a massive drawing of a mushroom cloud billowing over the Manhattan cityscape painted on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Worse, it was done in a reddish brown fluid she knew in her soul to be blood…evidently her mother's blood. Now her stomach wrenched.

"My god!" she muttered. "What the hell happened here?!"

----------------

Elle wrinkled her nose as if a foul stench permeated the air.

"Who's Peter Petrelli?" she questioned.

"Apparently I am," Dave/Peter replied, snatching the paper and ogling his own likeness, the likeness he remembered seeing reflected in the medicine cabinet mirror the night prior.

"Congressman Nathan Petrelli's brother," Alex educated. "That's who's in the picture with you, Peter. Don't you know anything about the people who control your country, Elle?"

"Damn, Alex, it's not like I can control them, so just relax!" She cursed under her breath.

"Ever hear of voting?" returned the elder brother.

"Whatever! If you knew Nathan Petrelli so well then why didn't you recognize Peter yourself?"

"Then I guess a lot of people must be looking for me," Peter interjected before Alex could reply to his sister's provocation. "At least this solves the mystery of my name so you can stop calling me Dave."

"I like calling you Dave."

He smiled at her sweetly, crookedly.

"Then maybe you exclusively can still call me Dave," he told her softly.

Peter felt a close kinship to his young saviour, as if she were the sister he markedly did not have.

"Maybe you're a mutant," Elle suggested, "and your family wants you back because you were their lab rat or something. Or maybe they did something to you to make you this way."

"This isn't a comic book," Alex insisted irritably. "This is real life."

"Could've fooled me." She thought for a few seconds then asked: "Why do you suppose that every comic book character's first and last names seem to end in the same letter? Well, Clark Kent has different letters but the same sound. But look at what I mean: Lex Luthor, Lana Lang, Peter Parker, Susan Storm, Otto Octavius, Reid Richards…Peter Petrelli…"

Peter looked at her and offered a half smile.

"At least now you know who to go back to," Alex offered. "Once you're home you should be able to regain your memory. Or at least you'll have a better chance at it, since you'd be surrounded by your own environment and people who know who you are."

"That makes sense," Peter agreed.

"What does the article say about you?"

Peter skimmed the concise columns quickly, picking out information relevant to his immediate personal life sans his family.

"I'm twenty-six, the brother of Congressman Nathan Petrelli, father of Dominic and Angela Petrelli…oh."

"What?" Elle asked, for his drop in tone then abrupt silence alarmed her.

"My occupation was a…nurse. A hospice nurse."

Alex snorted, sending lemonade through his nose while Elle released a short bark of mirthful laughter.

"Hey, I suppose there are male nurses," she stated. "We know of at least one! I have a better name to call you than Dave! I'll call you Florence!"

Peter gave her a death glare of insult.

"Don't you dare," he said defensively.

"How did a guy who comes from such a powerful family wind up being a nurse?" Alex teased.

"It's a calling for someone who wants to help people in need, who can't help themselves," Peter answered lightly but seriously, decidedly unbothered by their gibes. "I like helping others. That much I can sense about myself."

They fell silent and, humbled by Peter's comeback, Elle toyed with the few fries left by stabbing the cooling cheese with them and Alex swirled the melting ice and fissiparous lemon in his lemonade with the straw. Elle excused herself to venture to the counter for a Snapple while Peter continued to silently read.

One thing that grabbed his undivided attention from the article was that he had a young teenaged niece factored into the story who "loved him very much" and begged for his safe return or any information helpful in leading to it. This scrap of information made his heart throb anxiously with elation.

Someone out there cares about me and wants me alive! Claire! Her name was Claire! His mind soared at the prospective of what she looked like and what kind of a person she was. They must have a strong bond, he concluded, for her to make such an earnest plea.

"At least I have a destination point now," Peter continued. "I can go home. The truth is waiting for me there."

Elle, returning with her Snapple, was not as persuaded.

"Are you sure of that?" questioned the girl.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think you should go back to the Petrellis so hastily. We don't know the circumstances behind what happened to you. They could be the ones responsible. Maybe you pissed them off because you're so removed from what they are. Maybe they consider you a disgrace because of your profession. Maybe they felt as if you were some sort of liability to them and they hurt you in some way. Maybe they wrote you off as a freak and tried to kill you."

"But they're my family. If I can't trust them who can I trust?"

"You can trust me. And Alex, I guess. We're tried and true. The Petrellis…you can't be certain of. Haven't you ever watched daytime TV and seen how large, wealthy families are so…decayed? Please. Don't go back just yet. I have a bad feeling about it."

"I hate to say it, but I think Elle might be right," Alex complied. "We don't know the conditions of what happened and you could be in trouble."

"But where do I go if I shouldn't go home?" wondered Peter.

"You can stay with me. We didn't start off on the right foot but…"

"I can't go home either," interrupted Elle. "They're looking for me too."

Alex gave her a doubtful look but Peter spoke up.

"She's right. Her picture was all over the news."

Alex sighed but there was no way around what he needed to do.

"Well, I guess you're both on the lam and I'll be in trouble for harbouring a pair of fugitives."

"Thanks, Alex!" Elle exclaimed. "You're the best, bro!"

"Let's get outta here before we're noticed," suggested Peter, ripping the front page from the rest of the paper so he could keep the picture of himself and Nathan and sticking it into his pocket.

The siblings readily obliged.

----------------

Distraught by the wrecked state of her mother's stuffy, obsolete apartment, Grace was consumed by the enormity of what took place in her absence. The detective she spoke with on the phone hadn't mentioned the painting in blood. It was probably one of those details best told in person and if she hadn't illegally gone to check things out for herself then she wouldn't have known until her meeting with the detective later in the day. It was better to find out when she was alone, she believed; she didn't like expressing emotions in front of others and this would've been too unsettling to be informed on in the presence of a stranger.

She sat in a chair and stared at the encompassing carnage, her mind vacant of thoughts to the extent that it grew numb, making her feel disembodied. Who could've hated her mother to this level? Grace didn't hate her mother as much as she held a grudge against her. Virginia had been a quiet woman who kept to herself, a female version of Gabriel in that aspect. She was a near recluse, barely seen by even her neighbours next door. Certainly Gabriel was her only visitor in the years Grace was away.

But someone had taken Gabriel's life too. The possibilities appeared limitless. Her mother could've already had an unwelcome visitor inside her home that Gabe coincidentally interrupted, therefore increasing the killer's morbid wealth of victims by sharing their mother's fate. If Virginia's death disturbed her then Gabriel's demise drove her over the brink of madness. Distraught beyond reason, her chest heaved as she breathed rapidly in effort to control the sobs threatening to pour from her. Rising from the chair, she heatedly stomped into the other rooms of the apartment in search of any sign linked to Gabriel's death.

The chalk outline was far too small to be representative of the imposing frame of her younger brother so it was easy to conclude that whatever happened to him had to have been done in another room. It was possible he'd been caught unprepared while doing something in the bedroom. That was precisely what must've happened; Gabe may have been mousey in his manner of dress and mien but he was big and strong enough to fend someone off in a fair fight or to scare an intruder away after getting a good look at him.

A generous amount of tears now flowing from her eyes, she frantically searched the bedroom, yet for all of her efforts she indicated not one trace of a struggle or that anyone else other than Virginia and her murderer were even in the room for that matter. Angry, she stormed into the second bedroom, the guest room where Gabriel slept whenever he needed to spend the night, expecting to see the second chalk outline. Nothing was there. Everything was untouched, not a speck of dust out of place.

"Damn it!" she shouted in anguish, wiping the wetness from her face. "Where did he get you, Gabriel?"

The bathroom!

Controlled by a mad panic as if she were saving her brother's life rather than examining the end to it, she dashed off into the bathroom but was met with the same cleanliness found in the other rooms. This wholly befuddled her.

"The detective said you were murdered, Gabe," she said to her brother's phantom. "When he told me that you and mom were both killed…I imagined it was while you were together." A horrid solution struck her. "What if he killed you at your place? But why would he do that? If you were here…and he followed you to kill you there…but returned here to kill mom…or maybe mom was killed before you got here?"

She screamed in bitter frustration.

"None of this makes sense!" she cried.

Then she remembered the cell phone in her purse. While at the bar in LAX she'd programmed the detective's name and number into her address book because she knew she would need it. Eagerly, she emptied the contents of the purse on the floor so she wouldn't waste time searching for the cursed thing and, with unsteady hands, she pressed the speed dial number for Detective Ryan Archer.

He did say to call if I needed to speak with him! she excused herself.

"Detective Archer?" she addressed once the man answered. "It's Grace Mor-Grace Gray. Yes, my family…Well, I'm rather confused as to what exactly happened. Yes, I know you told me that you would fill me in on the details later but I can't wait. I need to know. It's eating me alive, detective. I have to know what happened to my Ga- my brother." As she listened to the detective, her fingers fidgeted nervously against her thigh and she realized she hadn't felt this way since her first casting call. "I can be there. Give me about a half an hour. Thanks."

She disengaged, feeling better for making the call. Archer would be less than thrilled to discover that she had entered the closed-off crime scene and invariably contaminating evidence, but she planned to keep that secret. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Nevertheless, she felt entitled to be in the apartment. She had lost her entire family, after all, and she wanted to know who to personally thank for that.

----------------

Wringing her hands and pacing the floor, Claire watched as her savvy grandmother continued giving statements to the press in the sitting room. Overwrought by the situation on hand, she decided that fresh air would be good for her and, excusing herself, stepped out onto the front porch, her dad trailing and calling after her.

Not stopping, she slowed so he could catch up as she slipped around the bend, pressing against the side of the mansion in effort to escape the reporters. They walked onward into the backyard until they were hidden from sight. She halted to face him, the distress of paradoxical love written all over her girlish face.

"I can't leave yet," she persisted.

"I knew you were going to tell me that," he acknowledged with a forlorn sigh.

He hoped that it would be untrue if he said it aloud but she said it for him.

"I still don't feel comfortable leaving Peter here to fend for himself," she continued. "Because that's exactly what will happen. He needs me. I'm afraid for his safety."

"I know you share a potent bond with Peter, but Claire, this is a family matter. One that you aren't directly involved in. Peter is an adult. He can care for himself."

"I'm not even worried too much about him right now. It's after he's found that worries me. His mother is blaming him for what happened to my father and I think she's going to hurt him in some way."

Noah gave the young woman a very stern, parental look.

"You don't honestly believe that Angela Petrelli would do something to hurt her own son, do you?"

Claire gazed at him with shock that such words had come from his mouth.

"She knew that he was going to explode and was willing to let him live with the consequences knowing what it would do to him. She doesn't care about Peter. I have a biological tie to Nathan but my bond with Peter is stronger than blood. I can't let him get hurt, dad. Not after all that he's done for me."

Noah stepped closer to her, placed a hand on her shoulder and confided, "I was informed of a meteor that crashed down in Brighton Beach last night soon after the explosion."

The implication of his statement filled Claire's eyes with optimism.

"Peter!" she breathed

"Don't get your hopes up, Claire. I can't make any guarantees that it was actually him."

"I don't care! It means that there's hope. But it's just a matter of time before Angela Petrelli discovers this for herself. We need to get to Peter before she does and now we've got a sort of lead."

"What do you propose in telling Angela to excuse your absence?"

"Leave it to me. I'll think of something."

----------------

Peter sat on the shabby sofa in Alex's dark apartment trying to ignore Elle's big brother as he stared holes into him from the rickety lawn chair adjacent to where him. Elle was in the bedroom fishing around for something; whatever it was he didn't know as she half-muttered it while she walked passed. A few elongated moments of his uncomfortable squirming later she returned, a stack of comic books in her hands. Plopping down next to Peter and between the men, she opened the top book and began reading.

"What's that?" he asked innocently to break the ice.

"Comic," she answered distantly. "9th Wonders!. I love it."

"9th Wonders!?"

The title struck a familiar chord in Peter.

"Yeah. It's by this artist Isaac Mendez. I met him once at a comic con. He signed a first release, first issue for me that I have framed in my room. He's hot."

"Isaac Mendez." He pondered the surging impulses which the name sent rippling through his body. Angry, desperate, sad. "Why does that name feel like it means something to me?"

"Maybe you like comic books too."

"Let me see those."

He took the rest of the stack beneath the open one in her lap and flipped through them. It appeared that they were about a young Japanese man named Hiro Nakamura who was destined to save the world from a ferocious villain…why did all of this seem so indelible?! Maybe Elle was right and he used to read comics. Yet it felt more profound than that, as if there was something very authentic being whispered to him beyond the fiction on the vividly coloured pages. Furthermore, even if he did read these books that did not excuse the intense negative feelings toward the name Isaac Mendez.

He stared at the name printed in bold black comic book font on the inside back cover, as pensive as a Buddhist monk in meditation. Beneath was an address of 215 Reed Street. Beside it was a picture of the handsome, scruffy artist himself.

"See?" Elle broke his distrait concentration. "He's hot."

"If you like that sort of thing…"

"What sort of thing?"

"The dark, mysterious type."

Elle released a sharp bark of laughter.

"Yeah, because you're sooooo removed from that. Dave."

Peter peeked up from the comic to give her a mischievous smirk which she returned then he went back to intently look at Mendez's picture.

"Maybe he was your lover," suggested the wily fangirl. "I don't know what I would do if that ended up being true: die of disappointment or die of happiness."

"Why would you die of happiness?"

"Because I'd want to watch."

"Stop being disgusting, Elle," griped Alex.

"Shut up, don't you have some lesbians to watch? God!"

"She may have a point," Peter said. When he saw the prospect spread across Elle's pretty face and the disgust on Alex's, he readily clarified, "Not that I'm gay or Isaac Mendez's lover but maybe he knows me. The name brought back strong feelings for me. His picture and these books are familiar, like I'm acquainted with them in some way."

"Next you'll be saying the Matrix rewound," Elle commented smartly.

Peter gave her a puzzled look. Plainly he didn't understand what she was referring to, yet he soldiered on any way.

"Regardless of what my connection is with him, my gut feeling tells me that there is one. He might be able to give me some answers. Maybe before I decide to go back home I should pay Isaac Mendez a visit."

Elle's eyes went ablaze.

"You are so taking me with you, Dave!" Then aware that she mistaken slipped back into her pet name for him in front of her brother, she smiled sheepishly and corrected, "I meant Peter."

Peter glanced at Alex who was in a sleepy daze and nearly toppling over in the frail chair he was in. Though Alex was paying attention, he was too exhausted to protest.

"I'll need a guide," he told his protector's elder sibling. "I don't trust my memory will get me to where I need to go without help."

Alex cleared his throat and groggily straightened his posture.

"I suppose it's a good idea to let her go with you," he agreed. "What trouble can you guys get into by going to a comic book artist's apartment?"

Elle became disgruntled.

"You know, Alex, I am twenty-three. I don't need your permission to go anywhere. I never needed it before and I sure as hell don't need it now.

"Don't be mad at him, Elle," Peter unexpectedly scolded. "He's only watching out for you." Then he grew distant, lost in thought as he added, "Like a big brother is supposed to."

He snapped from his stupor with a start when Alex spoke: "I'd go with you but I'm too exhausted to move. Elle, behave. I don't have the time or the money to bail you out of jail for trying to hump Isaac Mendez's leg."

"Get real, Alex," Elle snarled jadedly. "I'd have to be a boy to be able to do that." Then, turning to Peter, urged, "But you feel free to do that, Pete."

Peter's eyes rolled slightly.

"Sure, Elle," he replied. "Your wish is my command."

Elle's eyes lit up with glee once more.

"Can we go now? Let's go now!"

"I guess the sooner we can figure out what's going on the better. Besides, I'm starting to feel guilty for imposing on Alex."

Peter motioned towards his host who again was hazardously slumped down in the lawn chair, snoring softly as he snoozed.

"We've kept him awake for too long already," Peter confessed guiltily.

"OK, then, forget my brother. Let's go check out that hot piece of ass artist. Maybe I can get him to sign my boob or something."

But Peter remained fixed in place as Elle pranced passed him, the bundle of comics in her arms as she opened the entrance to the apartment and sauntered out into the hall. When she noticed that he did not follow she poked her head back inside.

"Coming?" she questioned.

He replied in the affirmative and exited the apartment, ready to begin his journey of self-discovery.

----------------

Grace ripped into the precinct with the disquieting force of a tornado funnel touching down. A few others were already waiting on the grungy public side of the front desk but they were irrelevant to her quest so she dismissed them as nonexistent. A black woman of portly proportions complained but Grace shot her an undeterred glower of reproach, her eyes scintillating the electricity that awaited her command. Taken aback by the unexpected display, the woman sank deeper into her chair and quieted.

"Excuse me," Grace loudly addressed the officers behind the desk, receiving their attention immediately. "I'm looking for a Detective Ryan Archer."

"I'm Detective Archer," a handsome middle aged man sitting at a desk in the far corner informed. "You must be Grace Gray."

"Yes, I am."

"I'll buzz you in. Enter through the door on your left."

Grace ogled the thick security door he was referring to and cringed in disgust. A cockroach crawled up the face of the door, its copper body glinting in the muted light of the room, making the insect prominent against the peeling grey paint. A loud buzz reverberated in the room and the movie star unenthusiastically grabbed the handle by covering her palm with the end of her sleeve, turned it and yanked the heavy door open, slipping inside as quickly as possible just for the opportunity to be relinquished of the common filth.

Wiping her sleeve compulsively against the leg of her jeans, she began walking without paying attention and bumped directly into Archer. Excusing herself, she found her hand engaged in a reflexive handshake with the detective before she was cognizant of it.

"Follow me to a more private location and we'll talk," he instructed.

She nodded and trailed him through a long hallway to its end where he opened a door, motioning for her to enter first. It was an interrogation room, which made her feel clammy as if she was the one who'd done something wrong. Unlike many others brought into this room she was innocent and had nothing to fear, unlike the bastard who killed her brother and got away with it. As of yet, any how. Nevertheless, it was compunction which made her squirm because the only real reason she came to this hellhole was to get details on a matter she intended on handling alone in her own special way.

"Am I in trouble or something?" she half-joked.

Archer smiled reassuringly but it was too well-practiced for Grace's liking.

"Not at all. It's quiet in here and we're alone. We don't want anybody else to overhear your private affairs. Please, have a seat."

She did and Archer sat across from her. Her face expressed impatient hope and he was resigned at noticing it.

"Can I get you anything? Something to drink?"

"No, no thank you." She paused, giving him some leeway before she pounced. "I don't understand what happened to my family," she said, hoping her poker face masked her wrong doing effectively. "Have you found the son of a bitch who did this to my brother?"

Archer dropped his gaze to the table and grew silent. With twenty-two years as a cop he never seemed to be able to immunize himself against breaking bad news to family members. None of them ever did get immune to it.

"Yes, Miss Gray," he started off slowly, gently, "we do have the person who did this to your family."

Grace's face lit up with ecstatic joy then just as quickly darkened again.

"Good,' she replied through clenched teeth. "I want him to suffer an excruciating death."

"Miss Gray…The person who killed your mother? It was your brother."

A dead silence befell the room as Grace lost herself in what she just learned. An empty pit swelling inside her stomach, she communicated her disbelief through several painful blinks. She refused to believe this nonsense.

"Wh-what? My brother? Gabriel? You're mistaken. Gabriel would never do something so heinous. He's not a killer. You didn't know him. He was sweet in disposition; it was against his nature to be a killer. He wouldn't even kill a spider let alone our mother…"

"His fingerprints were the only ones in your mother's apartment other than her own."

Despondent, Grace covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

"Your mother was stabbed in the chest with a pair of scissors," Archer tentatively continued. "There was a struggle. Her fingerprints were the only ones on the scissors, indicating she was probably using them to defend herself."

Grace looked at the detective with newfound hope.

"Maybe it was an accident then," she offered. "Maybe he didn't mean to kill her and then he went home to kill himself because he couldn't bear to live with himself for it."

Archer sighed long.

"There was a painting in your mother's blood on the kitchen floor. Because of it, we don't speculate that this was in accident. That morbid painting wouldn't exist if it was an accident." He briefly stopped speaking to let the woman take it all in. Opting to change the subject slightly he declared, "Your brother didn't kill himself."

Again Grace looked puzzled.

"He didn't?"

Archer confirmed with a head shake.

"Have you heard about the death in Kirby Plaza?"

She shook her head. "No. Was it Gabriel?"

"It was, yes. Someone ran a sword clean through him. He bled to death. Apparently he went on a rampage and attacked several people who claim it was self-defense. We are looking deeper into the matter."

"This is far too much for me to comprehend all at once. I'm sorry. My brother, who was the gentlest person I've ever known, murdered my mother, attacked a group of people and then was murdered himself. Murdered by a man with a sword, of all things?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Gray."

Tears streamed down Grace's face freely but noiselessly and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. In one frail attempt to console herself, she resorted to sarcastically asking, "Is it customary for New Yorkers to carry around swords?"

"We're a great melting pot, Miss Gray."

"Can I please see him at least?" she requested. "I need to say good-bye."

"Of course. I'll drive you to the morgue myself."

"What did the witnesses in Kirby Plaza have to say?"

"There was nothing much to tell. Your brother was walking through the plaza when he went berserk."

Grace gazed at the detective doubtfully.

"Gabriel just randomly attacked people."

"According to the witnesses, yes. He attacked one particular person but we are at the moment trying to locate him. He seemed to have gone missing."

There was a pause as Grace tried to sort everything out and take in what she was being told.

"Could you please keep me posted?" she asked. "If you find that so-called victim who Gabriel supposedly attacked or if there are any new developments I want to know every detail."

"I'll tell you all that I can."

"I want to know everything. Everything. No equivocations or exceptions."

Archer felt that arguing with the abrasive woman would be fruitless so he nodded compliance.

"Let's head over to the morgue," he suggested. "You need to say your good-byes."

"Yes, let's do that."

They rose from their chairs and Grace followed him back up the hallway to the front desk. The woman who protested previously was at the front desk window raising a holy hell that she had "arrived before that woman" and "it was bullshit that she was seen first!" But the objection ceased when Grace stepped into view, their eyes met icily and the intimidated woman slunk back to her seat without another word.

"Just a minute," Archer muttered to his lovely charge.

Grace nodded as Archer returned to his desk in the corner where she originally found him and spent her time skimming the wanted and missing person's posters tacked up on the corkboard beside her. She smiled deliberately as she noted that every wanted poster sported the hardened faces of men; they were all races but they belonged to a single sex. The missing posters were polar opposites. The majority of them were female, of course, with punctuations of male children.

One stood out amongst the scores of others, however, because it was of a regular man. A good looking man, dark haired with long bangs swept into his large, hazel eyes and full heart-shaped lips with a slight crook. At five-foot-nine and one hundred and forty pounds, he was a small waif of a man and Grace hypothesized that perhaps a much bigger opponent might've done him great harm. It couldn't have taken much to overpower this one. Intrigued, she read his name. Peter Petrelli. It is said that when a man disappears it's because he doesn't want to be found. This one must've gotten into some serious trouble. She wondered what secrets Peter Petrelli was running away from.

"Ready, Miss Gray?" Archer interrupted her thoughts, jingling car keys before him.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she sighed.

They exited through the disgusting security door again and passed the heavyset woman who didn't bother to make eye contact with the glowering movie star this time.

----------------

The drive into Lower Manhattan was a harrowing ordeal, as there was no true difference between how Elle drove the night before when she first found Peter and the way she drove now, weaving through traffic on the Belt Parkway then the Gowanus, through the Brooklyn Battery and on into Manhattan. Peter thought he was going to have a coronary by the time they reached Reed Street but, too grateful for everything the young woman did for him, made no complaint. Instead he simply held on white-knuckle tight and dealt with it.

When she managed to miraculously locate a parking space on the street he all but leapt out of the Versa, thankful to have his feet planted back on solid pavement. Tempted to kiss the ground, he decided it would be too extreme and refrained. Elle strolled over, grabbed his hand and without uttering a word led him two blocks down. He followed like a child without question, unconditionally trusting her every move before she stopped and pointed to a tall building.

"There it is," she informed him. "There it is! That's 215 Reed Street. Simone Deveaux better not be there. Watch out, Isaac, here I come!"

Again she picked up her pace, this time quickening it. As he followed her to the building and inside, another wave of familiarity crashed over Peter at mention of the name Deveaux. An incredibly strong sentiment raised inside him different from the one at mention of Isaac's name. If he and Isaac Mendez had known each other and that was the owners' name of the building in which he dwelled, he doubted it would've returned such an impressively positive feeling inside him. Mendez's name evoked quite the opposite. Then what was the link with the Deveaux name? Was it simply a connection with Mendez or was it something more tantalizing? The world spun around him in a kaleidoscope of emotions that served to only make him more anxious.

They entered but learned nothing new from the rows of mailboxes; thanks to the address in the comic they were aware that Mendez occupied Loft 7. Minimal investigative work by questioning the doorman uncovered that Loft 7 was on the top floor penthouse level. With Elle's display of gratitude as a proclamation of "Thanks, pops!" they caught the elevator up, Elle jauntily pressing the PH button and fidgeting anxiously as the car began to rise.

"Stand still!" ordered Peter in a whisper. "You're making me nervous."

"I can't help it! Give a girl in lust a break, will you?"

His mouth formed his askew smile emoting affection as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze meant to calm her.

Within moments, the car stopped and the doors slid open.

"Well," Peter said softly, half timidly and half reluctantly. "Here we are. Let's get this over with."

They stepped out of the car and walked along the hallway with ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking Lower Manhattan until they reached the door to Loft 7 only to find it already ajar. The same gigantic windows that were on one side of the hallway also comprised the front wall of Mendez's loft and the darkness within indicated that there was no-one at home…or something was amiss.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Peter professed. "Maybe you should wait out here or go back downstairs to the lobby."

"Nuh uh. I'm a wanted woman too and what if I get caught downstairs? Besides, whatever is in there that's dangerous for me, it's equally dangerous for you."

Not bothering to remind her that he had the ability to survive death through rapid tissue regeneration, he chose to get things done sooner by nodding and advising, "Just stay as close to me as you can."

Elle grinned roguishly and, plastering her body against his backside, agreed, "Whatever you say, Dave."

Ignoring her smart alecky comment, he inched the loft door open, stuck his head into the dark room and called out: "Hello! Isaac Mendez? It's Peter Petrelli! I need to speak with you! It's urgent!"

His calls were met with silence.

Peter muttered, "This really doesn't feel right." Then he whispered: "Stay close!"

"Alright! Relax!"

Peter widened the crack left in the creaky door and took a few guarded steps inside, Elle glued close behind.

"Watch your step," Peter warned like a big brother and reached behind him to encircle her wrist in his protective grip.

They crept deeper into the pitch black loft, Peter feeling out their way with an extended hand. There was no sign of anyone at all. Their progress came to a precipitous impediment when Peter's shin met something hard and, seeing stars, he exclaimed his pain with a strangled "Ouch!"

"Shhh!" hissed Elle.

"Watch it, there're some steps up ahead."

Gingerly they descended those stairs and reached what Peter realized was the studio portion of the loft, as silhouettes of easels and canvasses were dotted all over the dark room.

"Isaac?" Peter called again. "It's Peter Petrelli! Are you th-"

There was a squeaking sound as the rubber sole of Peter's borrowed sneakers slid in something wet, nearly causing the amnesiac to fall to the floor like Bambi taking his first steps until he recovered his balance.

"What the hell?!" he murmured.

"Be careful!" demanded Elle, who he slightly tumbled backwards against.

"I'm trying! There's something wet on the floor!"

"I don't think anybody's here. And what is that smell?!"

"I don't know. Stand right here. Don't move."

"Where are you going?"

"To shed a little light on the subject."

He ventured back up the steps until he reached the door again. Extending his hand, Peter found purchase against a switch.

"Great. A switch," he announced. "And on the first day God separated the dark from the light."

Peter snapped the switch up and light flooded the room in torrents from the high ceilings above.

"Oh my god!" gasped Elle, clutching wildly at the rail alongside the stairs.

Peter turned to see what the matter was and ended up taking a step back with eyes agape when he saw it. Isaac Mendez, comic book extraordinaire and eye candy for Elle Miasnikov was sprawled across the floor with his arms outstretched from his sides, paintbrushes nailed through his wrists effectively finishing off the artist as a grisly imitation Christ in a mock simulacrum created by an absent killer. The top of Mendez's head had been removed and his brain missing. The blood trail from this mortal wound was what Peter had slid in; shoe tracks led away from the smeared path to where he currently stood. A gun lay close by but obviously didn't do a wealth of good for the hapless artist. Beneath his corpse on the floor stretched a mural of doomsday in Manhattan, a thick black, yellow and red mushroom cloud billowing over the Empire State Building and the rest of Midtown Manhattan. Peter instantly recalled the dream of his body glowing and his throat grew tight.

"I'm going to be sick," Elle publicized with a faltering voice then covered her mouth with a hand, fighting back the gag reflex.

"Not here!" Peter demanded, rushing back down the stairs to her side. "You'll be leaving your DNA behind! The last thing we need is the cops to find out we were here."

"Obviously the police don't know about this yet." She gasped. "Peter, we have to call the police!"

He nodded, his eyes never straying from the ghastly sight before them.

"Not now though," he instructed. "Wait until we leave. And leave the tip anonymously."

"Duh, Dave."

"The person who did this could still be here."

"Uh uh. He's ripe. He's been here for some time. The smell…"

"Yeah."

"Oh, man, my poor baby! I never got the chance to have a meaningless sex romp with him!"

Elle's comment went unheard for Peter's eyes found something else that numbed his body with marvel. Nearby and displayed on a sturdy makeshift wooden easel was a painting slashed in half. The figure in the painting was leaping from a rooftop and suspended in flight but it was decapitated by the laceration, the top half lying on its side in front of the easel. Peter stared at it, squinting in scepticism.

"Is that…me?" he inquired.

"What's you?"

"In the painting over there." His eyes swept the studio and he found that there were several other paintings depicting his likeness. "Almost all of them are of…of me!"

Elle gazed around the room at the plethora of artwork and nodded agreement.

"Yeah, they kinda do look like you. I guess this confirms that he knows – knew - you."

"Looks that way."

"These others are of a few of his comic book characters. But look at this one."

She pointed to a particular piece depicting two men in black squaring off with a large spiral stepped red sculpture in the background. One of the men was Peter, the other carried the aura of an ominous menace.

"It's you again," she assessed. "With another man in Kirby Plaza. But this one's not a Mendez."

"Are you sure?"

Elle flashed him an incredulous look.

"If anyone knows Isaac Mendez's work, it's me."

"You're right, you're right," he acceded, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. Then it struck him. "Wait. Are you sure that we're in Kirby Plaza in the painting?"

"Positive. I recognize the sculpture in the back. Plus it has Kirby Plaza written across it. Duh."

"Why does Kirby Plaza sound familiar?"

"I dunno. According to the painting you were there."

Peter suddenly grew excited.

"I remember now!" he exclaimed. "I heard it on the news last night. It was where that man was stabbed to death with the sword after he attacked those people!"

"Oh my god!"

Her unexpected outburst alarmed him.

"What?!"

"Remember how we were kidding around about you being able to tell the future? Well, what if that's what Isaac could do? I mean, look at this stuff. Snap things into place. He painted his own death. Not just an imagining…he painted every minute detail. Unless an accomplice removed his brain then he was murdered. I mean, an artist who could paint the future isn't too far fetched considering what you can do."

Peter and Elle looked into each other's eyes, fully understanding the magnitude of the story they'd been living.

"So," Elle continued, "what could this painting with you and this dude in Kirby Plaza mean? What if this guy is the one who was killed with the sword? Maybe you were the one who killed him!"

"Then where's the sword?"

"Maybe it melted when you were hit by that meteor. Maybe you were at the beach that night because you were thinking about what you did."

"Wouldn't someone notice if I carried a sword around with me on the streets?"

"I don't know. It is New York. And with you we need to think outside of the box."

"Maybe you're right. Everything fits. If I killed this man, whoever he is, then maybe I was the one who killed Isaac Mendez too."

His voice dropped, tinged with disappointment in himself that he would actually be capable of killing another human being. Although he knew nothing about his past he wanted to believe that he respected the life of others.

"Maybe it was self defense," Elle offered sympathetically, taking his hand into hers to demonstrate that she trusted him. "Don't be hard on yourself. We don't know the whole story yet. Besides, it doesn't feel right. You don't seem like a killer."

Peter surveyed the loft and distinguished that there were paintings of other people as well: a few of two Japanese men at a casino, several self-portraits of Mendez as a corpse, one of an attractive blonde woman with an odd tattoo looking over her shoulder and a case of money in front of her. The monopoly of the work depicted either Peter making use of one of his powers or a lovely blonde teenaged cheerleader in both heroic and victimized scenarios. Although the ones with the cheerleader provoked warm feelings of affection, his attention was drawn mainly to Mendez's self-portraits.

"He painted his death," observed Peter. "How can he paint his own death so accurately?"

Elle shrugged.

"How can he paint his own death like that period?" she asked. "He couldn't have done that to himself on his own."

The spellbound Peter gave no response but instead stepped forward, away from Elle and across the room to the only unpainted canvass in the studio.

"What are you doing?" Elle questioned.

Ignoring her still, Peter picked up a paintbrush and a palette with half-dried paints lying on a table next to the empty canvass and stood before it. Strange: he knew he was a rightie and yet he held the paintbrush in his left hand, prepared to paint. His head cocked slightly to the side as he stared at the empty space before him, seeing a picture only he could see splash itself across the canvass.

"Yeah, OK…Dave?" Elle addressed, frightened strain in her voice. "You're totally freaking me out, dude. You tell me not to puke because I'd leave evidence but you decide it's OK to go all Van Gogh on me and paint a picture."

Elle grimaced with confusion as Peter began to do exactly what she predicted: dabbing the bristles of the brush into one of the paints, he set to work earnestly, feverishly. Elle moved forward herself, eyes never drifting from the handsome young man as he diligently and automatically worked. Walking around to look at his face, she gasped when she saw that his eyes were clouded over with thin milky cataracts. Instantly understanding that this was obviously one more freaky thing that Peter was capable of doing, she simply stood back and watched in awe as a picture formed beneath his manic brush strokes. When it finished, Peter dropped the paintbrush and swooned as the cataracts vanished from his eyes, the trance lifted.

"What happened?" he asked, peering at his paint-splattered hand.

"I don't exactly know. You just started painting while in some sort of trance. You're weird! You painted with your left hand and you're right-handed. Oh, and you had these spooky Evil Dead eyes. They were kinda hot. By the way, you painted that."

Both pairs of eyes gawked at the wet painting gleaming in the sunlight before them. It was of a woman with arms outstretched to the ceiling of a room, surrounded by abundant bolts of lightning.

----------------

"Are you ready?"

Archer's query was meant to prepare her but no amount of time could prepare anyone to confront the death of a loved one. The seasoned detective knew this too but he habitually asked any way. It was the right thing to do. With a deep intake of breath Grace nodded. The medical examiner reached out for the handle of the refrigerated cabinet that held what was once Gabriel Gray, her beloved brother.

They just filed him away like old musty paperwork! she thought bitterly as the slab was pulled out, revealing Gabriel's body.

Unable to contain herself, she released a loud sob then placed a hand to her face as she struggled with tears for the umpteenth time since she found out. This time it was very different. This time she was gazing upon the conclusiveness of life's end. There would be no more Gabriel. This was it. He was cold, blue and naked in a morgue; lifeless but tricking her to briefly believe that he was in some serene form of suspended animation as if they were in a bad science fiction movie.

"Gabe!" she wept openly. "What happened to you?"

"We'll give you some privacy," Archer softly informed her and she nodded, averting her eyes from them.

The detective and the coroner left the room and Grace waited until she heard the doors close behind them before she broke down entirely. Memory and regret tore her apart as she threw herself over Gabriel's body. Her fingers ran through his short dark hair as she pressed her face against his then kissed his cheek.

"I can't believe this is real! I squandered all of my time out in fucking Hollywood when I should've been here in Queens taking care of you! Here was where I belonged, here was my place! It's my fault this happened to you! If I'd done things differently I would've at least taken you with me! We would've shut down that mundane clock repair shop and told mom to go fuck herself!"

Laying her head upon Gabriel's lifeless chest, she held the body tight as she grieved.

"They told me you killed mom," she notified. "I don't believe it. Or, I didn't at first." Her crying made her voice hitch and gasp. Waiting to calm better, she continued: "Mom always treated you like a stranger at best. I know she loved you but she played favorites. I know I was her favorite but, Gabby, believe me, I didn't want to be! I urged her not to ignore you. I know she ended up doting on you because you were the only one left for her. I know she did something to you that provoked you to do this. There is no way I believe you would kill her without just cause."

She stroked his five o'clock shadow roughened face.

"I told the detective that you were a gentle man. You were the one who stayed behind to keep that goddamn shop open. The family business. Ha! Mom and that ridiculous man she had running the place nearly ran it into the ground. They didn't care, not like you did. 'It has our name on the sign outside,' you reminded her. 'You should care what happens to the shop. It reflects on us.' You shouldn't have cared, Gabe. You took over that shop and stayed to provide for mom and look where it's gotten you. You were so stupid, little brother! So, so, so stupid! You loved her and she returned it with substituted love! You helped her and she repaid you with death!"

She took a few moments to compose herself, choosing exculpatory words to correct her implications.

"I'm sorry, Gabriel. You know I didn't mean any of this. But I will tell you something sincerely. I'm going to find the bastard who killed you. If it's the last thing I do I promise you that."

She sniffled and performed a quick breathing exercise to regain her self-control.

"In the meantime, how about one last time for old time sake?"

Raising her hand, she produced electrical currents from her fingertips that danced down the length of her fingers and formed a whirling sphere of blue electricity in the palm of her hand. For a pithy second she considered the story of Victor Frankenstein who reanimated a dead corpse with bolts of lightning. Was it possible to bring Gabriel back the same way? She would need a massive quantity of electrical power to perform such a monumental task and it would drain if not kill her.

Perhaps sacrificing herself for her selfless brother would be the noble thing to do. He deserved to live more than she did. The only thing she managed to amount to was being famous. Fame was nothing. Family was everything. Gabriel recognized that in his self-sacrificing choice to remain in Queens while big sis partied with the elite scum of Los Angeles.

If I hadn't left he'd still be alive! she convinced herself, the anger boiling her soul with the venom of possibility. There was no more powerful word in the English language than the simple two letter word if. It drove the best of human beings to the brink of insanity.

By allowing her emotions to seize control of her, she knew that significant damage would be done to the morgue, even to the refrigerated cabinets which contained not only her dearly departed brother but their deplorable mother. The fleeting thought of Virginia Gray did it for her. The little lightning bolts from the fingertips of her one hand also formed on the other as she pried herself away from Gabriel. More electricity crawled down her arms from her shoulders and, due to the power of the electricity surging through her body, she raised her arms and faced the ceiling as the voltage continued flowing over her. Unable to manage so much power in her weakened state, she cried out in frustrated anger as the electricity shot from her and to various locations within the room. The overhead lights burst and the stench of burnt ozone filled the morgue.

Upset that she would lose control when she should've been paying her respects to her brother, she fled from the now darkened morgue, nearly knocking over the coroner and a concerned and disconcerted Detective Archer in her wake.

----------------

Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Thanks to those who have read and continued to read and special thanks to those who took the time to review. I usually personally respond to each one of my reviews with a personal message but I'm so short on personal time that I've been unable to do so. I will in the future, however, and I hope you keep reading. I love and am gratefull for you all!