Kurt sat glumly in a BreadstiX booth, staring down at the photo in his hand. In the image he was dressed in a Dalton uniform, with Blaine next to him. Both boys were beaming from ear to ear and pumping Mr Schuester's hand energetically. The photograph had been taken years ago, the day that the Warblers and New Directions had tied at Sectionals. New Directions had, of course, gone on to steamroll everyone in their way and take their first national title since Mr Schue was a student, but Kurt would always remember the feeling of pride that day, when Blaine had hugged him excitedly and beamed with shining eyes. Blaine had been his closest confidante, the virtuous mentor he turned to whenever he needed a shoulder to cry on.
And now he was sitting in a jail somewhere in Lima, being questioned about Santana's murder.
Kurt didn't believe a word of it, of course. Jesse he wasn't so sure about, but Blaine? Kurt knew he would never do what he was being accused of, in spite of the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the body. He knew his husband would never lay a finger on a woman, would never degrade someone as had happened to Santana. At the far side of the restaurant, the remaining patrons were waiting to give their statements to the police. Of course, they were all convinced of Blaine's guilt.
Puck's reaction Kurt could understand, Brittany's too. They were the ones who had been closest to Santana, who had loved her, and so he could understand them lashing out at the most obvious suspect, even if he didn't like it. But he thought the others would take Blaine's side. How could Finn possibly think that Blaine was capable of such a heinous crime? Or Mercedes, who had become the couple's closest friend after they left high school? He thought she would believe Blaine, but she was sitting as far away from Kurt as possible with her arm around Puck, trying to coax him into sipping some whiskey that the manager had found.
"Hey" a quiet voice asked beside him. Kurt looked up and found Sam smiling gently down at him. The man who had briefly been the object of his high school affections was holding two glasses of amber liquid. He offered one to Kurt, who took it gingerly. "Mind if I sit?"
Kurt merely nodded tiredly and budged up to allow Sam to slide into the booth next to him. The blonde man was pale and his hands were trembling.
"Are you OK?" Kurt ventured uncertainly. Sam, who had been staring across the room to where Quinn was giving her statement, jumped and then smiled sheepishly.
"I guess so. It was just a big shock, that's all. I saw Santana and I thought- I thought, what if that had been Qu- I mean, I thought of Maddie and I just... I..."
"Do you think Blaine could have done it?" Kurt asked quietly. Sam stared at him in surprise before remembering himself. "I know you didn't know him that well, but the others have just- just assumed that he... that he..."
"They're in shock," said Sam, his tone gentle. "Their friend was just murdered and they need someone to blame. I don't think he did it Kurt, and I think deep down they don't think he did either. You've just got to stay strong for Blaine, and everything'll work itself out."
Kurt noticed the forced brightness in the other man's voice, but nonetheless he felt a surge of gratitude towards Sam. He smiled weakly and gulped down his whiskey.
"I hope so," he whispered. "Because I'm not sure how long I can stand them all hating him."
Sam snorted and nudged him gently in the ribs. "Dude, you put up with Karofsky and came out the other side, didn't you? I think you can handle this."
"Thanks Sam," Kurt said softly. "I-I think I'm going to head back home for a while, try to get some sleep or something. Do you- do you need somewhere to stay? Puck doesn't exactly look up to entertaining..."
"That'd be great Kurt, I'll just go grab my stuff from Puck's place and I'll meet you at yours."
Kurt nodded and slid out of the booth. He took a few steps, faltered and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Oh and Sam?" he said.
"Yeah?"
"If you're still in love with her, you should tell her."
"Dude, what are you talking about? I'm engaged."
"But to the right girl? Sam, you've got to make the most of every moment you have with the one you love, you never know when they'll be taken away. Just look at Puck and Santana."
Sam just stared blankly at him and Kurt turned on his heel and strode away.
"I'll see you soon Sam," he said loftily, leaving the blonde football player staring moodily into the depths of his whiskey. As the door swung shut behind Kurt, Sam found himself glancing at Quinn's familiar figure, floating away from the policeman and over to Mike, Rachel and Finn. She was as lovely as he remembered, even with a sickly grey sheen washing over her high cheekbones and tears spilling down her face.
Sam shook himself; he should call Maddie, tell her what had happened. He stared at her number on the screen of his cell phone for a long moment, finger hovering over the 'dial' button, before flipping the phone shut and downing the rest of his whiskey.
/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/
Mercedes had left Puck in his booth- the man was in no position to provide decent company- and came to sit with Tina. The woman she had been so close to in high school, before life and careers had gotten in the way, was sitting alone, gnawing on her bottom lip as she always did when she was struggling to suppress emotion.
"I can't believe this Mercedes," she whispered hoarsely as the larger woman enveloped her in a comforting cuddle. "How could they... how could- Santana? I mean, it's like something out of a bad horror movie, you know? This sort of thing just doesn't happen in Lima."
"I know honey, I can't believe it either," said Mercedes. She hung her head. "This is all my fault."
"What?"
"I-I'm the one who asked Jesse to come back here with me," she explained in a pained whisper. "If I hadn't- if I hadn't invited him, then none of this..."
"You asked him to come back?" Tina asked quietly. Mercedes nodded, shamefaced.
"He came into the bar I work in, completely off his face, and I felt sorry for him. He came back here with me. I led him to her."
Tina took Mercedes' hand with the gravest of expressions on her usually bright features. She bit her lip anxiously and glanced around to see if Puck or Brittany were within earshot. The tall blonde was sitting dumbly in Artie's lap, staring vacantly into space as her husband stroked her tearstained cheeks with tender care. Puck was sitting alone in a booth across the restaurant from them. Rachel, Mike and Finn hovered nearby, just far enough away to allow him to be by himself but also close enough if he should need them. Tina leaned close to Mercedes and whispered conspiratorially:
"I know it seems pretty obvious that it was them, I know what we saw. But 'Cedes, I don't think they did it."
"What?"
"The more I think about, the less likely it seems. Those two had never even crossed paths before the funeral, and yet they somehow decided since then to murder and r- to attack Santana like that? It doesn't feel right. I know what Jesse was like in high school Mercedes, I remember the egg incident as well as anyone, but murder? If you ask me, he's way too spineless for something like that. And as for Blaine," Tina continued with a sigh. "He adores Kurt, a blind person could see that. Why on earth would he want to do something like this? The guy's never so much as laid a finger on another human being, even that time when Karofsky jumped him and Kurt after Regionals."
"I know, I know," Mercedes said impatiently. "But they were found... they were..."
commotion. The back entrance is right by the bathrooms. I think they were trying to help her, and I said as much to the police."
"But Tee, if they didn't do it, then who? That photo... it was obviously planned."
Tina gulped and glanced around edgily. She lowered her voice again.
"Didn't Matt go out that way to 'make a phonecall'?"
"Matt? Matt Rutherford? Tina, are you crazy? That boy was the worst player on the McKinley football team because he didn't want to hurt anyone by tacklin' them!"
"I know, I know, but think about it Mercedes," Tina whispered frantically, as though she feared being overheard. "Why would he come back for the funeral? He wasn't even in glee that long, and he only really joined because Puck made him. He never showed any major interest like Mike, did he? And yet he just turns up at Mr Schue's funeral after years without talking to any of us? You know he had history with Santana."
"Yeah, a high school crush! I thought I liked Kurt in school, but you don't see me goin' batshit and killing him!" Mercedes hissed, but a bubble of unease rippled in the pit of her stomach.
"Didn't you find it weird that he just bolted after the police interviewed him?" Tina asked. Mercedes was startled, and she glanced around as though expecting the former high-school football player to materialise from thin air. "The minute they were done, he hightailed it out of here. Said he wanted to go home. He didn't even ask if there was anything he could do, Mercedes."
A cold shiver ran down Mercedes' spine, travelling up Tina's slim arms. The two women shared a terrified glance and huddled closer to each other.
"We have to tell the police," Mercedes said after a long moment of tense silence. Tina nodded.
"I know. But they won't take much notice until they find some DNA and realise it doesn't match Blaine and Jesse."
Mercedes shivered again as the two of them scuttled over to where a burly middle-aged detective was quizzing Jaycee the waitress. All eyes in BreadstiX followed them curiously, but they were careful to keep their voices low as they explained their suspicions.
After all, there was no point in making people any more edgy than they already were.
/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/
Blaine sat in the small, bare cell picking at the tiniest of holes in the thin duvet. He breathed in and out slowly, his eyes resolutely closed. He hated small spaces.
This was some sort of sick nightmare. He had come to Lima with Kurt for a simple funeral service, and now he was in some grimy police holding cell, held on suspicion of murdering a woman he knew little about, apart from the few titbits he had gleaned from Kurt over the years. He had only met Santana Lopez a handful of times, and most of those were backstage at showchoir competitions in high school. When he had seen her at the funeral, he had barely even remembered her name. He'd had to double check with Kurt.
Kurt.
Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose and released a shaky breath. Surely Kurt would know that this was all bullshit, that he would never have touched Santana. Yes, Kurt would believe him.
He just wished the police had the same knowledge of him as his husband. They had interrogated him for several hours, becoming increasingly aggressive when he failed to admit to this heinous crime which he had not committed. They had taken blood samples, done DNA tests. The works. And still he was stuck in this crappy cell. Somewhere along the row, he knew that Jesse St James was sitting in an identical holding cell. He wondered if he was as scared as he was.
He wondered how they had gotten into this mess.
They had been running late- Jesse had received an urgent call from L.A. just as Blaine pulled up outside the Chang house to collect him and they had ended up running seriously late by the time Jesse hung up apologetically with the news that his agent had managed to sign him up for Dancing With the Stars. They had hit traffic, so both of them were flustered as they entered BreadstiX through the shortcut, the back entrance. They had heard a struggle in the ladies' room and a muffled scream, but then the lights went out and when they finally managed to stumble their way towards the source of the noise, it was too late. Santana was dead, and before they could do anything people were yelling, and Puck was swearing and hands were grabbing them, holding them until the police came. To arrest them.
"Anderson," a gruff voice said through the small slit in the door through which a tasteless plate of unidentifiable grey food had been delivered earlier. There was a creaking as the door slid open and he found himself glancing up at a gruff, rotund police officer.
"None of the prints or DNA on the vic were a match to you or Mr St. James. You're both free to go, sorry for wasting your time. Just doing our job."
He handed Blaine a small plastic bag containing his personal effects and led him out to the front desk, where Jesse was waiting. He looked livid, and was rubbing at the dark red welts the handcuffs had left in his wrists. When he saw Blaine, his expression cleared somewhat.
"I called us a cab," he explained shortly, shooting the officer filling out his paperwork a filthy glance. "Let's get out of here before I contract some sort of disease. Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again when I have my solicitor file a lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment," he called loftily over his shoulder to the handful of officers watching them leave.
"Could you not?" Blaine hissed as they stepped out into the dim light of the streetlamps overhead. "I don't want to give them any excuse to haul us back in there, do you?"
Jesse looked for a moment as though he would argue, but then he simply sighed huffily and stalked down the steps outside the police building.
"Cab's collecting us at the end of the block," he called to Blaine, who had to jog to keep up with his long strides. "I didn't want them picking me up outside a police station. Paparazzi, you know."
Blaine rolled his eyes, amused but more relieved than anything to have the stodgy night-time air fill his lungs. The entire time he was in that goddamned cell he had felt like some invisible hand was squeezing his lungs into nothingness.
They were about a hundred yards from the cab when it happened.
There was a noise like a car backfiring, and Blaine jumped about a foot in the air before chuckling at his own childishness. Jumpy much?
And then he saw Jesse.
The other man had drawn to a stop. There was something eerie about the way he held himself, and when he turned to face Blaine, his features were a mask of shocked agony. His eyes widened and then glossed over as he toppled to the ground, as limp as a ragdoll. Blood spread freely across his chest.
Blaine wheeled around desperately, but he was too late. Another whip crack, and then a compact, hard pain in his chest, a little above his heart. He stared down at the scarlet stain spreading across his chest in surprise. Kurt would never forgive him. He had bought him this shirt for their anniversary, and blood would never come out. His vision blurred as he fell forward languidly, lethargically. His cheek met cold, dirty pavement as darkness tugged at the corners of his vision. He heard hurried footsteps, a voice telling someone, the taxi driver maybe, not to move. He saw a pair of black ankle boots inches from his face and then a piece of paper was dropped in front of his eyes. He could make out Kurt's face, but the other figure in the photo had been scribbled out in red Sharpie.
Kurt, he thought weakly.
And then everything went black.
/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/
Please don't hate me- trust me, I feel bad enough as it is.
Apologies for not updating sooner- my only excuse is that college is simply crazy at the moment. I'm training to be a teacher and I'm getting ready to go out on teaching practice. That equals zero leisure time right now, but I felt so bad about leaving it so long without updating that I had to add this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait.
Once again, thanks to everyone who has read/alerted/favourite/reviewed since my last update. Special thanks to those who dropped me a review (and apologies if I forget to mention anyone!) : FireApe, melandra, ajp2281, AngieHM, Bonesluver, xXGleekFreakXx, sdmwd1115, gleegee, swimgirl822, Lizardgirl7, Macie and Gleek4lyfe. I've got some very interesting suggestions on who the killer might be so far, but I'd love to hear what people think now. Makeovers are like crack to Kurt, reviews are like crack to me...
Thanks for reading!